Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Belle

“Come out later for a drink and tell Hannah all about the blond, evil man.” My friend drops her voice, even though we’re on the phone. “And the biker.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned him.” I throw chopped spinach into the pasta sauce for the vegetable lasagna I’ve decided to make.

Easy, enough for lunches and other meals. Considering Lance is being worse than the Grinch and Scrooge combined, I’ll need to watch my money.

“And,” she says when I don’t answer her about Saint, “how tall is this hot biker if you say he makes Lance look short? He’s got to be six foot.”

“Taller.”

“You’re a help.”

“I’m annoyed,” I say. “It’s Christmas at the end of the month, and Lance thinks it’s okay to call a rent hike fee?”

“Is that even legal?”

“No. But he can afford the best, and it’s got that iffy shades of gray in the least sexy way feel to it, Hannah. He’s wording it as repairs and maintenance, and we both know he’ll make it so each apartment needs things done. That they asked, he listened, but it needs to be paid for, blah blah blah. Ugh, I can hear him now. Why was I going to marry him?”

She laughs. “Because you had a momentary lapse in reason. And reality. The man is hot, but he’s like a hot cardboard cutout of a superhero.”

“He’s got more personality than a cardboard cutout,” I say as I stir the sauce. The bechamel is done and waiting, and I feel the need to defend myself and my stupidity.

She snorts. “Maybe you think he’ll have a Christmas epiphany?”

“Only if it’s to make more money.”

“If you’re not going to come out for drinks, I’ll order in.” Hannah rings off.

From his chair I put in the kitchen, Nomad tilts his head, looking at me like I’m hiding meat.”

“Cheese?”

Nomad chirrups and purrs, so I hand him some cheese.

When the sauce is done, I assemble the lasagna to put it in the oven. Then, I pour a glass of wine and lean against the counter. “You know, Nomad, he’s dishy, isn’t he?”

Dishy? Oh, lord, I’m losing my mind.

“Hot. Sexy. Unexpected. He gets my weird humor. And between us, he likes you.”

Nomad’s stare says it all. The cat isn’t stupid. He knows Saint Santiago likes him.

“You know what? I need some more wine. Tonight’s going to be a two-glass night,” I say. “Also, I need some lettuce.”

Nomad stares.

“And cat tuna.”

He meows.

I grab my coat as I head to the hall, noting the temperature’s dropped. Sometimes, it’s unpredictable in Sweetwood, but I’m not looking forward to when winter kicks in. Because that’s when real car issues pop up.

“Come on, Nomad.” I hold the door open for him as I grab my purse and cloth shopping bag.

He refuses to move.

With a sigh, I close the door, telling myself I’ll have to coax him out and back to Saint Santiago when I return.

The car, to my shock, runs like a dream. Both to the supermarket and back.

Usually, the first real sign of wintry wonderland weather and it digs its wheels in, refusing to turn its motor over until I’ve cussed it out, good and proper.

All through my head, the entire time as I select premium cat tuna and other catty things, my brain tries on first names that might go with Santiago. It seems unfair that Lance knows it, and I don’t.

Not that it’s my business.

When I pull up, I gather my things and run inside, pausing on the ground floor.

I pause. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, but it’s an idea, and so I go to his door. Inside his apartment come the strains of The Antlers, a band I only know of because Hannah loves them.

Maudlin kinda soft music, not what I picture a big biker listening to.

I knock, and he takes a few minutes, but he answers.

The plan is to ask him to dinner as a thank you for making my car purr like . . . well . . . Nomad.

“What’s your first name, Mr. Santiago?”

He winces, and I note the book in one hand. It looks like a manual, and the pages are stained and creased.

“Just call me Saint, Red.”

“Call me Belle, Santiago.”

His mouth twitches, and I shift the bags higher on my shoulder. “Did you knock to sass me?”

“That’s just a perk. I was going to ask you to dinner. I’ve got your cat as hostage.”

“Bad choice in hostage fodder. You can keep him.”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think you get to keep cats, I think they keep you. And yours considers you kept.”

“I’m no one’s old man, least of all to a fucking cat.” He leans against his door frame. “Dinner?”

“For the car.”

“You already thanked me. “

“But,” I say, wanting to place my hand, palm flat, on his chest, “that was then. Now I really want to thank you. It’s running, first go, in the cold snap. I mean, it’s cold out there.”

“It’s not winter.”

“Yet. And it’s colder than a—” I stop abruptly.

He’s smirking. “Than a what?”

