Page 48 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Belle isn’t like anyone I’ve ever fucking met, and that grounds me in such a way I’m not sure what to do.

“Grow a fucking pair,” I mutter. “Right?”

There’s no answer from Nomad, and I glance around, but he’s gone. Fine by me. He’s got a life out there, and it’s time he went back to it.

Still, I leave some water and kibble outside the door as I lock up, knowing full well I’m inviting a neighborhood of strays. Vermin. That damn cat to come back.

I head over to the fancy office owned by Hastings. The moment I step in, his receptionist rushes over to see me with a pile of envelopes, all names with the apartment numbers on them. And a note from the dickwad himself, reminding me to take care of that guy in apartment 3F.

I’m about to shove the note away as I straddle my bike when I catch some black ink on the back of it.

After securing the other shit the receptionist gave me, I put on my helmet, and then I look at the back of the note.Step up attacks.

Attacks? I frown. How many times do I need to tell him I’m not about to attack anyone? Is the man an idiot or deliberately obtuse? Smart money’s on the latter with a dash of the former.

I’m not about to physically attack anyone.

Jail time isn’t high on my list of things to do in Sweetwood, and being Hastings’s fall guy isn’t on my fucking Christmas list.

It doesn’t help, as I head back to the Gardens, that my head’s still in knots like my damn guts about the kiss.

I want to regret it, I do.

But I can’t.

Because who the fuck could regret that sweet taste of Belle?

“You must be the infamous Saint.”

At the sound of the feminine voice, I glance around to see a woman standing there holding her hand out. Taking her in, I gotta admit she’s pretty with a slender face and hair braided down her back. Standing at about six-foot and looking like she’s full of attitude, she doesn’t seem the type to be taken as a fool.

I notice immediately the cut she’s wearing. From the name on the patch, I know instantly she’s from the sisterhood that Gravel or Frederick was talking about.

I shake her hand. “Got me at an advantage.”

“Now, that I’d like to see. I’m Zelda.”

We make small talk as I do the assessment and patch up on her bike, and we book an appointment at the new digs, where I can gloss that shit up and make it so scratch resistant, she’ll feel like she’s riding a brand-new beast.

After she takes off, I don’t check out my apartment to see if Nomad’s been—he hasn’t, the mouse was probably a goodbye gift. A nomad’s gotta roam.

I deliver the envelopes to each apartment, and maybe my stomach does slow somersaults as I stand outside sweet Belle’s place, but I ignore it. Besides, she’s not home.

Then I go to 3F.

A man around fifty answers. He looks older than he should, with deep lines etched in, hair gray and thinning, and a sweater that’s seen better days.

There’s a note of alarm in his gaze and then resignment as I hand him the notice.

“Mr. Farnham,” I say, “I’ve come about the outstanding rent.”

He shuts his eyes. “I spoke to Lance Hastings about that. It’s my mother?—”

“Going to stop you right there.” Well. Shit. “Maybe I can come in, and we can get this taken care of?”

The guy nods.

I crack my knuckles and follow him in.

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