Stud Muffin: Donner Bakery Book #2 Read online

  “I said,” she starts, her voice getting louder, fists stronger. With my good arm, I hold hers down to the side of her body as I reposition her back on the barstool, my hand going over her mouth.

  When her gorgeous green eyes, full of fire, hit mine, I feel it as if it were an actual punch.

  With her chest heaving and my dick springing to life, I swallow. Hard.

  “I’m going to need you to calm down, alright?” I ask, hoping for a nod or something to let me know she’s feeling me right now, but all I get is a sassy glare. When I finally take my hand off her mouth and release some of the hold on her shoulders, she sags a little in what feels like defeat. “No more dancing on the bar.”

  “Floyd,” she calls out over her shoulder. “I’m gonna need another shot of José.”

  Floyd’s eyebrows shoot up in question and I just shrug. Someone should probably cut her off, but I don’t really want to be that guy. She’s obviously got something going on … pretty girl in a strip club, drinking alone. That doesn’t exactly scream typical Saturday night. I want to press, ask her what her story is, but seeing that we haven’t even officially been introduced, I decide to leave it alone.

  I should leave her alone, but instead, after I’m convinced she’s back to occupying the barstool instead of the bar top, I walk back to my spot … well, my new spot … and watch.

  She throws a couple more back and I start cringing every time she holds her hand up for another drink. I want to tell her that this is probably going to hurt more than whatever she’s nursing … break-up, job, shitty friends … She’ll probably regret her choices tomorrow.

  But sometimes, we’ve just gotta live and learn.

  And sometimes it’s worth it, anything to drown out the pain.

  I’ve definitely been there before.

  “A round for all my friends,” she calls out a while later, motioning to the few men sitting down the bar from her. They smile, shaking their heads in her direction, and I wonder if they know her. The way they’re eyeballing her, I’d have to guess they do.

  What’s her reputation?

  What’s her story?

  Curiosity killed the cat, Cage.

  Leave it alone.

  “Crazy bitch,” I hear one of them mutter and my head cocks to the side. Clearing my throat, I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him until he feels my stare and looks up to meet my eyes.

  Nervously, he looks down at the bar and then offers a small, apologetic smile.

  That’s what I thought.

  Again, I don’t know her, but I’m not going to let anyone get away with calling her names.

  When she motions to Floyd for another, I catch his attention and shake my head. He walks back toward the back of the bar, grabbing a clean glass, and I’m about to say something when I watch him pour straight mix over the ice, trim it with a lime, and set it down in front of her.

  “You’re so good to me, Floyd,” she says, her words thick and slow. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

  Floyd smiles softly, holding a hint of something I can’t quite put my finger on, and shakes his head. “Nah, I think you’re quite all right, Miss Cassidy.”

  Cassidy.

  Tempest Cassidy.

  I roll her name around in my mind while continuing to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “It’s official, you know?” she asks, like he should. “I’m officially a Cassidy again… no more Williams bullshit for me.” When she laughs, it comes out as a snort and it’s fucking cute. “D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”

  “Heard that,” Floyd says, pulling a beer for another customer as he continues to engage her in conversation.

  Divorced?

  That just doesn’t seem right.

  What kind of guy would have a girl like her and mess that up?

  “He’s with Mindy,” she drawls. “Mindy… Miiiiindy… Minnnnndy.” Repeating the name over and over, she licks salt off her glass. Her pink tongue darting out to the rim and sending chills up my spine. “She used to work here, remember?”

  Oh, fuck.

  “Mindy,” she muses again. “She was so mean to me in high school … and I was always nice to her.” There’s nothing but pure disgust and injustice in her tone. “Can you believe that, Floyd?”

  He’s basically just listening to her talk now, arms braced on the bar, lending her an ear.

