Bad Boy (Blue Collar Bachelors Book 3) Page 3

  “Would you stop that?” I hiss after she stretches the man’s change across the counter to him and he marches out the door.

  She blinks innocently at me. “Sorry, Boss. I just love that song. My dad used to play it all the time when I was little. Nostalgia, y’know?” A smile pulls her mouth so wide that the little, silver hoop in her bottom lip threatens to pop out.

  “You need to stop flirting with the customers,” I chide. “It’s completely unprofessional.”

  She rakes her long, tattooed fingers through her blonde ponytail and props one hip against the counter. “You’re right.” She gives me a placating tap on the shoulder. “I won’t flirt with the customers anymore but—” she lifts her pointer finger toward the ceiling in a show of objection. ”—I call dibs on the moody barber next door. The man looks like he’s a beast in bed.”

  Reese laughs as she pops out of the kitchen with cakes to refill the display. “Sorry girl. I’m pretty sure that the moody barber has the hots for Vivian. You should have seen the way he looked at her yesterday when we ran into him in the parking lot. It was hot enough to melt an ice cream sandwich in the dead of an Alaskan winter.”

  How poetic.

  Sadie lifts both eyebrows and then smirks. “He wants to bite that cupcake, huh?” She makes a crude snapping motion with her teeth.

  My sister grins over her shoulder as she arranges the treats in the glass case. “He definitely wants to bite that cupcake.” She flashes Sadie a wink.

  The cashier wiggles her shoulders. “And he wants to lick the frosting, too.”

  “Personally, I think she should let him.” Reese throws back her head and laughs gleefully. “The man is devilishly hot.”

  Surprise, surprise—Sadie agrees. “Tell me about it. His ass in those leather pants is the eighth deadly sin.”

  I’m becoming increasingly annoyed. "I don't care how handsome that smug face is. I just want to punch it.” I ball up my skinny fists and slam them into the counter. Ouch! He probably wouldn’t even flinch if I punched him. With all those taut muscles and those scarred knuckles, he looks like he’s been in a few scraps in his lifetime. And he has a short temper. There’s this look in his eye that says he’s always one misstep away from a fight.

  "Are you sure you don't like him?” my sister asks. “'Cause you really let him get under your skin."

  Sadie’s eyes dart away as she mumbles. “And you could definitely use a man like him under your skirt.” Reese tries to give her a stern look but eventually the two of them dissolve into giggles.

  I glare at them. “Remember what we talked about, Sadie? That little thing called professionalism?” She doesn’t care. She’s grinning like a mad woman. I turn my wrath on my sister. “And Reese, would you stop enabling her?”

  My sister watches me with dancing eyes. “But seriously, you like him. No?”

  A framed photo of a bushel of apples jumps off the vibrating wall and by some miracle, it doesn’t shatter into a million pieces when it hits the counter. Neither Reese nor Sadie even blink as they wait for my reaction. Are we seriously having this conversation?

  I scoff as I pick up the picture frame and rise onto my toes trying to hook it back on the wall. "Of course I don’t like him. He's a dreadful, grotty, infuriating person. He has absolutely no manners, he never closes the dumpster out back…And he’s not all that cute." Very satisfied with my rebuttal, I nod my head and smile to myself as I take a few steps back to inspect the photo. Good one, Viv.

  But when I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, the girls don’t look impressed at all. In fact, they both look sort of tense. “Uh, maybe you should stop saying those things…” Reese suggests in a low, panicky voice.

  Sadie agrees with overenthusiastic awkwardness. “Yeah, stop saying those things. Stop saying all things.” I roll my eyes. Whose side are they on anyway? I’m not the bad guy here.

  The stupid picture frame is crooked. I reach up again to adjust it. “Is this an alternate universe? Somewhere where I get persecuted for having standards? Where I get vilified for not being desperate to get roughed up in bed by a mean, rude, inked-up thug? I mean, imagine what it would be like to have sex with a brute like Clinton Alvarez.” My volume increases as I become more and more riled up. “I’m sure he doesn’t know how to touch a woman in a way that makes her feel cared for and appreciated, like a lady.” I walk backwards until I bump into the cash register, my eyes still assessing the frame that’s still lopsided on the wall. “Sex with him would probably be all pressed up against a wall, ripping each other’s clothes off and clawing at each other’s flesh…Sorry but, that’s not my style.”

  Even as I say the words, I feel heat coursing up my neck at the thought. I’m sort of breathless. Inwardly, I scold myself. What the hell is wrong with me, getting all hot and bothered over that ill-mannered brute?

  “Uh, Viv…” Reese’s eyes are extra wide now.

  Sadie tips her head suggestively, wearing a horrified look on her face. “Please stop talking. Please.”

  Uh-oh…

  I spin around slowly, cringing from my hair follicles all the way down to my toenails as my eyes connect with Clinton’s stormy brown irises. My mouth opens and closes, flapping wordlessly.

  I instantly have a toothache. Several toothaches, actually.

  “Welcome to the Broken Cupcake.” Sadie nudges me out of the way and I stumble away from the cash.

