Page 93 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Her words start to melt me but I shake my head. “The lease?”

All the fun vanishes from her expression. “I showed my lawyer friend. He says it’s a little odd changing the dates, but it’s within perimeters and the whole fee thing probably isn’t above board but you did say Saint improved the place, right?”

The words twist like a knife in me as I nod.

“That could be used as a reason. Point is, the fee thing will be harder. You know what I think? We need to see someone else’s lease.”

“I thought that too. But I can’t just ask.”

“Do it.”

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Everyone’s been so busy I’ve barely seen anyone. Even Mrs. Kovacs, who I would ask, is visiting with her son’s family in Portland.”

“If I was going to make a move, you know when I’d do it if I was that sneaky no-good Lance?”

“Tomorrow when it’s pick up rent day?”

She nods.

I pick up my wine, but my hand shakes, so I put it down. “I’m so worried about who can’t make ends meet. I’ve helped out a lot of the residents, but I only have so much. I don’t . . .” I suck in a breath. “I have money in a trust fund, not heaps, but thing is I can’t touch it until I’m thirty.”

“It’s not your fucking job to pay for everyone, Belle. Lance is the greedy asshole who should do that. His gran was decent. She’d kill him.”

“She’s gone.”

She slaps a hand on the table. “Tell you what, I’m coming tomorrow.”

“You’re expecting trouble too.”

“And I want a front row seat.”

“Ghoul.”

Hannah’s a woman on a mission. She’s gone door to door and warned people to stand together. So when Lance arrives, he’s met by the residents in the courtyard.

“Those who have paid, paid. Some can’t afford the extra money,” I say, “but rent’s paid.”

“Not all, but that doesn’t matter, Isabelle.” He looks past me. “Time to go. And today we change the locks. And with it are more charges for insulating your homes. I need that . . . oh, today. You all got the letters?”

I storm up to him. “You know no one got those letters.”

“Go away, Isabelle, I’m mad at you. I’ll forgive you, of course, but right now I’m furious. I thought you had better taste.”

“No one got those letters,” I say, ignoring his dig about Saint.

“They might be lost with the Christmas mail,” he calls out. “You all know how that is, but a simple check in on my website shows the new fees. So kindly get your stuff and go.”

I cross my arms as an angry ripple of noise passes through the residents. “That’s not how things work. How are you going to make them, Lance?”

“Like this.”

He pulls out his phone, presses a button, and a van rolls in. Men in uniform jump out. There are about five.

Private security guards by the looks, but before I can say a word, a motorcycle arrives, and my heart sinks.

Saint. Followed by all his friends.

Lance has gotten himself an army.

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