  “What happened to the nice guys finishing first … or girls …” She mumbles something I can’t hear. “I’m a girl… well, a woman.” She laughs, tossing her head back. Good ol’ José. He makes everything funny. “Wouldn’t you say, Floyd? I’m a woman, right? I mean, I’ve got boobs … they’re not big ones, but they’re a handful.” She’s now cupping her tits, over her shirt, thankfully, and I have to force my eyes in the other direction. “I always thought they were enough … I thought I was enough … but I guess …” When I hear her tone shift from appalled to so fucking sad, I turn back to see her laying her head on the bar. “I guess I was wrong. I’m not …”

  “Hey,” Floyd says, squatting down to get eye level with her. “You’re great. And you’re going to be fine …” He hesitates and I can tell this is a little out of his comfort zone, but I’m already putting Floyd up there with some of the better people I know, because she needs someone to tell her that. I would, but again, we haven’t even officially met. “And you know what,” he asks, forcing her to turn her head to look at him. “What goes around … comes around.”

  I can’t help but keep my eyes on her, waiting for her response.

  “Thanks, Floyd.”

  “You’re welcome, Em.”

  Em?

  Nickname?

  I find myself filing away each little tidbit of information about her.

  “Want me to call your dad?” he asks and this brings her straight up in her seat.

  “No!” she says, practically crawling over the bar. “No, Floyd. Not my dad. And not Sheriff James,” she pleads. “I’m not going back to jail … not tonight.”

  He chuckles, hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, alright … no Butch and no Sheriff James. Who else can I call?”

  “Cole…” she says, sleepily putting her head back on the bar. “Call Cole.”

  The next thing we know, the fiery redhead, who was dancing on the bar thirty minutes ago is now snoozing on it. Like, full on snores. They’re cute snores, don’t get me wrong, but they’re snores nonetheless.

  He looks up at me, as if to ask what to do, and I just shrug.

  Turning, he picks up the phone behind the bar and dials a number. I go back to watching the rest of the club, Fuchsia is back for her second routine and the crowd is behaving nicely, as they usually do.

  Before I came, Hank hadn’t had a bouncer in a while. He stuck around to keep the peace when needed, but me being here frees him up some, or at least that’s what he claims. Part of me wonders if he really needed someone or if he’s just being … well, Hank. He’s always been good people … giving more to others than they’ll ever be able to give him in return.

  “No answer for Cole down at the police station,” Floyd says with a sigh.

  “Maybe she has a phone?” I ask, glancing over at her small purse on the counter beside her.

  Floyd’s hands go back up. “I ain’t touching it.” Shaking his head. “My mama about beat me one time when I went digging in hers for a stick of gum.”

  Sighing, I glance around before walking over and slipping her purse from under her arm. It’s small, so the only thing in it is her phone and a house key. Pulling the phone out, I swipe my thumb across the screen and see that it needs a passcode. When I show it to Floyd, his head drops in defeat.

  “Man,” he says on an exhale. “She really didn’t want me to call her dad, but I don’t know what else to do if we can’t get ahold of Cole.”

  “Who’s Cole?” I ask, feeling nosy, but I can’t help it. “Is he the ex?”

  Floyd huffs a laugh. “No … no way, man. Cole Cassidy is her cousin, deputy �
�� good guy.”

  I nod, running a hand over my short hair. “So, what do we do?”

  “I guess we can keep trying Cole,” he says, looking down at his watch. “Bar’s still open for another three hours.”

  “She didn’t even make it to midnight.” I smirk, looking down at her sleeping form. My fingers itch to brush the hair off of her face, but I can’t do that. That’s too intimate … too familiar. I didn’t even get to introduce myself. Who am I to brush hair out of her face?

  What the fuck is wrong with you, Cage?

  “Pretty girl, huh?” Floyd asks, his eyes on her too. “Sweet girl, too … definitely doesn’t deserve what she’s been through lately.”

  And what’s that? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back.

  “Walked in on her ex screwing someone else,” Floyd adds under his breath, eyes cutting down the bar to see who might be eavesdropping.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Floyd shakes his head. “Nope.” Looking around again, he asks, “wanna know the worst part?”

