Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Belle

The older man’s fun, even if his name’s Gravel.

Rodehouse is an eye-opener. It shouldn’t be. I’m not a closeted ex-nun or virgin once removed.

In one corner, people play pool and loud rock plays. But I’m more than aware of the stage and the silver gleaming poles. Of the chairs and tables that sit in front of it.

Of the hot girl with blond and green hair, a whole lot of piercings and tattoos, and very little clothes on behind the bar.

Everything’s covered, but from the low-rise jeans to the cropped top, it’s all painted on, and her breasts are pretty much on display.

A burly guy with a handlebar mustache pushes in, and I inch close to Saint.

His hand comes down on my hip, and I can feel the heat of him, the urge to keep going, so I’m pressed in against him.

I can smell the leather, sunshine, and lime. He leans in, his beard a soft tickle on my face. “We can go elsewhere.”

The dude notices me, looks at Saint, and offers an apology before basically having eye sex with the bartender.

“This rude fucker,” Gravel says, pushing the guy back and craning around, “is Snake Eyes.”

“Hi, Mister Snake?—”

“Belle’s off limits.” Saint lifts his head, tone pleasant but holding a general warning. “Just so you know.”

“Saint, I didn’t see your old lady. Sorry about that.”

Old? “I’m not?—”

“Apology accepted,” Saint says.

“Hey, you open for business?” Snake Eyes asks.

“He is,” Gravel says, then punches the other biker in the arm. “Pool?”

“Prepare to be fucking annihilated.” Saint turns, orders his drink from the bartender, and when he pays, he heads off to the pool table with Gravel.

There’s no real reason to be standing so close to Saint, letting the heated sizzle of awareness of his hand on my hip soothe places deep within. But I stay.

For a moment.

Then, with a swallowed sigh, I take a seat. I try and pretend it’s disappointment that touched his features.

“I’m pretty sure I was promised food.”

He grins. “That’s Gravel for you. Hook you with a promise you can’t resist, and then, bam, he’s off to play pool.”

“We got food, honey,” the bartender says, leaning her elbows on the bar. Her gaze is friendly, and it sweeps the bar, but everyone right now is content, and it’s a little early for the after-work crowd.

Though, this is, I think, a biker bar, or at least, a biker-friendly bar, and I’m a little hazy about what they do on a day-to-day basis for work.

“Burger?” Saint asks as I take a small sip of the wine. “Or is that gonna kill you?”

“Not unless you put arsenic in it.”

“Dang.” He snaps his fingers as the bartender slides a laminated menu over to us. “Left it at home.”

“Maybe you should stick to the mechanic business,” I say, hazarding a guess at his career. “Murder isn’t your thing.”

He leans in, mouth close to my ear. “Maybe I like to take it slow.”

“Are you trying to scare me or flirt?” I ask. “Because I teach second grade, and they can be scarier than you.”

“And if I’m flirting?”

A thrill races through me. And my heart spins. “Are you?”

“Gravel mentioned you might know someone for the open position?” the bartender says, interrupting whatever he might have said.

Saint leans back, and as the beat of the music slides in to the beat of my heart, I’m overcome by the desire to touch him. To run my fingers over his chest, and explore the tattoos that show along his arms now that he’s taken off his jacket.

A vine and snake wind up around one arm, or is it a dragon? And the other is almost pagan, a certain kind of holy no church would ever allow and . . .

“Belle?”

Heat flares through me. I think he’s said my name a few times if the knowing smile on the pretty bartender’s face is anything to go by. She tops up my wine, even though I didn’t ask, and I drag my gaze to Saint.

“Yes?”

He holds out a hand and counts on his fingers. “Did you want something to eat? And Havana here wanted to know about your neighbor’s credentials. Like could she work somewhere like this? And three, do I need to break that fuck’s face for putting hands on her.”

“I’ll have a burger, please, and fries.” I look at the menu. “Cheeseburger, thank you.”

“Two.” He nods at Havana. “Thanks. Now . . .” Saint turns to me, and my insides flutter. “Your neighbor?”

“Um . . . doing what?” I lower my voice.

He leans in. “Pole dancing.”

Shock hits me, followed by a rush of warmth. “I know you’re joking.”

“Do you?”

I nod. “She can’t ride a motorcycle.”

“Which is the number fucking one priority in a pole dancer.” But he grins. “You got me.”

“Mellie—Melissa—usually tries to take jobs so she’s home in time for Pepper, her daughter.”

“And this fucker, Andrew?”

“You can’t break his face.”

“I can’t? Are you the face-breaking police?”

The ease of humor in his voice is enough to gloss over the fact he means it about beating up Andrew. That’s in his eyes—a cold steel.

“He lives there occasionally.” I drop my voice as though the man in question is lurking at the edges. “When he wants money.”

A muscle flexes in his jaw. “He doesn’t even help with his fucking kid? Or his woman?”

