Page 37 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“Fucking cat.”

Nomad jumps off the bed and pads out to the hall, meowing loudly.

The thing with this place is it’s going to be ice in winter, when it’s snowing, and temperatures turn breath to puffs of white.

Last night, I put down my purchases in the living room and fucked about with the radiator.

I personally don’t need it yet, but there are kids here. A few old people. And I don’t know if it’s going to be one of the places that blasts heat from set times so people need to open windows to breathe and then spend the rest of the time shivering and wrapped in blankets, or if it’s going to push out a weak amount of heat so people have to gather tight around it.

Both annoying.

I make a mental note to check out the basement and the boiler.

I put water on to make coffee, a DIY drip system because I’m not buying anything like a machine or one of the silver stove-top coffee makers.

Then, because I just knew the fucking cat would be back, I put some cat food in a dish and set it down with a bowl of water.

Hungry, desperate eyes follow my every move.

He pounces on the dish and starts eating noisily.

“Are you sure you’re a cat?” I ask, toeing him and earning a swished tail. “Because I’ve met dogs with more grace.”

He growls but doesn’t lift his face from the bowl.

The damn thing has a litter box now, but only because I’m not having him go in the apartment.

There’s a number I wrote down from a sign I passed when going into the hardware store. But it’s something I’ll look atlater. Because as I make the coffee and drink it, I have an appointment, and I still need to shower.

The morning’s beyond busy. The thing with the biker community is word gets around. Not only clubhouse members turn up with things they want fixed and to talk about upgrades, but weekend hobbyists and just people who like the convenience of a bike.

“Yeah,” I say to the guy who’s discussing the noise his engine makes, “I’ll take a look, but it sounds like we might need to order a part.”

“Whatever you think, Saint,” he says. “Gravel and Frederick Jones say there’s no one like you.”

“Hope not. Otherwise, we’ll know they’ve got cloning abilities.”

He nods, and in the back of my head, I hear the bubbling laughter of Belle. I imagine her snarky comebacks that are so full of goodwill that even when she stumbles over herself, she can’t offend.

It’s not in her.

The morning passes into lunch and afternoon, all with fucking Nomad surveying all from his perch on my bike.

A huge biker with face tattoos carries an old lady’s groceries in, and when he comes back, he pays me for the job, and says, “See ya Wednesday.”

“We’re done, Wheeler.”

“No, I’m helpin’ Mrs. Gentry. She can’t be hauling all this fucking shit by herself. She’s eighty.”

He starts whistling, gets on his bike, and roars off.

“Mr. Santiago.”

I turn and wipe my hands on the rag in my back pocket. Glancing around, I make sure I’m not taking up more space than I need. I’ve got a tarp down so I don’t stain the courtyard’s broken and neglected stonework.

More for myself. I don’t like messes in public places. Besides, I wouldn’t put it past a worm like this man to tack on an expense come payday.

“Hastings.” I keep my tone neutral.

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