Page 2 of The Belle and the Biker

With Aunt Hepzibah, you can always hear the subtext. You low-class pretenders. We're the Mulberry Acres Harkwells, which says it all if you're from Swampy Bottom County. There are several branches of the family, and we're the lowest on the totem pole. My great-great-great-grandfather, a prosperous farmer, married his chambermaid after his wife passed away and fathered eleven children with her. Our side of the family has never heard the end of it.

I roll my eyes so hard I can almost see the back of my skull.

Then I lob the ball back into her court. "Yes, of course, I did. In fact, I was going to call today and check that you received my thank-you card. I was worried that you received my card and then forgot, with your memory the way it is." You senile old bat.

Of course, I sent a thank-you card. How dare she? I've left most of my old life behind in Sugar Hill, but that doesn't mean I've turned peasant. When I first arrived in New York, I raided my meager savings to purchase monogrammed stationary. It was galling, and not just because I was broke for the first time in my life. I also had to go back to using the initials for my maiden name—Savannah Lianne Harkwell.

"Oh, dear. I'll have to speak with Billy and see if he's been stealing the mail again." I'll check to make sure that you're not lying.

Billy is the mail carrier for the town of Sugar Hill. He's never stolen a piece of mail in his life. That's just what my aunt says whenever the mail doesn't come fast enough for her liking.

"I'm sure it's not his fault, and the card's probably floating around your house somewhere. I've got to let you go, though I have to be at work in an hour."

"You just said that you worked last night." What a surprise that someone from the Mulberry Acres side of the family is a liar.

"That was my night job. This is my day job."

One of them.

I waitress, I do plus-size modeling (to the mortification of my proudly anorexic mother), I teach etiquette lessons, and I pick up any other gigs I can squeeze into my spare time.

"Ridiculous." Aunt Hepzibah punctuates that with a rather unladylike snort. "You'll never have time to find another husband, working as much as you do."

She knows I no longer have family money or a husband to rely on, but like most Harkwell women, she's never worked a day in her life. No matter how I explain it, she can't seem to understand needing a job to pay the bills. The $500 birthday check she sent me paid my cell phone bill and saved me from eating ramen noodles this week.

"Maybe that's for the best. I haven't made the best decisions in that department."

That's a whopper of an understatement. My former husband, Percy, cheated on me with my best friend and bridesmaid, Mimi, and it started before my wedding.

And I deserved it one hundred percent. I stole Percy from a distant cousin of mine, Daisy Abernathy. She introduced me to Percy at their engagement party, and I thought he was the most delicious thing I'd ever seen. I batted my eyelash extensions at him, and he gave me a smile that told me he was already mine. The minute she went back to grad school, I pounced.

I did it with my mother's encouragement, but that's no excuse. I've always known my mother gives the worst advice.

As soon as Percy and I tied the knot, I learned a stupid-obvious lesson. What do you end up with if you steal another woman's man? That's right. A cheater.

"One teeny tiny little mistake is no reason to give up. What are you going to do? Stay single?" Aunt Hepzibah crows with laughter. The very idea. She's a marriage expert; she's been widowed three times. "Work for a living?" She laughs even harder.

"Ha-ha, how ridiculous," I say drily without answering her. "I really must let you go, I'm afraid, or I'll be late. Thank you so much for the birthday card and check!" I'll see you in hell, but thanks for the money, at least.

I hang up before she can continue haranguing me about my poor life choices.

I kick off my sheets and slide out of bed. I need to shower and get ready; I have a photo shoot, and it's twenty blocks from here, so I have to hustle. It's not just that I desperately need the money but also because I disrespect someone else's time if I'm late.

The old Savannah wouldn't have cared. My mother always told me that making people wait for you is a power move. However, I no longer let my mother's harsh, scornful voice inform my decisions. I have completely turned over a new leaf, and I'm dedicating my life to being a better person. I am Savannah 2.0, the upgraded, nicer version. Most of the time.

As I yawn and stretch, coffee's bitter, energizing scent slides under the door and tickles my nostrils, so I emerge to find my roommate Tawny standing by the counter of our tiny kitchen, pouring creamer into a mug of coffee. Five foot ten, wearing jeans and steel-toed boots, she occupies most of the space in the little room.

Tawny is a bouncer and waitress at Bone-breakers, the biker bar where I work. Her brightly dyed red hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she's wearing dark reddish-brown lipstick that gives her a gothy look. She sleeps in the living room, so she pays $100 a month less than I do.

"Morning, bedhead. You look like you need this more than I do." She holds the mug out to me.

I take a sip and nod in appreciation. "Thank you. You're not the worst person in the world."

"Hey! You take that back right now." She glares at me fiercely. Her boyfriend Axl is president of the New York chapter of the Iron Ride, the same club Crash rides with. Biker chicks don't like to be referred to as "nice," "sweet," or "not the worst person in the world."

"Okay, you're mean and evil and terrifying. But you make excellent coffee." I tip back the mug and let the hot, life-giving nectar flow down my throat.

"That's better. Do you want me to make a cup of coffee for Crash?" She glances at the half-open bedroom door.

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