  Did I? Did I want to know the worst part? I know it’s common in small towns for people to gossip, but I don’t feel right gaining information about Tempest, even though I want it, without her knowing. But Floyd takes my silence as a yes.

  “She was going home to…” He cocks his head and eyebrows suggestively. “You know.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

  “Yeah, apparently, they were trying to get pregnant and she was going home early for some … you know.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah.”

  We both look down at Tempest, who is still snoozing on the bar.

  “She kinda lost it,” he whispers, but it’s not in disapproval, more in sympathy … understanding. “But can you blame her?”

  No, I can’t. I remember what it was like when I thought my life was going one way and then suddenly, it wasn’t. I’ve had that happen to me on more than one occasion. It’s jolting, disarming. Can’t say I’ve always handled it in the best way myself.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask, my eyes still glued on the softness of her cheek and the way her lashes rest on the pale skin.

  “I’m stuck here until close, but you could drive her home.”

  My eyes snap up. “Me?”

  “Yeah, she just lives a few miles away. I can give you her address.” He motions to her purse. “You’ve got a key. She’ll probably wake up by the time you get there … just make sure she gets into the house okay.”

  I guess I could do that. Looking around the bar, everyone seems to be doing fine.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the place,” Floyd continues. “You won’t be gone long.”

  Right. Sure, I can just take her home. I mean, she can’t sleep on the bar all night. I wouldn’t want her to. And she obviously doesn’t have a husband or boyfriend to call. Her cousin isn’t answering. She was adamant that she didn’t want to call her father, so that leaves … me.

  “Okay,” I say, taking a step toward her and pausing to think it through. “Should I just?” I ask, hands in limbo.

  “Carry her?” Floyd offers, looking at me like maybe I’m not as smart as he thought I was.

  “Right.”

  When I slip my arm around her back and cradle her to my chest, scooping up her legs, she stirs and so does my dick. Earlier, when I dismounted her from the bar, I hadn’t really been thinking about how she felt against my chest, but now, it’s all I can think about—her small, soft body against my hard torso. Her warmth. Her scent—vanilla and something else—lavender, maybe? It’s soft and subtle and sweet.

  Grabbing her purse, I wave to Floyd. “I’ll be back.”

  He smirks and nods his head. “Address is on the slip of paper in her purse.”

  I hadn’t even noticed him writing it down, too preoccupied with the half-asleep, completely drunk girl in my arms. Walking toward the door, we garner some looks, but I just stare them down and dare them to say a word. No one does. I tip my head to Sarah when she grabs the door for me.

  “I’ll be back in a few,” I tell her.

  She offers a small, gentle smile, and I wonder if it’s for me or Tempest.

  What has she been up to?

  What makes everyone think she’s crazy?

  I almost want to pry, but I know I won’t.

  That’s an invasion of privacy and I know what that feels like. It’s one of the reasons I’m here in Green Valley. Back in Dallas, everywhere I went—the gym, the dojo, the bar—the only thing people wanted to know was how I was holding up and what I planned on doing with my life.

  Will you fight again?

  If you do, will you fight to get your title back?

  This isn’t how we saw your career ending.

  No shit, Sherlock. Never in a million years did I think I, Cage Erickson, would be taken out by a shoulder injury. Maybe too many concussions, which I was approaching the danger zone, but hadn’t been forced to address that … yet. Maybe winning so many belts and keeping my title for so many years that I got bored. Maybe meeting a girl I could see myself settling down with and leaving the fight behind for a family … yeah, that’s one I’d never told anyone about, but it’s been there for the last couple years in the back of my mind. Regardless, when I left the sport, it would be under my own terms.

  But being forced out, that shit made me angry … displaced … bitter.

  “Put me down,” Tempest mumbles, trying to put some force behind the words, but failing. “I can walk. Put me down.”

  “I’m taking you home,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head, her eyes still closed. “No, no home … home is lonely … and sad.”