“Colder than a second-grade teacher’s heart.”

“So warm and mushy, then?”

“Toward you.”

“Ouch.”

I frown as the music switches bands. “I didn’t take you for an emo biker.”

“Are there fucking emo bikers?”

“You.”

The thing is, this man doesn’t blush, doesn’t look embarrassed or abashed. He just gazes at me. “I like music. This was on Spotify. I like to listen when reading. That’s it.”

I nod. “Okay, but if there’s some K-Pop, I’m going to start questioning you.”

“Nope. I don’t know who that is.”

“What are you reading?”

“A manual, nosy pants.”

“Can pants be nosy?”

“Yours can,” he says, then he shows me the cover. It’s old for a bike that looks to be from World War Two with its army green coloring and heavy-duty attachments.

I reach out and touch the cover. “What’s a BMW R75?”

“A bike used on the Eastern front a lot during wartime. I’m boning up on it. I can get a lot of parts, rebuild, and then sell it to a collector. There’s also a German one, the Zündapp KS750. It’s not pretty, but it’s a rare workhorse bike I’ve had my eye on. That I want to build from the ground up from vintage and upgraded pieces and add to my personal collection, but with both of these, especially the BMW, as I can start that soon, I need to know how its heart beats.”

He stops and shakes his head.

“If you say you got carried away, I’d agree, and I also like it,” I say. “I’m familiar with getting carried away.”

“You asked about music.”

“I asked about the bike on the manual too.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “And I came here for a reason. Dinner?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says.

I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in a long time. Not the wanting to roll on the floor with laughter type of thing. I surely didn’t expected to be able to laugh so hard with Saint. The man is a conundrum and complex all of himself, yet he’s also very much what you see is what you get.

By that, I mean you see a tough, honest man with intelligence, humor, and the ability to scare the pants off people if he wants to.

If I think back to the night I first met him.

If I think to when he makes jokes about serial killers with me.

Not to mention the offer to rearrange Andrew’s face for Mellie. Okay, he didn’t say that in so many words. But that’s what he meant, and, he’ll do it too if the man touches either Mellie or Pepper.

“You’re kidding. You did not escape jail out the bathroom window,” I say.

He smiles at me as he finishes his second piece of lasagna. “Oh, you should know I don’t kid, Red. Right out that window like I was a greased hog.”

And he winks.

I throw my napkin at him. He catches it easily. “Careful there, as far as I know, they’re not holding any baseball tryouts right now, and you might ruin my food. I take good food very seriously.

“You stole a box of Twinkies.”

“Outdated Twinkies.”

I shake my head. “Those things are like roaches. They’ll be here and still fresh long after the apocalypse.”

“Point is, I stole them, got caught, and escaped.”

“You’re too big.”

“Red, I was twelve. My dad patted my back, and my mom took me back to face the music.”

“She did not name you Saint,” I say.

His mouth twitches as Nomad rolls over on the floor. “No, but that’s the name people call me.”

“It’s Kermit, isn’t it?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“Tell me,” I demand.

“This is more fun.”

“If I had a dinner roll, I’d throw it at you.”

He picks up the bottle of wine and refills my glass and his as well.

“When did you decide to become a mechanic?”

“Around the time I figured it might be more lucrative than the serial killing.”

I sigh. “That’s the problem with bikers these days, no staying power.”

He laughs. “I’ve always had an affinity for tinkering. I like how things work, I like making them work better. And I love rebuilding old machines and turning them into something better than they ever would have been. What about you and teaching?”

“It’s easy to dispose of the bodies when you have a whole team of small and enthusiastic hands available.”

“There are laws,” he says, “against child labor.”

I pick up the wine and take a sip. Then I get to my feet, Nomad’s head popping up. “Just putting the dishes away, kitty, no food for you.”

“Are you sure he’s not yours?”

“No, he claimed you.”

“Fuck.” Saint gets up and brushes me away as he clears the table.

I set out some containers, he cuts up the remainder of the food, and puts it in the fridge.

“Take some home with you—please. You’ve no idea how much it means to me my car is not only working, but working better than ever.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” he says. “And here I was, about to do your dishes.”

I roll my eyes, set the pan in the sink to soak, and drag him away. “No. But I don’t want you doing my dishes, and just shut up and take some home.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Maybe you should.” I hand him his wine that I carried into the kitchen, but he sets it down. I’m suddenly flustered. “I don’t have dessert.”

“No Twinkies?”

“Sorry.”

