Page 57 of Jingle Belle's Biker

I turn us on our sides, trapping her thigh under me. “Do you think we should start a murder club, starting with a certain cat?”

She laughs as Nomad hits me in the face with his tail.

It’s going to be a good night.

Because once isn’t going to be enough.

Not even close.

I cook Belle breakfast Saturday morning, and then she takes off—reluctantly—to mark schoolwork and prep for the following week.

The thing is, I’m reluctant too. I like having her around. The sex is phenomenal, and though we agreed to keep it on a low burn, I had her against the wall in her apartment Saturday night.

It’s a stupid thing, fucking her. Stupidest and the smartest thing I’ve ever done. It’s going nowhere, it can’t because when the job’s done at the end of the month, I’m gone, out of here, back on the road like I planned.

“You’re a fucking liar,” I mutter as I fix a bike in my new space. Nomad insisted on following me—again, so in the corner, I have a bunch of packages I picked up last night. Taking a cat around in my jacket isn’t smart.

I try to tell myself it’s not a done thing for a biker, but I’ve never cared about doing the done thing. I am what I fucking am. An anomaly, someone who can move like a ghost through all the different clubs and factions with ease.

But if the cat’s going to fucking cat, I guess I should make it safe.

My phone pings, and I get up and check it.

Lance. I don’t answer.

When I’m done with the bike, I head back home to meet Belle.

There are more missed calls from the fuckwit ex of hers, but they can stay missed.

What I want is to lie to myself a little more about how she doesn’t mean anything to me and how I never expected us to get to this point and then forget all that when I lay eyes on her.

Because I might not be staying, but if another man even thinks of looking at her, I’ll break all his bones. I’ll turn into the badass biker Lance wants me to be

Just like I know, this point was more than inevitable from the moment I stopped those thuglings from doing anything to her.

Belle storms out the front door, but the happy bubble is gone, and instead, it’s dark and volatile. She waves a piece of paper. “Look.”

I let Nomad jump down, and I stay on my bike, motor off as I pluck the sheet from her.

“Son of a . . .”

Fucking Hastings has gone and jacked up the fees.

“He claims what he told everyone was wrong, and it’s more.” The quiver in her voice breaks me.

This, I know, is my fault.

I didn’t get rid of Farnham.

I helped him.

I put him in contact with Snake Eyes, who wanted an accountant. I don’t know how good the man is at it, but I’m betting the stuff Snake Eyes wants done is all above board and simple. Any other shit he’s into will be dealt with in other ways. Not on paper ways.

We set up a schedule, and I made sure he got a bonus for helping on short notice—a bonus from me—that he promptly sent off to Hastings as the payment he owed.

The guy’s looking after his mother, paying her medical bills, and his accounting job for some boring ass company is only now part-time, and done from home when he can. The biker business will bulk it out, and I know those guys will help ensure Mother Farnham’s bills are taken care of.

They’ll bring the books to him, or receipts from jars and pockets.

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