Page 30 of The Belle and the Biker

Did some of the bats fly out of this woman’s belfry? “I just got her, and I barely have money for groceries, and—oh, forget it.”

She moves on from Tiddlywinks and examines my outfit with a critical eye. “Is that what you’re wearing today? I suppose it will have to do.”

“Thank you,” I say tartly. “You look lovely too.”

She smooths her Lilly Pulitzer shift with one wrinkled hand. “Well, of course, I do. I don’t do my shopping in the rubbish bin.”

When we’re finished with breakfast, she rings a silver bell, and Carlisle comes in with a tray to clear the table. By now, Tiddlywinks is in a food coma and is curled up in a little ball on the seat cushion, snoring delicately.

“Something came up rather last minute,” my aunt says. “I’m holding a party for Carlotta’s 21st birthday, starting at noon. She’s my least favorite great-niece, but her mother asked me if we could hold the party here because their septic system backed up, and their entire house smells like a sewer. Not like it didn’t anyway.”

“Hey,” I say indignantly, bending down to pick up Tiddlywinks. “I thought I was your least favorite great-niece!”

She narrows her eyes. “You were until her mother insisted on this party.” My aunt loves to complain about being forced to host events all the time, but nobody makes her do anything she doesn’t want to. If she wasn’t asked to host family celebrations on a regular basis, she’d be mortally offended.

“The party starts at noon,” she adds. “You’re not obligated to stay for it.”

In other words, my parents will be there. Otherwise, she’d insist that I attend.

It’s been seven months. The sting of rejection should have faded by now. My mother’s a terrible person, and I shouldn’t even want her approval, but I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to her impossible expectations and judging myself by how close I came. It’s a hard habit to break.

I know she’s continued to call Aunt Hepzibah and ask after me because I’ve overheard my aunt on the phone with her several times. Aunt Hepzibah always hangs up right away when she sees me and keeps denying it, but nobody else would call me to check on me, and any of my friends or family would just call me directly on my cell phone.

So, my mother wants to make sure that I’m not dead, but she doesn’t want to see me. If she did, she knows how to reach me—but never does. She didn’t call or send a card for Christmas or my birthday.

All I can do is take slight comfort in those phone calls. She still sort of cares, and it’s probably just as well that I’m not spending time with her. She’s hell on my self-esteem.

“I’ve been wanting to get out of the house anyway,” I say with a shrug. “I may run into town and apply for a part-time job at the Bitter End Boutique.”

Aunt Hepzibah clutches her pearls. Literally. “You what? How common. You most certainly will not.”

“Well, it could take a few weeks before they catch the guy. Or, honestly, they may never find him. In the meantime, I need to pay my bills.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it. I said I’d take care of your bills.”

“Even though I’m your second-least-favorite grand-niece?” Drat. I hate not being in first place. I don’t feel special anymore.

“I may not like anyone from your side of the family, or approve of you, or acknowledge you in public, or understand your fashion choices—” she pauses to let all that sink in “—but you’re still blood.”

I make a face. “Thank you. I feel all warm and fuzzy; Tiddlywinks and I are going for a walk.”

“Don’t you look at me in that tone of voice!” she calls out as I quickly beat a retreat.

After Tiddlywinks does her business, I sit on a rocking chair on the front porch and call the New York police detective in charge of investigating the shooting. I’m hoping for good news, but he has none.

“It’s still an open investigation, and we’re actively pursuing a lot of leads,” the detective tells me.

My heart sinks. It’s been a week now. That sounds like what someone says when the investigation has stalled, and they’re just marking time until they can close it.

Should I have told him about the attempt on my life that happened right near my apartment? Well, it’s too late now. He’d want to know why I didn’t report it when it happened, and I can’t tell him that I kept quiet so my biker friends could do their own investigation.

I thank him and call Tawny to see if she’s got any better news.

“We’ve got nothing,” she says regretfully. “Axl says they’ve talked to their cop buddies. The cops found the car the guy was driving, but it had been stolen, and the license plate was swapped out from a junkyard. It was torched, too, so there was no way for the police to look for fingerprints or stuff like that inside the car.”

A chill runs through me. “That sounds like a very professional shooter.”

“Yeah, it does. I miss your annoying and pointless etiquette lectures—I mean lessons—but you’re probably safer where you are for right now.”

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