  My heart, the one that usually didn’t care too much for sentimental bullshit due to the nice sturdy wall I’d built up over the years, crumbled a little at her confession. When my steps falter, I think about taking her back into the bar. Something inside me sparked to life and I knew in that moment I didn’t ever want to do anything to make her sad. But I couldn’t leave her at the bar. She needed a bed and some water and ibuprofen.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I mutter, my lips a fraction away from touching her hair before I stop myself.

  What the fuck, Cage?

  She still doesn’t even know your damn name. You can’t go kissing her hair, you creep.

  And maybe that was a lie. Maybe it wasn’t going to be okay, but I had to believe it was for her sake.

  Walking around the side of the building, I approach the truck Hank has been letting me borrow, another benefit of working for him. Those just seem to keep coming lately. I’m starting to feel like he just makes shit up to get me to agree to accepting his help.

  Sitting her gently in the passenger seat of the truck, I pull the seatbelt across her chest and buckle her in.

  “Don’t want to,” she says, her eyes cracking open and blinking furiously, as she tries to get her bearings. “What are you doing?” Her words are slurred and I know what she’s feeling. Sometimes, when you drink, you don’t even realize how drunk you are until you stop, and then it hits you like a ton of bricks. When she swipes the back of her hand across her face, I realize she may not be feeling so well.

  “Hey,” I say, ducking back into the cab of the truck and trying to force her to look at me. “You okay?” I ask. “Are you feeling sick?”

  She shakes her head, groaning slightly. “No, just don’t want to go home …”

  “Well, I think it’s the best place for you.”

  “What do you know?” she asks, a hint of spitfire presenting itself and I smirk.

  Laughing lightly, I make sure her seatbelt is secure before leaning back. “Not much,” I tell her, shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side.

  “What’s your name?” she asks, as I start the truck up and put it in reverse, her head lolling to the side to look at me. “I don’t even know you. I don’t go home with strangers… strange,” she repeats, drawin
g the word out a little like she did when she was stuck on Mindy. I don’t even know her, but I already hate her. “Strange… men.” She laughs and rolls her head back the other way, leaning over until her cheek is pressed against the window. “This feels good.”

  Slipping the paper out of her purse, I check the address and pause before pulling out of the parking lot to put it into the GPS on my phone. Just like Floyd said, it’s less than a few miles away, so I turn out and head back toward town.

  “Cage,” I tell her, answering her original question, but I’m not even sure if she’s still awake. Her breathing is quiet and I can’t see her face. “I’m Cage Erickson.”

  “Like an animal … cage?” she asks, laughing once.

  I shake my head. “Yeah, kinda like that.”

  “Or a bird cage. Are you a bird?”

  She’s making no sense, but I love the lilt of her voice, so I don’t stop her.

  “I had a rabbit once. Her name was Britney Spears. She lived in a cage, except when I snuck her into my bedroom, but my mama hated it.” She pauses and sighs before laughing again. “Tempest June, I don’t want rabbit poop in my house.” Her voice went high and pompous, obviously imitating her mother. “Such a fun killer.”

  “Is that a nickname or something?” she asks, forcing herself back up in the seat.

  “Nope, just Cage.”

  “Just Cage,” she repeats. “Where are you from?”

  “Dallas.”

  When I stop at a corner, turning down her street, she gets more alert than she’s been in a while. “Dallas?” I glance over to see her nose wrinkle. “Why’d you come here?”

  “Change of pace,” I offer, as honest as I wanted to be this time of night. Although, I realize I could probably tell her my entire life story and she probably wouldn’t remember any of it come morning.

  A few minutes later, I pull up in the driveway of a yellow house. The porch light is on, as well as a lamppost in the front yard. It’s quaint and cute and it looks like a place where happy people live.

  Turning the truck off, I look over to Tempest, but she’s back to snoozing against the door. I wonder if she was happy … before. I bet she was. She seems like someone who is inherently happy, which pisses me off that she’s been reduced to someone who drinks alone—at a strip club.