Page 49 of The Belle and the Biker

"Like… it's okay if we killed someone, but we did it politely?"

"That is not an unreasonable suggestion. For example, it is always acceptable to shoot someone in self-defense."

"Maybe you shot someone for spitting on the street. Or not standing up when a lady entered the room." I'm just messing with her, but she nods enthusiastically.

"Yes! Both of those work."

A loud knocking on the door makes us both start. I glance up at the clock on the wall. Yep, she's here right on time—assuming it's really her. Right now, there's no such thing as being too cautious.

"Who is it?" I call out, my hand drifting to the Glock tucked inside my jacket.

"Who do you think it is, gear-for-brains?" Tawny yells.

"Tawny?" Savannah's eyes fly open wide with surprise.

I unlock the door and let Tawny in. She sweeps into the room, hauling a suitcase and a large gym bag.

"I'm confused about so many things right now." Savannah stares at Tawny. "Why? How? Where?"

"Axl told me where you guys were staying. By some miracle, I managed to get him on the phone. I decided we need some time apart, and it was either that or punch him in the face. So I'm here to serve as backup and fashion consultant. The club secretary said I could crash in her guest room." Tawny scowls.

I've been getting the impression that Axl's going through some problems, and I've tried to hint at it on the phone, but he always cuts me off. He's been different since the attack that wiped out half his squadron. Angrier, more impatient, drinking more.

"Okay, that explains why you're here. Would anyone like to tell me why Tawny is allowed to bring two suitcases, and I wasn't?" Savannah asks huffily.

"The gym bag is for you. I was told you'd need additional outfits for your makeover."

"What kind of makeover?" Savannah takes a step back.

Tawny looks at Savannah's prissy blouse and skirt and shakes her head disapprovingly. "What kind do you think? You're going undercover as a biker, babe. And this?" Tawny waves her hand at Savannah's outfit. "Not working. Okay, Crash, leave. I've got a lot of work to do. Give me an hour."

Savannah gives me a panicked look.

"You'll make a great old lady," I assure her, which earns me a very unladylike middle-finger salute. I love it when I annoy Savannah so much that she forgets her "upbringing."

I leave the trailer and head over to Tank's house. He lives a few blocks from the club and will be lending me a bike.

My Fat Boy is still being repaired, from what Tank told me this morning. It will probably be a week or two until it's ready. It's been searched top to tail, and there was no tracker on it, but I still don't want to ride it in case the shooter can somehow track us by my license plate.

Tank lives in a double wide with his sister, who's disabled. The yard is neatly trimmed and walled off with a high chain link fence, and he's built a ramp up to the front door.

His garage sits right next door to the double-wide. He's a shade-tree mechanic, fixing up the club's bikes and doing a little business on the side.

Just walking in there makes my heart race. The smell of paint and motor oil and the sight of a half dozen beautiful machines in various states of repair is my idea of heaven. Tank loves the classics. He's also got an artist's eye when it comes to fixing up old bikes.

He points at a 1980 Harley-Davidson Shovelhead. It's so gorgeous, and it gives me impure thoughts of the type I usually reserve for Savannah.

"I can tell you're a man who appreciates a nice ride." He pats the seat. "While you're here, you can take this one."

"No," I say, trying not to openly drool. "That thing's primo. I couldn't."

"Sure, you could." He tosses a set of keys into my hand.

"Well, if you insist…" I've already thrown my leg over the seat and settling in. He winks at me; his face wreathed in a million wrinkles as he smiles.

"Treat her right."

"Thank you, Tank. I appreciate your trusting me with this. And with the patch." I pat the patch respectfully. "I won't let you down."

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