“Saint—”

“One thing. Does he put his hands on Pepper?”

I swallow hard. I hate Andrew. He’s mean, even when he’s sober and being nice and having what Mellie would call one of his good days. He’s mean. It’s like something’s festering in him, and even I can tell Melissa knows this. But for her child, she pretends.

“Pepper? No, not that I’ve seen, and she doesn’t ever display any of the telltale signs the kids who get beatings have.”

“He saves it for his woman?”

The disgust is bubbling and biting.

“Saint, it’s not my place. I’m there for her, but?—”

“She’s a tiny fucking thing.”

“If you hurt him, he’ll take it out on her.”

“You think he’ll be walking after?”

It’s wrong, I know it, but there’s something sexy and appealing about a man who offers to take down another for hurting someone or something vulnerable. Jesus, there’s something wrong with me. “Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Fine.” Then he levels a look at me. “But if he touches the kid . . . all bets are off.”

“Did you?—”

“Fuck me, are you asking if I was abused?” But he smiles to take the sting. “Nah. Just seen it. That’s all. And no, I wasn’t ever the bully.”

“I never thought you were. A pole dancer and a murderous knitter, maybe, but never a bully.”

“Damn, woman, how do you know my secrets?”

“I can read faces.”

“Like a book?”

“You can read?”

“See, you look sweet, all buttery and sugary and buttoned up, but beneath all that second-grade teacher goodness, you’re a sharp-tongued thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “I can read.”

Heat radiates off me. The snappy comeback wasn’t meant to be anything more than that, and . . . what if I upset him? “It was a joke?—”

“I know that. And my skin isn’t paper thin, either.” He nods to Havana. “The job, from what I can tell, is in the office.”

“Gravel gave me her number, but I figure you’re her reference.”

“Melissa’s great. I’d trust her.”

“Good enough for me,” Havana says. “I’ll give her a call.”

When she saunters off, he nods at the surroundings. “I know this isn’t your type of place?—”

“I prefer the more hardcore gentleman’s club.”

He almost spits his beer. “Fuck, you were wasted on Hastings.”

“I guess you met Lance when you and Nomad took the apartment.”

“That cat follows me around. He’s not mine.”

“If you say so,” I murmur into my wine glass as I curl my feet on the bottom bar of the stool. “And Lance is?—”

“A rich asshole?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” I want to laugh, but I stop myself because Lance can be money-hungry, but what does that make me if I laugh? I was going to marry him. I take another swallow of my wine.

“Sorry.” Saint doesn’t sound sorry. “But I get the feeling he was out of your league.”

“Esther was my favorite,” I say. “Thing is, the Hastings are about money, and Lance is?—”

“No different.”

For a moment, I fall silent. Old school classics belt out in the air as our burgers, aromatic with that deeply savory scent of griddled beef and cheese and fried potato can bring, arrive, hitting the bar in front of us.

“I thought he was,” I say softly. “Thought he was driven, yes, but I thought he had a bigger heart in terms of humanity. When he tried to have the public library closed, I . . .”

I swallow.

There’s knowing it and saying it out loud to someone who isn’t my good friend.

Someone one step away from being a stranger.

It feels more real, stating it. Real and jagged-edged edged like it’ll rip open my own public skin and expose all my shortcomings.

Like the one that chose a pretty face, perfect suit, and moneyed trappings.

The two men couldn’t be worlds apart, and yet . . .

I snatch up the burger and take a bite.

Yet nothing.

He’s my neighbor, nothing more.

“What is going on in your pretty head, Belle? Because it sure as shit looks interesting.” He takes a bite of his own burger, then sets it down. “Tell Saint all about it.”

“I was comparing you both.”

That’s not what I meant to say.

“You come out on top in that.” I don’t look at him.

He touches my cheek, and it takes all I am not to sink into the touch of those roughened fingers, my strength not to think what it would be like if he used his fingers on me elsewhere.

“Fuck. Did you know when you blush, your skin heats?” He leans in. “Why are you blushing?”

“None of your business.”

He laughs and stands, lifting me from the seat. I’m glad I’m in trousers and not a skirt as he does so, otherwise, a whole lot of people would have gotten a look at my fine cotton panties.

When he sets me down, I sway into him. His arm comes around me, hauling me in close. He leans into me, and my heart’s still in the air somewhere, along with half my nervous system.

The other half is here, responding in overdrive to his touch.

“If I make it my business?”

His mouth is close, and a fluttery sensation passes through me, making me throb. “What’s it worth?”

“Playing with fire?”

“Depends on the fire,” I say.

I’m never this flirty, this wild inside, but he has a knack for drawing that out of me, of setting things alight.

And I barely know him.

I rest my hands on those strong, hard biceps, and I can’t help but curl my fingers into his skin. His mouth curls up.

“You can play. But be warned, fires bite back.”

“Fires don’t have teeth.”

He laughs. “The heat isn’t a bite?”

“Only if you’re too close to the flame.”

