Filthy alpha, p.2
Filthy Alpha, page 2
“Three to your favorite bar, as per their standing contract,” he replies with a chuckle.
“Fuck you,” I grind out.
He lets out a bark of laughter. He knows that not only do I hate going anywhere downtown, I despise that fucking place. Considering I’m the vice president, I haven’t done deliveries in a while. We’re shorthanded right now, and I’m forced to do this shit. I fucking hate the fact that I have to go down there.
My mom and stepdad owned the Honky-Tonk bar my entire childhood and forced me to spend my entire life down there and work.
It doesn’t matter that I walked away at eighteen, that I haven’t worked there for twenty years. I still fucking hate walking into the place.
“Someone else can do it,” I grind out, knowing they can’t but hoping there is someone, anyone, who will.
Gnaw shakes his head. “No can do tomorrow. Everyone is booked fucking solid. Even prospects have been given duties.”
“Fuck,” I clip.
He clears his throat. “You want me to see if I can ask someone to switch?” he asks.
I run my fingers through my hair, tugging on the ends before shaking my head from side to side a few times. “No, I’m almost forty years old. I can deliver three kegs to those assholes, one of whom gave me life.”
“I still can’t believe you came from her,” he mumbles.
“Believe that shit,” I snap with a smirk.
Taking the order slip from Gnaw, I glance at the paperwork for a brief moment before shoving it into my pocket. “How long has it been since we’ve done a delivery?” I ask.
“They’re on a six-month rotation right now. I don’t think they’re going to last much longer at that rate. How can you keep the doors open selling three kegs every six months?” Gnaw asks.
He’s right.
Back in the day, my mom and stepdad’s bar was the local place to hang out, and they were slinging beers and booze all night long, every night. I know because I helped them, and I remember my whole body aching by closing time, then we’d do it again the next night, over and over again, until I walked away and never looked back.
“You can’t,” I say. “They are fuckin’ idiots.”
I shove the order in my pocket, turn around, and head toward the club bar. Another reason I don’t have to see my mom and stepdad ever is because my motorcycle club has their own fucking bar.
I quickly walk down the hall, step out into the main room, and inhale the familiar scent of beer, smoke, and bitches.
This is the life I know and love.
Sure, it’s similar to my upbringing, which makes it familiar and comforting in its own way, but it’s not the exact same either. This club doesn’t use me to do all their hard work. We share the load, even the president.
This is a real family, and I will never forgive my mother for treating me the way she did for all those years. I feel the same about my stepdad, but maybe it’s because my mother is my biological parent of the two that I feel most betrayed by her.
CHAPTER
TWO
SHAWN
Another day… and not another dollar. I bite my bottom lip. I have to realize that this is the end of my dream after only four months. I don’t know what else to do. I have no more money to spend on advertising, rent or, hell… food at this point.
I’m staring at the front door willing it to open when it actually does. I almost jump out of my skin. I don’t know if it’s the sunlight blinding me or what, but my breath is taken from my lungs as soon as the man walks in.
He stops just inside the door. It closes behind him, and my eyes adjust to the man standing in front of me.
He’s tall. Although everyone looks tall to me since I’m only five-four, he’s at least six-two, maybe taller. He’s got a short, clipped beard, messy dark hair, and blue eyes. Blue eyes that look straight into my soul.
I suck in a breath, hold it, and wonder what the hell he’s doing in here. I can’t imagine a man like this wanting cupcakes and cookies, but I don’t ask him that, mainly because I can’t even breathe, let alone speak to him.
He clears his throat, and I stop staring at him, giving him a smile before opening my mouth to ask him if I can help him.
“What happened to the bar that used to be here?” he barks.
His tone sounds hard, harsh, and even angry. I jump slightly again, blinking a few times. My head moves back slightly, and my back straightens.
Opening my mouth, I start to answer. Planning to tell him that I have no idea what he’s talking about. Let him know that this was completely remodeled before I rented it. But he continues speaking.
“How long have you been here?”
“Four months,” I answer. It’s his turn to blink. But I decide to continue. Since that’s what he did to me. “When I rented it, the building looked exactly like this. Was there a bar here before?”
He blinks again, jerking his head back slightly. “There was a bar here for over forty fuckin’ years,” he grinds out. He seems angry as hell. “Are you telling me the bar is gone completely?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I don’t know of any bars down here.”
“Motherfucker,” he hisses.
He digs his hand into his pocket, takes out his phone, then turns to the side and stares at my Filthy Sweet Treats neon sigh as he puts his phone to his ear. I take in the rest of his body. His jeans hug his body perfectly as if they’re molded to his thighs and ass. They’re also worn in all the right spots—spectacularly.
He’s wearing a leather jacket, a black one, like a motorcycle jacket, that is covered in a bunch of patches and stitching. I don’t even focus on those. All I can do is continue to stare at him, all of him.
He's hot as hell.
Like, really hot.
He’s a little older than me, but I don’t think it makes him less attractive. In fact, I think it adds more. He’s got some crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and a little salt in his dark beard, which is hot, too.
