Stud Muffin: Donner Bakery Book #2

by Romance, Smartypants

  But something snapped today.

  Something has changed and it’s a little frightening to acknowledge the emotions boiling beneath my skin. I want to hit something or someone. I want to break things. I need some kind of outlet to release this pent-up anger and resentment roiling through my body.

  My eyes bore into the back of Asher’s head as we make our way out to the driveway, my daddy ushering me to the back of Sheriff James’s police cruiser. After securing me in the back, he slides into the front, while Sheriff James orders Asher and Mindy into the backup squad car that’s parked behind my truck.

  As we drive off, I turn back to look at the perfect yellow house with white shutters. All of my dreams were wrapped up in that picturesque setting. We were going to have babies and raise a family. And now, the only thing I know for sure is that somewhere—deep inside me—a dormant beast has been awakened.

  Chapter 1

  Tempest

  Three Months Later

  “Mama,” I grumble into the receiver of the phone, “Please talk Daddy into getting me out of here.”

  “Baby, I know this is hard. Believe me when I say that this is harder on him than it is on you, and don’t even get me started on what I’m going through,” she replies with a deep sigh into her end of the phone.

  I can picture her sitting in Daddy’s chair, since he’s here at the police station with me. I’m sure she has her housecoat on and she’s probably watching her stories, which she taped earlier today because it’s Tuesday and she volunteers at the Community Center on Tuesdays. And when I say “taped”, I literally mean “taped”. She and Daddy probably own the only working VHS machine in Green Valley, Tennessee. They’ve yet to catch up with the times and invest in a damned DVD player and don’t even get me started on the DVR Debacle of 2015. I’ve tried and tried to talk them into it, but I always get the same response—the response they give to any modern technology—they’re not letting the FBI into their home.

  Yeah, that’s what I’m working with.

  According to them, anything made in the last twenty years is bugged, wired, or tracked.

  I still suffer from second-hand embarrassment that they believe in all that Area 51 bullshit. Big Brother. Shark Spies. Fake Moon Landing. You name it, they subscribe. My mama keeps tin foil wrapped around the end of their television antenna for better reception and to block satellite spies from coming into their living room.

  “Mama,” I plead once more, trying my damndest to work up some legitimate tears, but I’m sad to say, I’m all cried out.

  “You’ve made your bed, Sweetie. Now you’re just gonna have to lie in it.” Mama’s voice takes on the no-nonsense tone she uses when dealing with me or my daddy, especially when we’re not living up to Shauna Cassidy’s standards. My mama is an ideal southern women—prim, proper, big hair, close to God.

  “Mama?” I ask, hoping she’s still there, but then there’s an audible click as the line goes dead and I feel defeated. She was my one phone call. I can’t believe they really only give you one phone call.

  “Did she hang up on you?” My daddy’s expression is serious, but I also see a small twitch under his thick mustache as I hand the phone back to him through the bars. I feel like he’s getting a kick out of seeing me in this situation, knowing I’ve already used my get-out-of-jail-free card one too many times. As he sighs and stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, the term tough love swirls through the air. It’s unspoken, but it’s there. My chest feels tight as my dad’s head bows and he tucks his chin to his chest, scratching the back of his head with a deep sigh.

  Disappointment.

  My father, who’s always been proud of me, is disappointed.

  Until a few months ago, I was an upstanding member of society. I recycled, voted, and braked for dogs, cats, and squirrels. I went to church on Sundays. My husband was my high school sweetheart. We had a life cut from the pages of Southern Style magazine—a yellow house with white shutters and a fence to match.

  Now, here I am, sitting in jail. Again. The only thing keeping me company on this side is a flimsy mattress and an even flimsier blanket folded neatly at the end.

  “Can I get you something to eat? Maybe a glass of water?” Sheriff James asks, walking over from a desk in the corner of the room. I know he’s only being nice to me because I’m Butch Cassidy’s daughter.

  And before you get to thinking I’m famous, let me stop right there. We’re not the Cassidy’s—Hollywood actors or legendary outlaws. And no, I am not the Sundance Kid.

  The next person who calls me that might get shanked, especially with my recent track record.

  But my daddy is the bail bondsman, so he and the sheriff are buddies. Sheriff James books ’em. My daddy bonds ‘em. They play for the same team.

  “No, thank you,” I huff, with as much menace as I can muster.

  “Tempest, now you know that this is—” my daddy starts.

  “Hurting you more than it’s hurting me?” I interrupt. “Yeah, I already know.”

  And I call bullshit.

  Funny thing is that most of my anger is not directed at the man walking out of the jail at this moment, leaving me behind, it’s directed at Asher.

  He brought all of this on himself.

  I was a perfectly calm individual until I walked into my bedroom and found him and Mindy snuggled up in my thousand count sheets. My bed. My sheets. My husband.

  Not that I even want him now. I don’t.

  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  But I also didn’t want him to have that damn truck.

  “I don’t really see what the big deal is, anyway,” I mutter to myself and the three concrete walls. “I mean, who says it’s a sin to drive a truck into a pond?” I pause for my own contemplation as I begin to pace the short length of the bars. “The last I heard, this was still a free country. Seems to me that I should be able to park a vehicle wherever I see fit.”

  One, two, three, four.

  Pivot.

  One, two, three—

  “You know, I’ve always thought Mr. Miller’s pond was a nice place for a swim,” a familiar voice says from behind me, halting my pacing and self-reflection. Glancing up, I see my cousin Cole standing a few feet away, hand on his holster as he gives me his signature smile, dimples on full display. How any criminals ever take him serious is beyond me.

