Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Saint

“You, Nicholas, are a fucking idiot.”

I slide a hand in my back pocket as I take in the garage space I just rented. It’s a gold mine, a found diamond. Cue all the clichés.

The owner kept it after his brother went out of business, and it’s stocked. All the tools I could want.

Better, it’ll get me out of the courtyard of Secret Gardens.

I slide the keys into my pocket, go out, and ride back to the complex.

My guts twist as my stomach tightens.

I really am a fucking idiot.

I shouldn’t have kissed Belle.

I shouldn’t have let a cat attack stop me.

And I shouldn’t have said all those moronic things I said.

She tasted like honey and spice and the slight tartness of the wine. Or maybe that was her, maybe I could taste her sharp tongue and humor.

All I fucking know is I wanted more. So much more.

“Stop.”

I look around once more and start getting the space ready. I’ve texted Frederick Jones, Snake Eyes, and Gravel the address, and I figure I can work both here for bigger jobs and the courtyard for small ones.

Gravel: Got U. Friday night fun?

Me: Maybe. Your girl Mel’s 1 st day

What I’m itching to do is spend most of the evening here so I can avoid—set up—for future jobs.

I’m here a month, that’s a lot of time to make money. Once word spreads beyond the bikers, I’ll be adding to my bank account.

My phone rings, and with a sigh, I put one of my ear pods in place and answer as I start shifting things around.

“Santiago.”

I examine a wrench that’s fucking sweet and move it to where it’ll be within reach. This guy’s brother had cash, but not the skill or maybe not the brains to run a garage. “Hastings.”

“What can I help you with?”

Really, I want to fucking tell the asshole I’m busy. I also want to tell him how I came close to pounding the living shit out of his ex.

Childish, I know, and I’m not a fuck and tell guy. I’m one who’s fucked his way through a lot of women and given most of them little thought beyond cataloging into been there and done that, right down to repeat until I’m done and dusted.

The thought, even as I have it, makes me put down the wrench and pace the floor. Something uneasy inside.

Not guilt for thinking like that over Belle, but just a general coat of fucking sleaze, because she isn’t a pound into the ground and forget her kind of woman.

There’s something . . .

“Or,” Lance says as if I’ve been paying him attention, “to put it plainly, I want them intimidated out of there. Those who manage to scrounge the money. There’s a guy on the third floor who’s not going to be able to pay. Go have some words with him and help him out the door.”

“I’ll have a word,” I say, “and when it’s time, yeah.”

Help has a lot of different meanings. I get his. Fuck do I get this prick’s meaning. But as long as I do my job, I’ll help as I see fit. Whether that’s leaning on someone hard, or arranging a moving crew.

“It’s time. He’s late on last month’s rent. I’ve given him a lot of leeway, but enough’s enough.” He pauses. “And keep away from Belle. She’s my fiancée.”

I count slowly to ten and examine a bottle of nanotech finish. It’s new, and it’s mine. It’s one of my little weapons for keeping bikes pristine.

I set it down and take a breath. Nope. Need a few more fucking seconds. So, I leave the dickwad hanging as I take stock.

Mostly, what I need is the space and the roof over my head because the weather turns fast this time of year. Snow, sleet, rain, all those things can happen at the drop of a cat.

Okay, blood is somewhere in pre-nuclear explosion territory, which is better than a full core meltdown.

“I’m sure the woman can make her own decisions, Hastings.”

There’s no fucking ring on her finger.

She doesn’t want him.

My vision blurs a moment. Fuck me, of course, he thinks he’s going to win her back. Does he seriously think we’re in a league together where he can compete against me?

It’s laughable, it really is. Only, I’m not fucking laughing.

“Swing by my office, and my receptionist will give you the notices.”

That drags me to a standstill. “Notices?”

“For the increase in rent. Or fees, as I’m calling it. A loophole and a good one.”

“Why the fuck do you want everyone out, anyway? Do the place up, and you can make money.”

“Two words. Rent. Control.” Lance’s tone starts to turn pissy, and a cat meows.

“Understand the concept. But not every apartment’s full. So, you do it up and?—”

“I’ve got plans.”

“Yeah, whatever, not my business.”

“No, Santiago, it isn’t. Just get the job done. By the twenty-fourth at the latest. And there’ll be a bonus if you can get everyone out by the twentieth.”

I disconnect the call and turn.

Nomad stands there, something in his mouth. He comes up to me, his tail up, and he deposits a mouse.

I look at it.

Most of a mouse.

“What the fuck did you do to its head?”

As if in answer, Nomad licks his chops and then sticks out a leg, cleans it and turns, running out.

I think the poor mouse is either a gift or an apology for him trying to carve up my leg with his claws. Or he’s working for the cat mafia, and this is their version of the horsehead in the bed.

I clean up the mouse remains, and then I turn out the lights and lock up. I’ve got one appointment today, but that’s at the Gardens.

Nomad’s sitting on my bike, looking like he’s got nothing better to do.

“You really live up to your name. Just so we’re clear, having a name doesn’t mean you’re mine. I don’t have room in my life for a fucking pet.” The cat stares.

I can’t shake how good Belle felt, how much her rubbing on me was pure pre-sex, the ache in my balls just for her, and how the fucking cat here ruined it.

Or maybe saved the situation. I don’t know.