I don’t think I’ve ever been attracted to a man the way I am to this one.
“The bar isn’t here. I’ve got three kegs, and it’s gone. No, I’m fuckin’ serious. I’m standing right where it used to be. It’s a goddamn bakery with fuckin’ vegan bullshit in the case and hot-pink neon signs in fuckin’ cursive.”
I try not to take offense at the vegan bullshit comment, but I’m kind of offended because I know it tastes amazing and nothing even close to bullshit. He wouldn’t know that, though, because I would venture to guess he’s never even stood this close to something vegan before, let alone tasted it.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare at his profile, wondering why he’s so angry. He is, too. Super pissed off.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “This is three fuckin’ kegs. Yeah. Okay, I’ll be back soon.”
Slowly, he turns to me, his eyes finding mine and holding my gaze for a moment. He marches toward me and lifts his hand, placing it flat on my counter before he speaks.
“You got the landlord’s number?” he asks. Although it’s not a question, more like a demand.
“I do,” I whisper.
I’m not sure why he intimidates me. Maybe it’s his forceful tone, his deep voice, or his amazing looks. His eyes find mine again, and they are intense. Everything about him seems intense. My hands tremble as I dip my chin, ripping my gaze from his, and start to look through my drawer to produce the landlord’s number.
When I finally find the card that was given to me a few months ago when I signed the lease, I lift it up and gently place it on the counter. His gaze flicks to the card, then slowly lifts to meet mine again.
Then it’s as if his entire body changes. A smile appears on his lips, his blue eyes almost sparkle, and he chuckles.
“Thanks, babe,” he murmurs. His voice has changed. It’s no longer scary. In fact, it’s rough yet almost gentle.
It’s hot.
Just like him.
I watch as he types the number into his phone, then slides the card back across the counter to me. I take it and shove it back in the drawer quickly, hoping he’ll leave soon so I can breathe properly again.
“Bakery, huh?” he grunts before he shoves his phone into his pocket.
“Bakery,” I confirm with a nod.
He hums, shifting backward slightly and craning his head as his eyes slide over my case and shelves. I almost tell him that it’s all vegan bullshit but decide against it.
He can obviously read.
Instead of saying anything, I wait for him to tell me what he wants. What he’s thinking. I mean, it’s not like I can really string together more than a sentence here or there in front of him anyway.
He’s just so commanding, so beautiful, so incredibly intimidating. “Butterfinger, gluten-free?” he asks. “The fuck is that?”
“Do you like peanut butter, chocolate, and Butterfinger?” I ask.
He hums, shrugging his shoulder. “I’m more of a Heath guy myself. You got anything that’s not chocolate?”
I feel a bit deflated, not because I don’t have other flavors, but the chocolate Butterfinger is my favorite. This could be my very last customer ever, so instead of trying to push him into chocolate, I decide to tell him all about my flavors.
Not only do I describe my strawberry cake, filled with vanilla buttercream topped with lemon buttercream icing, but I do the same with raspberry, but I don’t have that in the case today. I describe the snickerdoodle and then my cookie butter. All of which are filled with flavors that balance them and then topped with decadent buttercream icing of complementing flavors.
I start to tell him about my cookies, but he holds up his hand, his palm facing me to stop me from speaking.
“Which ones are gluten, vegan, taste-free?” he asks.
Biting my tongue, literally, I shake my head. “They’re all organic and gluten-free or vegan. Sometimes I do paleo, too, but I don’t have any today.”
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Woman, how the fuck are you gonna make it in this town with this shit?” he asks.
Tears spring to my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they linger right there, ready to fall. Instead of standing in front of this beautiful man and crying my eyes out, I open the case, slide the glass to the side, and reach down, grabbing hold of the cookie butter cupcake.
It’s close to a birthday cake–type flavor without being filled with sprinkles. “Try it. On the house.”
He looks down at my outstretched hand, to the cupcake in my fingers, and then he smirks and lifts his gaze to meet mine as he reaches forward, his fingers touching mine… lingering. Shots of electricity slide up my arm and then flow to my belly.
I hold my breath, watching, waiting for him to stop touching me, but I don’t think I can. I don’t think I want him to stop. Eventually, he does pull away, taking the cupcake with him, and I watch as he peels the paper back. Then, with just one bite, he shoves the whole thing into his mouth.
My lips part in awe as he chews, and when he swallows, he winks in my direction. “You make that?” he asks.
“I did,” I say, my voice soft.
“And what’s that free of?” he asks.
“It’s completely organic, gluten-free, and made with grass-fed butter.”
He blinks. Likely because he doesn’t understand what I’ve just said means. Then he clears his throat. “Well, it seems like I was fucking wrong. Gluten-free can taste fucking great. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head once. “On the house.”
Without another word, he digs into his front pocket, takes out some money, and slams it down on the counter. I jump slightly, and his lips curve into a crooked smile at the sight before he speaks.
“I was a dick. Take it. See you soon, sweetness.”
He winks at me again, then turns and walks out of my shop. I stare at his back until the door closes behind him. Only then do I look down at the money on the counter. I suck in a breath, holding it as I stare at it.