  My gaze meets Reese’s at the other end of the counter. Her expression is horrified and apologetic. Sorry, she mouths across the distance. I swear I want to kill her right now.

  I simmer in a pot of mortification while Sadie takes Clinton’s order—an extra-large dark roast, black and unsweetened. When I glance back at him, he’s looking at me. His gaze is intense, only deepening my guilt and embarrassment. I want to hide in the cupboard under the espresso machine for all of eternity.

  Like a good employee, Sadie tries to upsell the customer. “Would you like to try one of our decadent cupcakes?” she asks. “Our special this week is strawberry-lemon. I’d be glad to give you a sample.”

  “No thanks.” His bitter glare is still on me as he speaks. I feel the vibration of his raspy voice deep in my belly.

  “How about our selection of organic teas?” Sadie is suddenly a staunch and committed participant of the workforce, delivering recommendations with competent professionalism. “We have Heavenly Hibiscus, made from a blend of black currents, elderberries and hibiscus, of course. Steeped to perfection in hot filtered water for exactly seven minutes."

  He tears his eyes away from me and tilts his head to the side, throwing her an irritated glare. "Just the coffee."

  She smiles and scuttles away like a little mouse, grabbing a takeout cup as she goes. So hot, she mouths to me as she moves toward the coffee maker.

  While Sadie is pouring the coffee, a thunderous base kicks up next-door as the song changes and the photo frames on the wall jump particularly hard. Clinton’s eyes narrow as he observes it.

  Good. Maybe he’ll turn down the damn music when he gets back to his shop.

  When my now-devoted employee hands him the drink, he pays and thanks her, then tosses the change into the tip jar. He moves toward the door but his eyes find mine one last time, branding my skin with his venom and animosity.

  Sadie’s voice rings out sweetly as he grabs the door handle. “Have a great day. And be sure to come back for your free coffee refill.”

  When he steps out of the building, I finally take a breath.

  “Uh, Sadie, we don’t give free refills anymore,” my sister informs her.

  The cashier huffs. “Well, since Viv just gave the hot, cranky barber a verbal beat-down, I’m afraid that we do.”

  My cheeks are still blazing and my heart is beating recklessly fast. “Thanks for having my back, by the way,” I shoot at my sister.

  She hitches a brow and folds her arms over her chest. “I tried to give you a heads up but you were so busy flapping away at the mouth th
at you didn’t notice.”

  “Grrr....” My chest rumbles with frustration. She’s right. I have no one to blame for my messy bout of verbal diarrhea but myself. I said some mean things. And he heard every word of it. My mother would be so ashamed of me. She raised me right. She taught me that bad-talking other people is in poor taste. She also taught me that when you make a mistake, you own up to it and you make things right. I bite down on my bottom lip and cringe. “Maybe I should go apologize.”

  Reese nods forcefully. “You should. We have to cross the guy in the alley almost every day. It’s the neighborly thing to do…Plus, he’s a teeny bit scary.”

  “Exactly,” Sadie adds.

  I pull in a deep breath. I have to take the moral high ground in this silly rivalry that’s developing between Clinton and me. It’s the right thing to do. Yes, I’ll have to swallow my pride, but I’m not above that. I’m a mature adult with a solid character. Saying sorry is a simple extension of goodwill. I can do this I can do this.

  With a decided nod, I untie my apron and hang it on the hook in the hallway. “Okay. I’m gonna go apologize.” I blot my cheeks with a napkin and smooth down my hair with my fingers before straightening the hem of my vintage cap-sleeved dress and checking my reflection in the display case.

  Sadie tsks. “Dude, you’re not going to audition for America’s Next Top Model. Just hop on over next door and get it over with.”

  I roll my eyes and make a mental note to research whether “pisses me off” is sufficient legal grounds for dismissing an employee under Illinois law. I take nervous steps toward the exit. My pulse is racing. My fingers shake ever-so-slightly. I can do this I can do this I can do. I repeat the mantra to myself as the image of Clinton’s loathing expression flashes in my mind.

  As I set my hand on the door handle, I jolt. The whole room shakes as the chorus of AC/DC’s Shook Me All Night Long vibrates the walls. The music is louder than before. Louder than ever. One of the pictures pops off the wall and swipes two other frames on the way down. Sadie and Reese shriek as glass rains like confetti from behind the counter. Startled, I clutch my hand over my chest.

  My head snaps in the direction of the window and I see Clinton swaggering out of the barbershop. His movements halt on the pavement. He brings the coffee cup to his lips and takes a long swallow. I watch the motion of his bobbing Adam’s apple. When he lowers the cup, his eyes are focused on the window of the bakery. I swear he’s looking right at me.

  My eyes travel back to the vibrating wall. He did it deliberately!

  He tosses the coffee cup into a nearby trashcan and right before he pulls his helmet onto his skull, he flashes the most self-satisfied smirk. Then he hops onto his bike and cranks it before gunning out of the parking lot.

  I’m seething. That jerk!

  Historians, take note. This is how the Great Civil War of the Copper Heights Strip Mall began.