“See, what I think is you’re a natural blusher, it’s a tell. Your thoughts tangle, go down paths, and fucking bam, you’re all red hot and on fire.” He traces a finger beneath my lower lip. “Under your skin. But lucky for you, I’m not going to push.”

Then he lets me go.

Breath is hard to come by, and it takes me a moment to notice the eyes on me. For a brief moment, it was him and me and no one, nothing else, existed.

Someone comes in and starts talking to him, and money exchanges hands after a small protest from Saint.

Taking my stool, I go back to my burger.

Havana comes over after finishing serving someone, and as Bon Jovi sings about prayers, she leans on the bar, face in hands. “While your Saint’s making a deal for a custom job, I thought I’d ask a little more about your friend.”

I could correct her and say neighbor, but I don’t. “She’s trustworthy. She’s got a kid, Pepper, cutest little thing. And an ex who’s a bully.”

Her lips press hard. “I know bikers get a rep for treating women like property, objects, and it’s true. Depends on the club and even the chapter on how that is. These guys? I haven’t met one who’s into violence or treating a woman as less than. Y’know? So, if she gets a job here, then your friend needs to understand they don’t look kindly on other men touching their women.”

“Their women?” Panic starts to thread.

“Not in a sexual way.” Her mouth lifts, and she runs M&M colored nails over the wood of the bar. Each nail is a different color. “Not unless that’s what she wants. But if she works here, then she’ll be protected. An ex-biker owns the place. My old man. It’s a mix of people in here, and on the weekend, girls strip and dance. She’s gotta be fine with that too.”

“Fine with the vibe?” I’m a second-grade teacher, I’m not used to any of this. Somehow, I get the feeling if I walked in here, even without Saint, I’d be maybe hit on, but not treated as a free tasting menu. There’s a realness to the place that isn’t there in the places where Lance likes to go.

All those upmarket, rich bars and clubs. There’s more chance of me being grabbed and treated like I’m on offer to whoever can pay at those haunts.

It’s happened.

Even with Lance with me.

Mellie, she’s shy, but she’s not about to be asked to dance on a pole. In an office would suit her.

“Yeah, if you want to put it that way.”

“Melissa would. And I’d trust her. Between us, maybe a big burly man watching out for her might make a world of difference to how her ex pays up.”

“You mean pays?”

I nod.

“Gotcha.”

She talks to me about time on the road, and it takes a moment, as I eat, that she’s not talking about being a biker’s woman but being a biker herself. But she’s real, and she owns herself. Her dress, or lack of it, is for her, not the men.

As she tells me, she’s smoking, so she’s gonna show it off because she enjoys it.

When Saint sits, he mutters something about word spreading a little too fast.

“Word? How many hits are coming your way?” I ask, teasing.

He finishes his burger and takes a sip of his beer, the same one I note, he’s been sitting on for the whole time we’ve been here. “A lot. And my knitting needles haven’t been sharpened.”

“There’s a dart board back there.” I thumb behind me.

“They’re so last season.”

This time, laughter bubbles out. “I assume you’re talking about your freelance mechanic job?”

“Freelance? That’s a good way of putting it. I specialize in motorcycles, but any engine purrs for me. It’s a gift.”

Heat flares, spreading through me, down to my sex, and I’m pretty sure my panties are wet.

My phone’s on the bar, but I don’t need to look to know the time is marching as the music’s louder, more people are filtering in, and the scent of burgers, fried onions, and potato are in the air.

There’s school in the morning and homework to finish marking. Not that the homework is much in second grade, but it’s designed to get kids reading, thinking, and being creative.

He picks up my phone. “Pumpkin time?”

“Afraid so,” I say, taking it from him, and he pays the bill, waving my offerings away.

The night is cold around us, it’s early, but the shorter days give the illusion of it being much later, and I stop at the sound of a meow.

Saint swears. “Fucking cat.”

“Nomad!” I dart by the big biker, smiling.

The black cat’s sitting on the seat of his bike. I don’t know how he got here, but I don’t question the ways of the feline. Nomad was sitting with Pepper, letting her pet him in a way that not even a dog would like, right up until I got home. I parked on the street so I could comfort the child. That was when the cat zoomed off.

And now . . .

Here he is.

“Stop encouraging the creature.” Saint takes me in his arms again and spins me around, the leather of his jacket thick and old.

We stop right at the bike and the cat.

Saint’s eyes glitter as he gazes at me, and a buzzing fills every atom.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “you’re so pretty.”

He leans in.

The world stops.

I can’t breathe because I’m too aware of the beats of our hearts, of the warmth of him, his breath whispering over my lips.

He lowers his head, and my eyes flutter shut.

“Saint,” Gravel calls as the music and noise swell behind us. “Someone’s looking for you.”

Regret flares in Saint’s eyes. “Who?”

“Sin.”

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’ll take you home.”

And just like that, the moment’s gone.

Forever.