Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Belle

Saint answers after my third knock.

He’s not wearing a shirt, and there’s water clinging to his beard and running down over the tattoos adorning his chest. I can’t even begin to describe them other than they’re tattoos. All that expanse of golden man flesh and the defined muscles are in the way.

They steal my breath and words.

Baffle my brain.

He’s staring at me, frowning. I swallow hard. Of course, he is. I’m staring at a half-naked tattooed man like he’s my last meal ever, and I’m starving. It’s like I didn’t just see him yesterday. “Come in. It’s cold.”

“We’re heading into winter.”

“Not there yet.” Saint saunters off. His long legs and tight ass are so fine my legs wobble.

I drag my gaze from him and look around for his cat for something to do. To stop myself from leaping on him to get my head back into the regular world where I don’t develop a sudden lust for a temporary biker.

“Where’s your cat?”

“Not my cat.” Since it’s the same room layout as mine, he disappears into the bedroom, and I press my cold fingertips against my burning cheeks.

I’m not going to stand here thinking about me sleeping right above him. Even if we’re separated by a floor.

Instead, I push the door shut and walk in, standing in at the cusp of the entrance hall and living room.

He’s added a lamp in the ways of decor.

When he comes out of the bedroom, he gives me a curious look, and he smooths down the front of a Ramones long-sleeved black T-shirt. “If the cat comes back, he’s yours.”

“Cats don’t work that way. They choose their people, and you have a cat.”

He glances about like he expects it to Cheshire Cat out of the air. “I hope not. I don’t have room in my life for an animal.” Then, his gaze lands on me again. “You knocked?”

“I wanted to thank you for fixing my car.”

“Who said it was me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“The car fairy?”

“No, she only comes out on full moons.”

“Isn’t that werewolves?”

I smile. “And car fairies.”

He laughs easily as he rubs a hand over his beard. “Never met a broken motor or old bike I didn’t want to fix. And you’re welcome.”

“It means so much. Makes my life so much easier. So, if you let me know what I owe you—” I open my bag, digging through it for my wallet.

But he stops me, his hand coming down on mine. Sparks of awareness flare and cascade through my blood, bones, and the soft and hidden parts deep inside. “I don’t want your money. If you hired me to fix the car, maybe that’d be different, but you didn’t, so it’s not.”

Somehow, I get the feeling if I had asked and we’d agreed on a price, he’d find a way to not take it.

Maybe if he was hurting for cash, and this place screams someone who is, I’m not sure he is. This is a smart, resilient man. I know nothing about motorcycles, but I know they’re not cheap, and his . . . it looks loved, lived in, and something that might make other grown men drool.

I also don’t think he lets himself hurt for money. He’s a man who can turn all situations to his advantage. Like a cat might.

How do I know this? I don’t really understand, except that I feel it on a deep marrow level. Maybe it’s the quiet self-confidence. The comfortable in his own skin that he has about him.

Or maybe it’s my girl brain parts that are hooked into hormones that are addled by him.

I almost laugh, blaming my knee-jerk reaction to him as some kind of ancient mating thing. Hell on wheels.

“Are you gonna stand there all night?”

“If you won’t take money,” I say, “then what about beer or dinner or something?”

He goes into the kitchen, and a glass clinks. Then he comes out with a beer in one hand and a glass in the other. He holds out the glass of amber liquid.

“Jamaican rum. Good stuff. You don’t seem like a beer drinker.”

The heat burns up under my skin again, and I take the glass, still standing in the same spot. “More wine than anything.”

“Wine snob?”

“White in the summer and red in the winter kind of snob.”

He laughs. “Allow me to broaden your horizons.” Then he catches my gaze. “You don’t have to have it.”

“No, I . . .” I swallow. “Thank you.”

I take the glass from him, our fingers touch and slip against each other in a spark of warmth.

“Bribes, murder furniture. What else do you do?”

“I teach second grade.” Then I realize how that sounds, and I take a deep sip of the rum. It’s burned sugar and spice on my tongue, and I take another mouthful. “Not about murder.”

“Hey,” he says, sipping the beer, “I’m not judging, it’s never too early to start. But I might take you up on dinner, unless you’ve somewhere else to be?”

“Uh . . . no, no . . .” Thoughts I shouldn’t be having start to weave through my brain, of touching his naked chest, seeing if his skin is as warm as I think. If the muscles beneath are as hard as they seem, as delineated. And beneath that beard, his cheeks are chiseled, his mouth?—

He’s staring at me.

I shift on the floor, my sensible shoes suddenly as unbalanced as a pair of six-inch stilettos.

