Page 38 of Jingle Belle's Biker

He eyes my bike disdainfully, an act that, by rights, should have him laid out on the ground after a beating. But I let it slide.

“There’ve been some complaints about the mess. The noise. The people.”

Lance keeps his voice low, like he’s gloating over a secret, and I really want to beat his fucking ass.

“Keep up the good work.”

“Like I said, this is temporary. I’m renting a space to set up shop.”

He nods and pushes his hands into what looks like a cashmere coat. “You might find this easier. I’m raising the rent. Immediately. You should know.”

“Not mine,” I mutter. Because it’s true, we’ve got a contract. One that’s been gone over by a lawyer I know. One I made sure was both iron-clad and boilerplate. In short, no hidden nasties, no wiggle room, and I know he knows that. It annoys the living fuck out of him.

But he needs me way more than I need him.

I can pay the full fucking rent. I’ve got the money.

But he can’t intimidate or make sure people move if they don’t pay. I’ll do the latter and not the former.

If someone wants to be intimidated by my size, beard, tats, and bike, they can. That isn’t my problem.

The thing is, if he hires someone else, he’s going down a road he probably doesn’t want to go down. Not with this, and that interests me. Mildly.

He’s got skin in the game here, beyond wanting the property empty. Because I’m pretty fucking sure if he wanted to hire from Thug Central Casting, he’d do it. No fucking questions asked.

“Not you. But I do expect it to be enforced. There are a few mid-month rents, for some reason, she allowed the fifteenth and the twenty-fifth. Who knows why?”

I start to collect my tools as he talks. “By how much?”

“A hundred a month.”

There are things I could say, bring into question legalities, the fact there’s been nothing in writing, but again, it isn’t my place, so I just nod.

“Even those due mid-month?”

“Even those. Rent’s up.”

“What the F, Lance?” Belle demands.

I lower my face to hide my grin. Her annoyance is music.

“Don’t make a scene, Belle,” he says.

“A scene? You want a scene? Because that wasn’t a scene and neither is this. Just because I own ovaries doesn’t make me hysterical or prone to scene-throwing.” She stops and breathes in. “Putting up the rent violates the rental agreements and the laws surrounding rent control, and you know it.”

His shoes are polished perfectly, and I’ll bet they’re Italian leather. He seems like an Italian leather kind of fuckwit.

“Heya, Belle. Good day at school? Teach them how to murder yet?” I ask, standing.

Her face lights up a moment, her anger slipping free. “They were born knowing. We have after-school classes for me. I’ve learned some pretty nifty skills today with paper and a crayon.”

“Not the death by paper cut and crayon up the nose move?”

“Do you know my class?” she asks.

Lance makes a sound that reminds me of Nomad’s petulant growl, and her laughter fades as the anger slams back into place. “Can you stop that?”

“Stop talking to my friend and neighbor?”

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