Page 14 of The Belle and the Biker

"I'm here, and I'm safe. You can leave; you'll be more comfortable in your own apartment. I'll call you in the morning and tell you my schedule," I say.

"Ha-ha! Good one." He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the coat rack, and then sits on the couch. I try not to look at how his shirt molds perfectly to the curve of his biceps.

"Make yourself right at home."

"Thanks." He winks at me and props his feet up on the coffee table. Right next to my bowl of potpourri. Heathen.

I settle Tiddlywinks into her little blanket bed.

Since I am Southern, I am obligated to be a gracious hostess and offer refreshments to my guest.

"Can I get you something to drink? Guinness with a chaser of cyanide?" Tawny always has Guinness here because Axl goes through that stuff like water.

He grins at me, refusing to look annoyed, which burns my biscuits. "I'll just take the Guinness, thanks."

I fetch him the drink and sit down on the couch, as far from him as possible. He slings an arm over the back of the couch, and it brushes against my hair, making my lady bits damp. Annoyed, I turn on a reality TV show. A bunch of women are at a restaurant, screaming at each other over some imagined slight. He shoots me a narrow-eyed look.

"I thought you hated those kinds of shows."

I do, but so does Crash. I'm willing to suffer.

I give him my best Southern Belle smile, dripping in syrup to hide the taste of poison. "Whatevah made you think that?"

He arches an eyebrow. "Because we talked about it in the bar in August, and you said you'd rather drink iced tea made from a powdered mix than watch reality TV."

He remembered! Not just what I said but when and where I said it. I'm lit with a glow from within.

Then I think about how I've felt the last few months, every day wondering if he'd call or text if he was alive or dead. And I turn up the volume on the TV.

"I can't remember that conversation at all," I yell over the televised sound of four women screaming colorful insults at each other.

He grabs his phone. "That's okay, and I think I'll just listen to a little music." He finds a music app and starts blasting the most god-awful wailing I've ever heard.

"How many cats died to make that song?" I yell.

"What? Sorry! Can't hear you!"

The floor beneath us starts thumping as the downstairs neighbor reacts to our noise-off by banging on their ceiling. I immediately turn off the TV, and Crash turns off his "music."

"That music is further proof we're incompatible," I say haughtily. My entire body is telegraphing that I'm lying. My nipples are hard, my panties are damp, and my skin is exquisitely sensitive as if craving Crash's touch.

"No further proof needed," he says, but he deliberately lets his gaze rest on my chest, where my nipples are straining against the fabric of my shirt. Then he looks up at my face and smiles. A gentleman would have pretended not to notice. He stands up. "Since you're neglecting your hostess duties, I'm getting something to eat." He raids the refrigerator and returns with a Chinese take-out box and a fork.

"Help yourself, Hungry Hungry Hagrid."

"I will, thank you, Bratty Loveless."

"Ooh, nice reference. But to quote her, 'You don't even know who I am.'"

"Oh, I think I do." He chews his food and sets down his fork. "Okay, tell me what happened with the shooting. Any little detail might be helpful."

"I was coming back from a dog park with Tiddlywinks. She was all in a snit about something, I remember. Who knows… Maybe she has ESP and could tell what was about to happen."

"A little less 'Long Island Medium' and a little more what the hell happened, please."

I jab his arm with my elbow. "Ouch. Why are you so solid? Anyway. This guy was trying to park his Volvo, and someone zipped in there and stole his spot. The Volvo driver was this skinny hipster dude with a fedora and a scarf. I've seen him around the neighborhood for the last couple of weeks—he's always complaining about things and getting in people's faces. Hipster dude double-parked in the street and ran over to confront the guy who'd stolen his spot. They were standing there yelling at each other, and then hipster-guy shoved the driver. And the driver whipped out a gun and shot him in the chest."

I shudder at the memory. The hipster folded to the pavement, and the shooter spun around to see if anyone had witnessed the shooting—and looked straight at me. I'll never forget the sight of that arm swinging toward me, the gun looming impossibly huge…

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