“Just cataloging what I have.” No way am I telling him I was just going to have a salad of leaves and tomatoes. “We could have pizza and a salad?”

“No, I’m asking if you want to join me. I was gonna make tacos.”

“The point of the invitation?—”

“Bribe,” he says.

“Invitation is me cooking for you. I’m not great, but I’m decent.”

“I’m changing the rules. You can help.” He pauses. “If you want to spend some time with me. If you’re not afraid.”

“Of you?” I force a laugh. I’m not scared of him. I’m scared I might jump him, but I don’t think he’d hurt me. “Please.”

“Okay then.”

“I have, uh, tequila.”

His gaze rakes over me. “You don’t look like a tequila drinker. Actually, you don’t look like much of a hard liquor drinker.”

I raise my glass and finish it with only a little splutter. “Yummy, see? You don’t know much about me.”

“Tequila?” An eyebrow rises.

“My friend, Hannah, brought it over for Cinco de Mayo. We had nachos and watched movies. Not terribly exciting.” I hand him the glass and turn, going to the door.

Upstairs, I pull the tequila bottle from the cupboard and rub some of the dust off it. Then, I grab the tortilla chips that are on my bench before flying down the stairs again. Before I can change my mind.

The door’s shut, but I knock, then try the knob, and it opens.

To my right, something black darts out and into his apartment.

“Fucking cat!”

His crotchety words make me smile because he claims he doesn’t want the cat, that it isn’t his. However, he’s not throwing it out, and it’s meowing, complaining loudly, and it’s a cry I know from my students. Cat or kid, it’s stating, ‘Gimme!’

“Fine. One piece. But that’s it. Go find another sucker to mooch off.”

Saint’s in the kitchen, handing the cat a piece of cheese. He glares at me.

“I told you he’s your cat.”

“Not mine,” he says, getting up. “He’s a nomad. And a moocher. An opportunist.”

“What’s his name?”

“Woman—”

“Nope,” I say, crouching down to stroke the soft, silky fur of the cat. “He’s so adorable. But I’m sure he’s a he. You can’t call him woman.”

“I’m not calling the little fucker anything at all.”

The cat’s head turns to Saint, and it makes a low meow. One that manages to sound disapproving but smug.

“You are so cute,” I say, rubbing the cat’s ears. “You’re sweet, aren’t you?”

“I’m sure he’s the devil.”

Saint moves from the fridge to the counter, banging things down, and the cat looks up as he moves the meat.

“No, he’s hungry.” I stroke the cat’s back, and he rubs against me, purring. “Aren’t you? A poor, starving kitty?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Saint puts a plate on the floor, and the cat abandons me for it, chowing down on the ground beef.

“Hungry,” I say.

“He’s an opportunist.”

“You need to set up an area for him.” I look around, and spot where he can set up a food station. The place has a spare room, and he has exactly almost nothing, so the cat could have its own room. My point is, there are plenty of places for a litter station and a bed.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

He waves a jalape?o. “Spicy?”

“Nomad?”

“That isn’t an answer.” He waves it again, then sets it down and goes back to the fridge to pull out some cilantro. “It’s a non sequitur.”

I stroke the cat as he eats. “Nomad, that’s his name.”

Nomad lifts his head and meows in approval.

“This is not my cat.”

“Maybe not, but I think you’re his human.”

“Can you leave the fucking creature be and help out?”

I grin. “Of course. And,” I say as I shift past him to wash my hands at the sink, “I like it spicy.”

“This might be the best guacamole ever,” I say, leaning back on the sofa, my shoes on the floor. I’m still in my work mode outfit, but with my shoes off, I feel relaxed.

If only the slight tremors of awareness didn’t spark along my veins, I might be tempted to fall into a food coma.

He’s good company, this biker named Saint. And the newly minted nomad does things to my heart. The cat stretches out on the floor, turning in a back arch that might make some yoga enthusiasts jealous.

“Learned it from a brother’s Mexican grandmother back when I lived on the California-Arizona border. Or was that Texas? One of them.”

I gaze at him and take another bite of the sinfully delicious, perfectly spicy tacos. The man-made the tortillas with masa harina and a chopping board to press. Something inside me swooned at seeing the big, bearded man cooking and handling things deftly.

“You’re not like any biker I know,” I say, taking another bite and then a small mouthful of the tequila and lime.

He looks at me from where he sits on the opposite side of the sofa, the cat rolling to attack one of his boots. “Do you know any other bikers?”

“No.” Heat flares. “I just meant you didn’t fit the stereotype in my head.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well . . .” I’ve got a metaphorical shovel, and I’m more than aware of the hole I’m digging.

