Page 51 of The Belle and the Biker

A young woman in a navy tweed jacket pushes her twin stroller past us. Her hair is a shoulder-length, shiny blonde bob, and she accessorized with small, tasteful silver hoops and an armful of chunky bangles. Her toddlers are adorably matched in little Burberry outfits in shades that complement her own clothing. She catches sight of us and stops in her tracks. Then she takes a careful step backward and wheels her twin stroller around. She practically leaves scorch marks hightailing it out of there.

I can’t even blame her. I’d run from me too. Gloom wraps around me like a cloud. That woman? Once upon a time, that was me. Right down to the snotty, judgmental attitude.

And screw her for being so well dressed. I freaking loved her jacket.

Yes, I’ve faced worse than this many times in the past, but I was dressed for it.

I cross my arms over my T-shirt. “Did you see how she looked at me?” I groan. “Like I was something she’d need to scrape off her shoe.”

“You don’t even know her, for God’s sake,” Crash says. “Why do you care what she thinks?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Hello, this is Savannah Harkwell speaking,” I say in a low voice. His look of annoyance cheers me up a little.

“Banshee,” he corrects me with a scowl. “Your life may depend on remembering that.”

“Whatever. You know me, I always care what people think.”

“And I care about keeping you alive,” he says. Jeez, he can’t stop talking about it. “So you’re Banshee, the biker babe. Deal with it.”

“Let’s just get this over with and go back to the trailer.”

When we get back there, Crash and I put the groceries away, and then I go slump on the sofa. It’s early afternoon now, and it’s clear and sunny and sixty degrees, but I’m too demoralized to go anywhere.

I’ve been mostly okay with gaining fifty pounds after a lifetime of being a skinny bitch. I’ve adjusted to wearing consignment store clothes. But this is too much. This disguise just isn’t me. I feel as comfortable in these clothes as Crash would if he were forced to shave his beard and wear a three-piece suit.

Crash sits down next to me, and the sofa creaks under his weight.

“You want to go for a ride? The weather’s nice, and there are some gorgeous views down by the ocean.”

“No, I’m not comfortable going anywhere looking like this.” I tuck my legs up under me and hug myself. We’re in a lovely little beach town, and I’m going to have to stay hidden in the trailer whenever I’m not working at Sparky’s. What a waste.

“Even on the back of my bike? Nobody will see you. We’ll be whipping right by them.”

I sigh. “If you want to go for a ride, you can. It’s a nice day out, and there’s no reason you should have to be all cooped up here. I can call Tawny, and she can come hang out, so I wouldn’t be without a guard. The shooter’s not going to try to walk into a biker bar to take me out.”

“Nah, I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” Crash says, which is actually a nice thing for him to say. At least he’s not kicking me while I’m down.

“Thank you,” I say listlessly. “Want to watch some TV?”

“On a gorgeous day like this? No, and neither do you. You’re moping around with your mopey Mc-Mopeface on, which is not the Savannah; I mean Banshee, I know,” Crash says. “I know your parents kicked you out of your house. Did you lie around and mope then?”

I sit up, a jolt of energizing rage blasting through my nervous system. “Heavens no. My mother said I’d be crawling back to her begging for forgiveness by the end of the month. I went out and got multiple jobs and an apartment, and we haven’t spoken in seven months.”

“Your asshole ex-husband cheated on you. Did you lie around and mope then?”

Fury burns away the rest of my self-pity like sunshine dissolving the early morning fog. “Hell no. I went straight to the divorce attorney and kicked that bastard to the curb. I also cut out the crotches of every single suit in his closet and melted his golf trophies into slag. And you don’t even want to imagine what I did to his Porsche. Also, itching powder may have made its way into his underwear and socks.”

Crash smiles. “That’s my girl.”

Hearing him say that makes me warm all over.

He leans back on the sofa and props his feet on the rickety coffee table. “I’ve had plenty of people rooting for me to fail.”

“Who?”

He shrugs. “Nobody who’s in my life now. And you know what I did?”

“Kicked their faces in?” It seems like a Crash thing to do.

---