Page 67 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“Not really.” The place is making my skin prickle, and I don’t know why. It’s like I can feel Red in the air or something.

Fuck that sounds ridiculous. Like I’ve lost my mind.

It’s like I’m actually catching feelings.

Sin and I have history, and that makes the evening pleasant with an ease of intimacy that comes from someone you know well, and for a long time.

But it isn’t the same wild beat that comes with Belle. The way we click, the intimacy with her that’s at once old and new.

When we get back, it’s a little later than I thought. After I show Sin around, I give her my bed, and I take the sofa. Then I climb the stairs to Belle’s place.

It’s probably too late in the evening to do this, but I knock anyway because I’m a selfish bastard.

I don’t hear Nomad, but I know he’s still in there. It’s cold, the cat’s smart. He knows not to take off and roam the streets, not when he has such a pretty and sweet girl to curl up with.

Shit, I knock again, this time a little louder.

From beyond the door, I can’t hear anything, and I stand like a lunatic on the little landing, waiting. I’m finally about to turn and trudge back down the stairs when the sound of footsteps approach.

It’s a soft padding step that makes my heart thump and lurch.

The locks scrape, and the door opens.

Belle’s in green pajamas with little plump cartoon ducks on them. Her red hair’s a mess, and there’s a crease on her reddened left cheek. She’s wide-eyed, soft, and vulnerable. I’m betting she was napping, and I kick myself for not waiting.

Fuck. “I’m sorry, I just?—”

“I saw you.”

I frown. “What?”

“Tonight, Saint. I saw you at the wine bar. Hannah insisted I come out for one, and I was going to say hello, but . . .” She bites her lip, and takes a shuddery breath. “But you were too busy. And I know she’s sleeping with you.”

“Sin? With me?” I stare. “Fuck no. That ended a while back.”

“So, she’s not down there, in your bed?”

“Yes, but?—”

“I’m tired, Saint. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

She closes the door in my face, without giving me the chance to explain.

Fuck.

I knock again. “Belle? Damn it. You can’t jump to fucking conclusions like that.”

She doesn’t answer, and I knock as loud as I dare.

Any other time, I’d dare to knock very loud, door shaking loud, but I don’t. It’s fucking late. I don’t need to piss off the neighbors, not with what’s probably coming. I don’t think she’s the type to react well to caveman tactics.

So, I knock. Then I knock again.

“Belle,” I hiss, “you answer this fucking door and take it like a woman.”

I stop.

Take what?

---