Page 83 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Nomad pads up to me and headbutts my hand. I rub the damn rodent’s head as he purrs.

My girl?

What the fuck?

She’s not anything like that at all.

Not beyond the whole fact that we’re currently fucking.

Sure, I want to kill Lance for ever having touched Belle. I want to destroy any man for even thinking about eyeing her the wrong way. But mine?

Fuck that.

“What do you think?” I nod at the cat and tilt my head at the bike. “Ready to rumble?”

He offers a meow.

“Yeah, I thought so. I’ll call the dude, let him know his bike’s ready.”

I do just that, and we putter around. Nomad’s gone completely soft as he now relies on me or Belle to feed him. Right now, he’s parked himself in front of his bowl in the garage, looking forlornly at it. But I can feel his irritation and not being fed on his whim. It permeates the air.

The fucking cat’s got everyone but me wrapped about its paw. The kids love him and he likes going to the school, especially in his biker cat case. Honestly, he’s so obnoxious that I’ve been taking him a lot. Then we help out Belle.

The after-hour kids who spill out from the library. Seems this time of year their parents’ work longer hours.

***

When the bike’s in the hands of her owner and cold, hard cash is in my back pocket, I bribe Nomad into his case, pack him up, and with a promise to feed him, I head back to the Gardens.

Even though we’re edging closer to winter’s true start and Christmas is around the corner, it’s wintry cold, so I feed the cat, then head down to the basement to fix the boiler properly.

Then I go up to the top floor and knock on Mrs. Kovacs’s door.

The old lady takes her time. When she opens her door, she peers at me, and honest to fucking God, I don’t know if her double take’s one of wariness or pleasant surprise. She’s about eighty and her place is cold.

Even if I couldn’t feel it, it’s obvious since she’s pretty much dressed like she’s off on a snowy mountain hike.

“If you’re selling, I don’t want any.” Then her eyes narrow. “You’re the boy with the loud motorcycle.”

Boy? I don’t think I’ve been called a fucking boy since I was nine. But I smile.

“Belle Rosso sent me.”

“The one who’s with that no-good Lance? He ought to be given a hiding. I bet if his gran was still with us,” she makes the sign of the cross, “she’d keep him in line. Why?”

“They broke up,” I say. “And to have a look at your radiator.”

“Well you better come in, otherwise all the cold will get out.” There’s a twinkle in her eye as she does so.

The place is sparse and homely. The kind of place I can see filled with grandkids, great-grandkids, and even great-great. Things might be threadbare but they’re loved and most surfaces are covered with photos of smiling people. Her family.

Fuck, what’s it like to have roots like that?

It doesn’t take me long to fix the radiator and soon her apartment’s getting nice and warm.

When I turn, wiping my hands, she’s there with a steaming mug. “Coffee.”

Something swishes around my feet and I look down.

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