Page 3 of The Belle and the Biker

I choke on my coffee, and it makes my eyes water. "Crash isn't here," I wheeze and clear my throat. "Why would you think that? You know we hate each other."

"Debatable." She leans on the counter, her eyes glinting with amusement.

I take another sip of coffee and try to intimidate her with a vicious glare, and she just grins. Pity. Back home in Swampy Bottom County, I could shrivel any girl to nothing with one scornful look. Unfortunately, in New York, they're made of sterner stuff.

"I loathe him with a fiery burning passion."

"Interesting choice of words. Fiery burning passion?"

Thou shalt not kill thy roommate. Thou shalt not kill thy roommate. "He is most definitely not in my bedroom."

"I heard you yell his name." Tawny looks at me narrow-eyed. "Loudly. In a boink-me-harder kind of way."

"I'm sure you didn't," I say huffily.

"Uh-huh." Her mouth curls up in a skeptical smile. "Okay, then. He didn't stop by for a little something-something. You want me to run to the deli and do some shopping, so I don't see him leave?"

I wave my hand at the door with a dramatic, indignant flourish. "Go look; he's not there."

She actually goes into the bedroom and checks the big ole word that rhymes with witch.

"Ha," I say smugly when she comes back.

She shrugs, leaning on the counter again. "I don't know what you're saying 'ha' for. All you did was prove that you do not have Manhattan's second-sexiest biker in your bedroom, and that's a cause for mourning, not celebration."

"Second-sexiest?" I say indignantly on Crash's behalf. Then I remember that I can't stand him.

"Yeah, of course." She shrugs. "Axl's the first sexiest." Axl is six-foot-five inches of blond, bearded badass. His whole body is one giant tattoo sleeve right up his neck. He's a heavy drinker and vicious fighter. Not my type, but Tawny adores him.

"Whatever. I need to take a quick shower. Thanks for the coffee." I drain the rest of the cup in one long gulp.

"Hey, do you still need to use protection if you're only having dream sex?" she calls out as I head to the bathroom. "Do you write Crash a thank-you note afterward? Does he have to send an RSVP for sex?"

"Look how hard I'm laughing." I twist around so she can see my unamused expression. "There was no sex of any kind, dream or otherwise. And excuse me for having been raised with some culture." My accent is still so strong that it comes out "cultshah," which is one of the reasons the staff at Bone-breakers ribs me all the time. That, and apparently, I dress too Southern. All the other waitresses wear shredded T-shirts with rude slogans and shorts so tight you can see their religion. I wear tastefully coordinated pastel blouses, slacks, and low, comfortable heels. And yes, I accessorize with a charm bracelet and sometimes even a simple string of pearls.

I shower and give myself a quick once-over in the full-length mirror on the door before I get dressed. My reflection these days always startle me; I've changed so much in such a short time.

My hair, which used to be almost platinum blonde, so light it glowed, has grown to its natural dark-blonde color. When the roots got too long, I just gave up and had it dyed.

I still have my mother's snub nose, full lips, and clear, porcelain skin, but my face has filled out due to all the weight I've gained. I no longer exercise until I vomit, nor do I starve myself or overdose on laxatives. I'm 5'6", and over the last six months, I've gone from lean, mean, and bony to full-figured and curvy.

Eating when I'm hungry has completely changed my life. It's incredible how much less angry and bitchy I feel when not light-headed from starvation.

I quickly pull on jeans, boots, a chunky pink sweater, and a puffy gray jacket. I top it off with a pink and gray plaid scarf and grab a muffin from the fridge, taking a few bites as I hurry down the stairs. Then I wrap it in a tissue and tuck it into my purse as I emerge into bright, icy daylight.

It's January and so cold my breath frosts in little puffs in the air in front of me. I do miss the winter in my hometown. When it snows there, it frosts the rooftops, dusts the trees, and stays white and sparkly until it melts. Here, the snow's beautiful while falling, but it's beaten down to a hard, grimy crust within hours.

As I walk, my mind snags onto something that Tawny said back in the apartment. It's nibbling on the edges of my consciousness, and I can't figure out what it is. I turn it over for the next ten blocks and finally give up.

CHAPTER2

Savannah

I walk fast,as I've learned to do since I moved here. People in Manhattan don't appreciate a nice mosey, and they'll run you right down the middle of the sidewalk.

As I'm walking, I see an older woman, arms laden down with bags of packages, pausing on the curb. I hurry over to her as she's about to cross the street.

"Hello, ma'am. May I help you? Would you like me to carry some of those packages for you?"

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