“You think I go around and fuck a load of women, commit crimes. Have high-speed shootouts on my bike with rival gangs?”

“I . . .” I lick my lips, unsure what to say.

“Or maybe you think we’re all degenerates?”

“Maybe you knit for a living.”

“Maybe. But I think you mean the first, that’s all your cliché. Do you want to ride on the wild side, Little Red?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“So?”

He leans forward, steals my third taco, and takes a bite before putting it back. It should annoy me, even though I’m getting full. But it’s so weirdly intimate that I’m finding it hard to breathe. The scent of leather, lime, and sun suddenly invading my senses.

The sun is like fresh cotton in a breeze, something I want to bury my face in, something warm and appealing. The lime, sharp and unexpected. The leather, dark and sensual and full of things I don’t understand and desperately want.

When I pick up the rest of that taco, it’ll be almost like a kiss, and the one in my hand, the bite left, loses all appeal, and I want to put it back.

He catches my eye, holds it, and then leans farther in, down, and his mouth closes over the bite, and he sucks on my fingers.

The sensations that swarm inside me is like an explosion of heat and searing awareness coursing through my veins almost as if it were molten lava. Things go high and tingle. The suck of the wet touch of his tongue makes other things wet, like my panties. I swallow.

My body clamps and spasms.

Then he leans back. “I’m just teasing, Red.” He smiles, watching as I take a bite of the taco he tried first. “I like to knit.”

My mouth is where his was, and I can barely taste the taco as the slide of his tongue on my fingers, the suck of his lips, the heat and wetness all overwhelm me.

Then he looks away and breaks the spell as he pours himself some tequila. His is straight, and he made mine with lime, sugar, and a dash of soda water. A poor man’s mojito, he said without the mint. Which means it’s not, but there’s something so thrillingly pleasing about a man who’ll quietly remember you’re not a hardcore drinker and soften that drink.

“You need more cilantro on yours.”

“How about you make your tacos for your tastes, Saint, and I’ll make mine to mine.”

He laughs and leans back, stretching out and pushing the cat gently out of the way first. “Yeah, but if you made them how I like them, it’d make stealing bites from you more fun.”

“Sorry,” I say with a healthy heap of sarcasm.

“It’s fine. There are perks.”

Nomad looks up at him, then at me, and jumps up, curling up to rest his fuzzy black paws on my dress. I scratch him as I set the empty plate down.

“Don’t let that cat get too comfortable.”

“Nomad’s making himself at home, aren’t you?” I say as the cat starts to purr.

“My point. This isn’t his home.”

“Tell that to the cat.”

He’s silent, then he takes a swallow of his drink. “What’s the deal with this fucking place?”

“This isn’t the greatest part of town, but it isn’t the worst.”

“Yeah, it’s a mix of nice and run down.”

“How did you end up here?” Heat flares. “I just mean short term.”

“This Lance Hastings was fine with it.”

I frown. “You rented from him?”

“Yeah. He said this apartment’s in his name. Like you said, the super used to live here, so I guess that’s what it’s for normally. Why?” He looks at me.

“Esther Hastings owned this. It’s all hands off through a property company. They do rentals. I think she hung on to it because she liked the gardens.”

He frowns. “There are actual gardens?”

“Look out the back windows tomorrow. You’ll see.” The thrill of someone discovering the magic here runs through me. I love it. “They’re overgrown, and it’s heading to winter, but they’re still something.”

“I’m not one for window views. Prefer mine to be from the open road.”

“Well,” I say, easing the cat from me and getting up to collect the plates. “There are nice places around here, outside the city limits. But, rent’s due on the twenty-fifth each month. This month, it’s the twenty-fourth. Don’t be late. It’s an immediate eviction.”

I carry the plates to the kitchen and start to wash the dishes, aware he’s followed me. “I can do that.”

“You cooked, I wash.”

“You helped, I’ll dry.” He opens a few drawers before pulling out a floral tea towel. “Not mine.”

My mouth twitches. “If you say so.” I hand him a plate.

He dries it. “The no grace period seems excessive.”

“Well,” I stick my hands in the hot, sudsy water and clean another plate, “that’s because Esther had this place all locked down as rent-controlled. There are stipulations. People can be evicted, but only for non-payment or late payments. It’s why this is still here, and shinier places are around the area. So don’t be late.”

“You know a lot about it.”

I hand him a knife. “I liked Esther, and though she’s gone, that all stands until everyone’s gone. And Lance can’t do a thing about it, like outprice the residents.”

“Lance?” he asks as he takes the cutting board.

I nod and let the water out. “Her grandson. And my ex-fiancé.”