He takes my wine, puts it next to his, and he comes in close so I’m pressed against the counter, and he’s a breath from me.

The thing is, I’m pressed into the counter to stop myself throwing myself at him. Heat winds through my blood, bursting into existence here and there on my skin.

And he doesn’t miss a splotch.

He traces a hot spot on my cheek. “I don’t need Twinkies. Haven’t had them since then. Haven’t wanted them.”

My throat goes searing hot and swollen, and somehow, I manage a swallow.

Saint’s staring at me.

Like I’m the dessert he didn’t ask for. The dessert he craves.

His gaze drops to my mouth as he moves in a little closer, and now I’m on fire, from my toes to the top of my head. The wild and heady flame licking me everywhere.

I tip my head back and sway forward, just a bit.

“What you do you want?” I ask.

“This.”

His mouth comes close, and my breath stutters.

He doesn’t swoop or close the gap fast.

The man takes his time.

Like he’s giving me the chance to escape.

Like he wants to savor every drop of the anticipation.

His lips touch mine, and I sigh softly. It’s a small kiss, a taste, and he lifts his head.

“More?”

“Fuck yes.”

This time, he moves in, arms coming around me, and he kisses me long and slow. It’s a parting of lips, heat and wetness, tongues touching, and I can’t feel my toes. He tastes like hot nights and slow dances. He tastes earthy, and real, and something otherworldly.

Like sex and promises.

Like nothing I’ve ever had, or ever experienced.

I moan and wrap my arms around him, pulling him farther down as my insides tumble.

The kiss gets harder, edged with the kind of sex I’ve never had. Wild, primal. And then . . . oh, hell.

He’s hard, big, pressing into me.

I slide my fingers over his shaved head, the beard a soft tickle against me. I’m undulating inside, a deep beat of something that’s pure need, pure excitement. I rub against him, like I’m trying to get up on him and ride him hard and fast.

His hands slide down to grip my ass, grind me against him, making me wetter, making my pussy throb, my clit needy.

Saint breaks the kiss to bite and lick down my throat, then he sucks on my artery. It sends a bolt of desire so sharp through my pussy it contracts. Like a lightning bolt of an orgasm. One flash, one tease, and it’s gone.

I moan loudly, and he kisses his way back up to claim my mouth again.

I kiss him hard, with everything there is, and then?—

“Fuck!” He jumps back, releasing me as he shakes the cat off his leg.

“Nomad.”

The cat growls, and I grip the counter to stay on my feet as he sweeps the cat up.

“What the fuck’s your problem? I don’t want to make out with you, idiot. I want to make out with her.”

Everything in me goes red hot, and my knees half buckle.

But Saint doesn’t put the cat down. He doesn’t attempt to kiss me again.

“Saint?”

There’s something like regret in his eyes as he runs a thumb over my lips, which feel tender and swollen.

“Maybe this hamburger helper here’s got a point. Ten sharp points that I think might have drawn blood, but a point. It’s a bad idea.”

“Kissing me’s a bad idea?”

“The worst I’ve had.”

“Oh.”

He closes the gap and kisses me again. “The fucking best worst idea. But I’m your neighbor.”

“Short term.”

“You just got out of a relationship.”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t. And maybe you’re right. Maybe you should go.”

His words, they’re sharp too. Coated with a teasing soft, seductive edge and warm humor, but under that? Razor blades.

“Red . . .” Nomad looks at me forlornly as Saint takes my face in one hand. “Don’t be like that. I just—shit. I want to do a whole lot more than just kiss you. But?—”

“No, you’re right, bad idea.” I pull away, get some lasagna from the fridge, and hand it to him. “I’ll see you around.”

With that, I march off to the door, leaving him no choice but to go. “Belle . . .”

“Good night, Saint.” I close the door on both of them.

I sink to the floor and bury my head in my hands. Usually, I handle things better than that. How we got from a kiss to a fight to me kicking him out is beyond comprehension.

He has no idea when I broke up with Lance.

And wanting a step back goes for guys as well as girls.

Even big—and I do mean big—bikers who can kiss like the devil. Or is that an angel? Or a combination of both?

Because if he wasn’t leaving, getting involved with a neighbor, even a kiss, would be a no-no.

Now, I’ve gone and made a kiss something it’s not.

Worse, I’ve gone and made it something I didn’t want, an embarrassing moment.

Hopefully, I won’t have to see much of him around. Not for a while, anyway.

If not? He should be easy to avoid. Right?

Right.