I adjust myself because Belle makes a man hard. She sets off an ache I’m not sure I quite recognize. It’s the base ache of the need for sex with someone I’m into, but it’s also complex, touching other parts.

The thing is, I can’t decide whether my being here for a short period of time is good or bad.

Fuck. I rub a hand over my face, and Nomad trills a meow. “Hear you there, cat.”

What am I even thinking? Deciding on good or bad? Deciding on making a move or not?

I know these things.

In the past, if I’ve been hesitant, then I know it’s not happening. If I want it, I make it happen.

Club life and being a nomad, a lone wolf, who’s on good terms with other clubs across the board because I don’t take fucking sides, it means if I want pussy, it’s mine.

It’s just the way of things.

More often than not, even without me and Sin being an item, I turn it down. There have been times when we picked up another chick. Sin is fucking hot when going down on a girl while I take Sin’s ass. Or getting deep-throated while another girl uses a strap-on on Sin, or Sin on her.

Shit, I’ve even shared Sin with guys.

Because we like that.

I like sharing.

I like watching.

And I don’t need to fuck to prove anything.

If I want it, it’s mine.

So, what the fuck is the problem?

Belle plays by different rules. We’re from different worlds, but the bottom line’s the same.

She’s into me. She’s on offer whether she realizes that or not. And if I made a big move she’d open like a flower.

Belle isn’t a love and leave girl.

Belle isn’t someone to share.

Belle isn’t like anyone I’ve ever fucking met, and that grounds me in such a way I’m not sure what to do.

“Grow a fucking pair,” I mutter. “Right?”

There’s no answer from Nomad, and I glance around, but he’s gone. Fine by me. He’s got a life out there, and it’s time he went back to it.

Still, I leave some water and kibble outside the door as I lock up, knowing full well I’m inviting a neighborhood of strays. Vermin. That damn cat to come back.

I head over to the fancy office owned by Hastings. The moment I step in, his receptionist rushes over to see me with a pile of envelopes, all names with the apartment numbers on them. And a note from the dickwad himself, reminding me to take care of that guy in apartment 3F.

I’m about to shove the note away as I straddle my bike when I catch some black ink on the back of it.

After securing the other shit the receptionist gave me, I put on my helmet, and then I look at the back of the note. Step up attacks.

Attacks? I frown. How many times do I need to tell him I’m not about to attack anyone? Is the man an idiot or deliberately obtuse? Smart money’s on the latter with a dash of the former.

I’m not about to physically attack anyone.

Jail time isn’t high on my list of things to do in Sweetwood, and being Hastings’s fall guy isn’t on my fucking Christmas list.

It doesn’t help, as I head back to the Gardens, that my head’s still in knots like my damn guts about the kiss.

I want to regret it, I do.

But I can’t.

Because who the fuck could regret that sweet taste of Belle?

“You must be the infamous Saint.”

At the sound of the feminine voice, I glance around to see a woman standing there holding her hand out. Taking her in, I gotta admit she’s pretty with a slender face and hair braided down her back. Standing at about six-foot and looking like she’s full of attitude, she doesn’t seem the type to be taken as a fool.

I notice immediately the cut she’s wearing. From the name on the patch, I know instantly she’s from the sisterhood that Gravel or Frederick was talking about.

I shake her hand. “Got me at an advantage.”

“Now, that I’d like to see. I’m Zelda.”

We make small talk as I do the assessment and patch up on her bike, and we book an appointment at the new digs, where I can gloss that shit up and make it so scratch resistant, she’ll feel like she’s riding a brand-new beast.

After she takes off, I don’t check out my apartment to see if Nomad’s been—he hasn’t, the mouse was probably a goodbye gift. A nomad’s gotta roam.

I deliver the envelopes to each apartment, and maybe my stomach does slow somersaults as I stand outside sweet Belle’s place, but I ignore it. Besides, she’s not home.

Then I go to 3F.

A man around fifty answers. He looks older than he should, with deep lines etched in, hair gray and thinning, and a sweater that’s seen better days.

There’s a note of alarm in his gaze and then resignment as I hand him the notice.

“Mr. Farnham,” I say, “I’ve come about the outstanding rent.”

He shuts his eyes. “I spoke to Lance Hastings about that. It’s my mother?—”

“Going to stop you right there.” Well. Shit. “Maybe I can come in, and we can get this taken care of?”

The guy nods.

I crack my knuckles and follow him in.

By the time I finish up with all the shit I ended up having to do, shit I don’t like to do, it’s dark and pushing seven p.m.

I don’t go home. Instead, I head to Styx because Gravel’s being a pain in my ass about meeting up.

The place isn’t full yet. It’s Friday, and the real crowd starts around ten at places like this, but it’s like a kick in my solar plexus when I walk in.

There’s the little Mellie at the bar with a drink, and next to her with a coloring book is Pepper. It brings back memories of me as a kid doing something similar.

Sitting on the bar and breaking about every single health code is Nomad. He’s right next to Pepper, surveying her and hissing whenever a guy gets too close. I know he’s hissing. I can’t hear him over the music, but I can see him.

And then there’s Gravel.

But what’s making it hard to breathe, what slammed into me so fucking hard it’s a wonder I don’t see stars, is who’s sandwiched between Mellie and Gravel.

She’s having the time of her life, throwing back her head and laughing.

Belle.