One hundred dollars.
For a cupcake.
What the actual fuck?
KING
Holy fuck.
That cupcake was the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. Ever. The girl behind the counter was just as fucking sweet as the icing on that cake, too. But then the realization about the bar being gone and the club being stuck with three kegs hits me all over again.
Annoyance.
It’s fucking annoying.
Not only that my mom and stepdad have lost their bar, but they didn’t bother to call and cancel the delivery service. Though, that doesn’t surprise me. They’ve never been the kind of people who were responsible in any way, shape, or form for anything. Seems as though twenty years have not changed that aspect about them.
I find the landlord’s number, which I saved in my phone, touch the call icon, and hold it to my ear. It rings twice before he answers.
“Elvis Stanley, is that you?” he asks.
It doesn’t surprise me that he still has my number saved. I laugh, not having heard my actual name in at least ten years. I find it an odd sound, but I like it.
“It’s me, and I’m standing in front of my mom and stepdad’s bar, except—”
“It’s not a bar anymore,” he says, interrupting me. “Cute little place, isn’t it?”
“Where are they?” I ask, trying not to be a demanding asshole. Because it’s not Arthur’s fault that they didn’t tell me where they were going or that they were even going anywhere, but I want to know.
Arthur hums, then grunts, and I can tell he’s shifting around in his seat before he continues. “Don’t know where they are. Haven’t talked to them in months, but I let them slide on the rent for six months straight.
“They gave me excuse after excuse, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. They weren’t paying me. I know they’d been there forever, but I got bills to pay, too. Besides, the city wants the downtown area cleaned up. They want it to be more of an old town square theme, and a bar doesn’t fit with that.”
“It doesn’t,” I agree. “Thanks, Arthur. And good luck. You need anything, you know where to find me.”
He agrees and ends the call. I’ve known Arthur for as long as I’ve known my own parents. He was a fixture in my life, not just because he was a regular at my mom and stepdad’s bar but also because he was one of the ones who encouraged me to leave and never look back. He encouraged me to go to my father, a man he knew even when my mother wouldn’t tell me who he was.
And I did just that.
Climbing back into the delivery truck, I look over my shoulder at the building. It's brighter now. Hot-pink paint against a white building, the name scrawled across that white paint.
Sweet Filthy Treats.
I love the name.
Though, I bet there’s absolutely nothing filthy about that sweet little thing behind the counter.
As much as I would love to fuck her right there on the pastry glass, I don’t think she would be someone who could handle that. Plus, she doesn’t seem like a girl I could hit and quit. She seems like she’d want me to stick around. Play house a bit. And that is definitely not me.
I can’t help but wonder what exactly she’s doing in that shop. Clearly, she’s too young to own it. She must just work there. I wonder where the owner is and if she can possibly help me figure out what happened. I think about calling Arthur back and asking him exactly who she is, but decide against it.
Heading straight for the clubhouse, I shake thoughts of that sexy little thing behind the bakery counter out of my head. I need to talk to Gnaw and see if he’s got somewhere else he wants me to take these goddamn kegs.
Fucking hell, this fucks with our money.
The keg delivery business is just a front for everything else we do. It’s our way of proving our legitimacy. And even one keg fuckup screws our monthly bottom line. Three would look really fucking bad.
When the clubhouse comes into view, I pull up to the warehouse and shift the truck into Park, then jump out and head straight for the door. Gnaw steps outside just as I approach. He’s wearing a frown, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.
“What the actual fuck?” he asks.
I almost laugh. “That’s exactly what I said. It’s a cupcake shop now,” I explain. “Well, a bakery.”
“Where are they?” he asks because he thinks I’m the one who would know where my own family is, but he, of all people, should know that I don’t.
Not in the goddamn slightest.
I haven’t seen them in twenty years. At least not intentionally. Living in the small town of Pineville in East Texas, running into people you don’t want to see at the grocery store is inevitable. This is one reason why I try not to walk into a goddamn grocery store if I can help it.
CHAPTER
THREE
KING
Atomic sits behind his desk as Gnaw and I make our way inside. “Well, my mom and stepdad are gone. The bar is a bakery, and we have three kegs that don’t have a home,” I announce as I flop down in the chair across from him.
Gnaw sinks down in the one beside me, not saying a word. Atomic leans back in his chair, his eyes on mine as he lets out a grunt. “Good news is that I was thinking of having a party, and to do that, the club needs three new kegs.”
I start to ask him why he’s having a party, but he continues to speak. “It’s more of an ‘invite the local talent out for an evening’ kind of party. We haven’t done anything like that in a while,” he says.
“Local talent?” I ask. “This party include desserts?” I ask.
Gnaw laughs.
I think about asking him what the fuck this whole party is for, but I don’t because I have a feeling this is all just to keep those three kegs from going completely to waste. And leave a paper trail. Because at the end of the day, the paper trail is all that fucking matters.
“Like from a bakery?” Gnaw asks.
“One downtown,” I reply with a chuckle. “She looked like she could use the business, and swear to fuck, I could have come from that cupcake I ate.”