  Chapter 4

  Clinton

  I slam down the empty bottle on the sticky laminate in front of me. The mass of sweaty bodies seems to undulate all around in time with the old school rock music coming from the jukebox. The big-chested red-head behind the bar gives me a cheeky grin as she slides another beer across the counter.

  I don't grin back.

  Still in a crap mood. Ever since I heard that damn woman talking shit about me at the cupcake shop. Stuff like that usually just rolls right off my back. I don't let it get under my skin. But everything about her gets under my skin. Her prissy demeanor, her wholesome outfits, her snooty attitude. She thinks she's better than me. And maybe the reason that bothers me so much is because I know she’s right…

  I watch her every day. The way she works alongside her sister. The way she laughs with her customers. The way she carries herself in general. I can tell she comes from a good family…I never had one of those.

  I have a mother, a younger brother. The man who contributed to my genetics is running around out there, too. But I never had a family.

  And I didn't grow up in a home. A motorcycle gang's compound doesn't count. With its concrete walls, steel gates, barbed wire fences and armed guards. The one thing that lifestyle engrained in me was a sense of loyalty, a duty to family. Except that the King Vultures never treated me as one of their own. They weren't my family. So I took everything I learned from them and set out on a mission to find those who were.

  I've finally claimed my freedom. But every time Vivian looks at me with her narrowed eyes and her upturned nose, it reminds me that I'll never really shake myself free of the chains and the shame of my origins.

  With the cold bottle at my lips, I suck down another icy mouthful of beer. I wish I could just push her out of my mind. Ignore her. But instead, I find myself pulling out my phone. Pulling up my web browser. My thumbs move across the screen.

  broken cupcake vivian copper heights. Enter.

  An article from the local newspaper is the first result. I skim it as I suck down my beer. Her last name is Hartley. Vivian Hartley…Vivian Hartley…I let it roll around in my mind as I stare at the wide, proud smile in the picture. Her dad's a state senator. She owns the bakery with her sister. I was right about her coming from a good family. Just looking at her, I could tell. Anyway, the original location of the cupcake shop burned down a few months ago due to an electrical malfunction.

  "Y'know, if you keep pouting over there by yourself, you’re gonna end up going home alone tonight." I look up and find the bartender leaning over the counter, her cleavage straining against the laces of her leather corset. She runs a dirty fingernail around the base of my beer bottle.

  Before I came here to this town, she's exactly the type of woman I'd spend the night with and not even give it a second thought. The heavy eye makeup, the tongue piercing, the faded slices on the insides of her wrists…But things are different now. I'm here for a fresh start. I may not live up to the standards of Vivian Hartley but I've got standards of my own.

  The barmaid is waiting, ogling me with a suggestive smile. I cut my eyes back to the screen of the phone. "That's the idea." The roaring music swallows up my grumble.

  A text message pops up on my phone.

  Lisa: Are u coming home soon? Can't get Sonny to sleep.

  I scrub my hand down my face. But I quickly push my frustration away and remind myself that I wanted this. I came here for this. Lisa’s dysfunctional offering is as close as I’ll probably ever get to ‘family’.

  Pulling two twenties out of my wallet and slam them down on the counter. The bartender looks at me with disappointment shadowing her light blue eyes. "Have yourself a good night."

  I text Lisa back as I'm strolling across the parking lot to my bike.

  Clinton: on my way

  Lisa: Pick up a bucket of fried chicken

  Lisa: If you don’t mind

  I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a frustrated breath. Lisa is sort of a hot mess and she's got a long way to go in terms of getting her shit together, but she needs me.

  And after the things Vivian Hartley said about me earlier, I need to feel needed tonight.

  Chapter 5

  Vivian

  I jot down quick notes on my inventory sheet as I go around opening and closing the cupboards.

  We’re gonna need to order medium coffee cups and wooden stir sticks...

  The iced espressos aren’t selling at all so we might as well discontinue that order…

  We need some more cupcake wrappers…

  The clock on the wall tells me that it’s only 11:07. This day has been dragging on. A lethargic older couple sits by the front window enjoying their vanilla cupcakes. A young mother is in the corner struggling to keep her active toddler entertained while she breastfeeds her newborn. At the back, there’s a bunch of giggly teens who are obviously skipping school to hang out here. Nothing out of the ordinary. Aside from the loud, thumping music next door, it’s been a pretty uneventful morning…

  Until Ernie has the nerve to come strolling through the front d
oor. His Barbie doll of a wife clings to his arm like Saran wrap and I'm pretty sure that their trio of handsome, well-adjusted, private-school-uniform-wearing sons are battery-operated. It’s physiologically impossible for three-year-old boys to naturally be that put-together and well-behaved.

  Mandy pauses and looks around the bakery with judgemental eyes before approaching the counter with a phony smile. She is—as always—the epitome of the upper middle class suburban housewife/stay-at-home mom, looking effortlessly posh and well-rested like she just got back from a spa getaway with her girlfriends. “Good morning, Vivian. Congrats on your reopening. I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s a bit garage sale chic for my taste but it’s obvious that your budget was tight and you made the most of what you had.” She gives an elegant, sedate fist pump. “Go, you!”