Page 6 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“It’s red. But I was commenting on your last name. Means red-haired.”

Belle nods, and she adjusts her bag as I try not to notice her nipples poking through the wet material plastered to her tits.

Her jacket is more office-friendly than weather, and I’m guessing she didn’t think of sudden storms hitting when she leftto loiter in her library or whatever she does. But, judging from the trousers and sensible shoes, she’s giving off practical vibes.

Or practical veneer vibes.

I rub a hand over my beard as the sky rumbles again.

She glances up. “Thank you, really, Mister S—uh, Saint. I don’t usually walk this way, but it’s the fastest way home, and . . .”

What I should do is let her walk home or to wherever she’s going. I’ve got an appointment in the morning and a bar and old friend to visit tonight. I don’t need to convince a fucking wet in the most literal and G-rated of senses woman the ol’ biker’s not gonna harm her.

Not that she’s giving off vibes of fear toward me.

Her mouth tilts up at the left, and a dimple flashes. “I didn’t murder anyone.” She gestures at the stain. “Beet juice.”

“I know what blood looks like.” I wink.

Laughter lights the air. “I feel like a walking murder scene. Those kids . . . I’m sure?—”

“Don’t say didn’t mean you harm.” She’s what? Maybe twenty-two. Those kids and her are pretty much the same fucking age. “Because they sure sounded like it.”

Her mouth opens, the laughter gone, and she breathes out. “I should let you go.”

“I’ll give you a ride home.”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. I feel fucking crazy.

Then again, I can’t just leave her to keep walking. I don’t know how bad it gets from here, but looking up ahead, I’m figuring a few more blocks of desolation and industrial emptiness before she hits something approximating gentrification or at least civilization.

I’ve seen places like this before.

Prime pickings for some rich cat to come in, turf the unseemly to the edges, and spruce up the place.

I know. Guys like me are often perfect to hire to help in the turfing.

Not that I put my hands on anyone, but being around, collecting payments, that’s often enough.

Still, I haven’t decided about here. I’m booked into a motel on the edge of the city, even though I know the local charter club.

Staying with one of them is always on the table for a nomad like me, but I prefer to keep myself to myself and not make any alliances I don’t mean.

City this size I’m betting the chances are there’s another motorcycle club. They’re probably fine, otherwise, I’d have heard of scuffles or wars. I’ll find out soon enough.

That’s not what I mean by alliances. I don’t want to connect with a charter in a concrete way.

I don’t plan on staying.

Anywhere.

“You don’t know where I live, Saint.”

I run a hand over my shaved head and glance at her again. “Belle, I don’t think they’re coming out again, but?—”

“It’s probably the rain.”

“Did you just call the thugs wusses?”

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