Chapter One

SHAWN

As I stare at the cupcakes and cookies in my case, I wonder if this is it. Is this the month when I surrender to the fact that I’ve completely failed? Eight hours today of staring at the front door and not one customer.

I’ve done everything my online research has told me to do. I’m not sure what else could even be done at this point. I’ve paid for help. Gone to wedding shows and attended different community events, but there’s been nothing.

I have even built my social media up as much as I can and have about five hundred followers, but it’s to no avail. I am completely and totally forgettable.

So are my treats.

Letting out a sigh, I lift my gaze to the hot-pink neon sign that has Filthy Sweet Treats scrawled in cursive across it hanging on my wall. How many more days like this can I handle?

The answer is simple—none. I cannot continue like this. No customers means no money, and no money means that I can’t pay my rent or a single bill. If I don’t get some customers or orders soon, I’m going to have to go back to the grocery store bakery.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

But this bakery was supposed to be my big break. The way for me to make something out of myself. I’ve scrimped and saved since I was fifteen years old to do this. I hid every cent I ever made away from my family while I worked my ass off, too.

Finally, I’m doing it… except I’m epically failing at it , and all I want to do is cry—all the time.

I reach into the case and take out an organic chocolate cupcake that is filled with thick organic peanut buttercream, topped with grass-fed organic vanilla buttercream, drizzled with organic chocolate, and then has little crumbles of homemade dupe organic Butterfinger candy on top.

I think this could be my problem.

Everything in my shop is organic and grass-fed. It’s all gluten-free, with several vegan options daily. And everything I make is artificial dye–free, including sprinkles and decorations.

But I have a feeling that people are missing the fact that organic, gluten-free, vegan, and dye-free doesn’t mean taste-free, especially in my small town of Pineville in East Texas.

My cakes and treats are out-of-this-world flavor bombs of delicious sweetness, but nobody is giving them, or me, a chance. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I stare straight ahead at the front door at the passersby.

It’s Saturday, late afternoon. I’ve had no customers at all today, but yesterday, I had three. All of whom bought a single cookie. I think it was just to be nice because they clearly weren’t excited about anything after I told them all about my products.

I doubt they even ate them. They probably threw them in the trash can right outside the door. I couldn’t bear to watch them once they left my bakery, though, to find out.

Turning my back to the door, I start to clean up for the night. Another disappointing day all around, and then I’ll go home to my disappointing small apartment, living my disappointing life.

I’m twenty-three, single, failing, and just plain sad.

Letting out another sigh, I move through the bakery, a place where I’ve spent more hours than anywhere else day after day. This is more my home than my apartment, which is just a place where I sleep at night. But this, this is my life.

A single tear trickles down my cheek as the realization settles over me that I’ve epically failed.

How absolutely depressing.

No wonder I’m single. I wouldn’t want to be with me right now. I can’t blame any man for turning his nose up at me or not even glancing in my direction. Which they don’t. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date.

I’m pathetic in so many ways, and unless I change something, my circumstances will stay the same.

I walk toward the door, reach for the lock, and flip it into place, then tug on the small chain that turns off the cursive neon-pink Open sign. Giving downtown one last scan, I let out a sigh and begin to close the window shades.

I bought some of those inexpensive pull-down honeycomb shades. I love them, not just because they were cheap, but because they’re just cute. I love everything about my little bakery, and I feel like I’m going to shrivel up and feel sorry for myself if I have to close my doors permanently.

With yet another heavy sigh, I gather my things, finish locking everything down, and head home. I don’t even have a car. That’s how much of my money I’ve sunk into my bakery. Not that I could drive a car if I had one. I walk and take the bus, and thankfully, the little town I live in is safe enough for me to do that.

Hitching my purse over my shoulder, I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through social media as I walk home. I only live about a mile from the bakery, so I can make it home in about fifteen minutes or less.

When I’m walking, even though it is safe, I still stay alert by listening intently for anything that could startle me. It’s probably my childhood that makes me always stay on edge. There is a fountain in the middle of downtown that makes a calming bubbling sound, but beyond that, there is the buzzing noise of motorcycles somewhere in the distance.

I’ve never actually seen the motorcycle club that is on the outskirts of town only heard of them, and heard the rumors about them. Dark Horse MC. Those are the kind of men who my mom would probably love, but I stay away from anyone and everyone who would be considered sketchy or bad in any way.

I bite my bottom lip as I continue toward my apartment and think about those rumors, about those men, and wonder if they could be true. Them being bad guys I would believe, but the rest of the gossip?

I doubt it.

No group of men could be that badass or that scary. Maybe individually, but a whole group? How could that many bad guys live in our little small town? It seems impossible for that many to live in one place.

I think about things like this when I walk home, mainly because I can only scroll social media so much before I want to cry. Seeing everyone’s best moments when I know that I have none just makes me sadder.

Everyone I went to high school with is married, has a fabulous career, is traveling or has babies. Meanwhile, I am on the brink of losing everything I have ever dreamed of having.

So I choose to think about stupid things, like how many bad guys could possibly live in one town and wonder why I’ve never seen any of them out in the wild. Then again, I’m not really one who goes out in the wild.

Ever.

In fact, I am the exact opposite of wild in any way.

And I doubt those guys make it to Brookshire’s to buy flour and eggs.

My phone buzzes in my hand with a new text notification. Finding the message app, I frown at the name that’s texted me. I haven’t even read the message, yet I already want to throw my phone across the street.

It’s from my mother. I don’t talk to her often. She’ll text me here and there, but for the most part, she’s happy to pretend that I don’t exist unless it benefits her in some way. This message is different, though.

I stop in my tracks and my stomach flips.

MOM: I need to borrow some money.

Mom?

MOM: Money. I need some.

Why?

My phone rings, and I suck in a breath, holding it for a moment before I slide my thumb across the screen and lift it to my ear. I know she’s going to be shouting at me. I don’t really want to hear it, but if I don’t answer, she’ll keep calling.

“It doesn’t matter why. I’m your mother, and I need money,” she shouts into my ear.

Her defensive words and tone tell me all I need to know.

This is for one of two things—drugs or a man.

In reality, it’s probably both.

My mother has been on prescription pills for as long as I can remember. Doesn’t matter what kind, she will take anything she can get her hands on. As for men, she has a new one every other week, and he’s always the love of her life and broke.

Not that she isn’t broke herself, obviously, since she’s asking me for money.

“I don’t have any,” I reply.

“You’re a liar. You and your fancy little store. You’re telling me that you have no money?” Her voice comes out sharp, and if I were a little kid, I would probably be crying about now.

Also, I’m not sure what she knows about my store since she’s never been there. But my mother always seems to make me cry. I can’t stand it if I think that someone is mad at me. It gives me anxiety like crazy. Then, I overthink it all and bend over backward to make sure that person isn’t upset.

“My store is the reason I have no money. It’s retail, Mom. I have nothing. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to pay my rent this month.”

There is a moment of silence before she snorts. “You’re fucking worthless, Shawn.”

She ends the call, and I find myself standing at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my apartment, her words echoing inside of my head. You’re fucking worthless . And the kicker of it all is that she’s not wrong, and I hate not only her but myself for that.

KING

“How many kegs do we deliver tomorrow?” I ask.

The secretary, Gnaw, jerks his chin toward me, takes his phone out of his pocket, and glances down at the device before he clears his throat. He lifts his head, and his eyes find mine and his lips twitch into a smirk.

“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.