  Fighting back a smile, I turn to face him. I should’ve known he’d be on duty tonight, or if he wasn’t, once he heard my name on the police scanner he’d be here. “I don’t need your smart mouth tonight, Cole Cassidy. I’ve gotten enough of a lecture from my daddy, who, by the way, left me to rot in this damned jail cell.”

  “Aww, now. It’s not that bad. Sheriff James just had the beds upgraded last month and I can have Anna bring an extra piece of meatloaf when she drops by later to bring me supper.”

  Spinning on my heel, I grip the bars and stare him down. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare tell her I’m in here,” I warn. That would be even worse than my daddy leaving me here or my mama calling her prayer chain.

  Cole shows a sign of zipping his lips and tossing an imaginary key over his shoulder. “Your secret's safe with me.” Walking over to the desk, he perches on the edge, crossing his big arms across his chest.

  “How long are you holding me here for, anyway?”

  Giving me a small smile, he shakes his head and glances over his shoulder before turning back to answer. “As long as no charges are pressed, you should be free to go in the morning.”

  Letting out a deep, resigned sigh, I walk over to the cot and plop down.

  “So, you really drove that truck right off into Mr. Miller’s pond?”

  I take a second to make myself as comfortable as possible, seeing as though I’m going to be here for the night. Kicking my shoes off, I place them neatly on the floor and then lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, drove it right past the dock and straight into the pond.”

  “Holy shit,�
�� Cole replies with a chuckle. “I always knew you were a little crazy. It was just hidden down under all your cardigans and china patterns.”

  “Shut up,” I tell him with a laugh. “I’m not crazy. Just pissed the hell off.”

  “So, what made you want to do that?” Cole asks and I sit up to look at him.

  “Is this Cole the deputy asking or Cole my cousin?”

  “Always Cole, your cousin.”

  “Asher called me today and said since the truck was in his name, he was gonna sell it. At first, I told him fine and that he could come and get it, because I don’t want anything of his anyway. The divorce will be final in another few weeks and I’m ready to be done with it, you know? But then, after I hung up the phone, I really started thinking about, thinking back on when we bought the truck and how happy I was… how happy he was. He wanted me to have something nice to drive. We were happy…” I drift off, unable to finish for a second as my memories bring up fresh emotions. It’s not Asher I’m sad about; it’s the possibilities… my future. “I just couldn’t let him take one more thing from me.”

  We both sit in silence for a few minutes until Cole’s walkie talkie starts rattling off some mumbo jumbo I don’t understand. I hear him shift and then clear his throat. “I’ve always got your back. You know that, right?”

  I offer a small, sad smile to the ceiling. “Thanks, Cole.”

  “But no more truck swimming,” he says, tapping the wall on his way out.

  It’s strange to think that I, Tempest Cassidy, am in jail.

  I’m not your typical criminal. I didn’t drop out of school. Actually, not only am I a high school graduate, I also graduated from college… with a degree in culinary arts… that I use.

  Which brings me to my other contradictory quality: I’m a hard-working, contributing citizen of society. I take my job very seriously. I’m passionate about muffins, well, baking in general, but since I got hired on at the Donner Bakery and put in charge of the muffin making, I’ve owned it … taken it to a new level … revolutionized muffin making and given them flair.

  If Jenn is the Banana Cake Queen, I am the Duchess of Muffins.

  Which, by the way, I’m glad it’s Saturday night and I don’t have to work tomorrow. I’d hate to have to call into work ... from jail.

  However, this isn’t my first episode, as my mama likes to call them. I wish they really were episodes, because then, maybe I could figure out a way to stop them … cancel their subscription.

  I don’t want to be a person with a rap sheet. Orange is not a good color on me. Driving that truck into Mr. Miller’s pond was definitely not my finest moment. Believe me, I know the law, but when my soon-to-be ex-husband is in the picture, all my rationality flies out the window.

  It usually goes something like this:

  I’m minding my own business, trying to live my life.

  He shows up out of nowhere, his presence alone reminding me of everything I had and have lost. I get pissed off… sometimes just because he’s doing something as simple as breathing.

  My vision gets hazy.

  My body tingles with untapped aggression.

  Then, the crazy sets in and there isn’t a lick of reason to be found.

  From that point on, I have somewhat of an out-of-body experience and I just do whatever feels right in the moment—whatever will ease the pain or let me vent my anger—and hope to hell I don’t get caught.

  Chapter 2

  Cage

  As the car I’m riding in passes a sign that reads “Green Valley—population 12,539”, I sit up in my seat a little straighter, focusing on the scenery. But there’s not really much to look at besides trees and hills and the occasional car, until we come across an old farmhouse and a wrecker’s flashing lights gets my attention.

  Craning my neck as we drive past, I notice it’s pulling a truck from a pond.

  Smirking to myself, I shake my head. There’s bound to be a story there. But what do I know about small towns? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ve lived in Dallas my whole life, so this, along with everything else that’s transpired in the last couple months, is a serious change of pace.

  “Hey, thanks man,” I tell the guy I paid to give me a ride from the bus station, tapping the side of his car once I have my two duffle bags unloaded from the backseat. I could’ve flown into Nashville and rented a car, but the less-traveled path seemed to suit me better right now. Besides, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here and I didn’t want the hassle of returning a rental car.

  A few months ago, I felt like I was in the prime of my life—finally fighting on the professional circuit. Everyone always tells you it won’t last forever. My mom has always been on my case about the future and making plans for the next phase of my life, but I’ve always felt like I’ll either die young or fight until I’m ninety. I’ve never seen an in between for me. There’s never been a second love or a Plan B. It’s always been fighting or nothing.

  A career-ending injury was definitely not on my radar.

  I eat well, train well, take every precaution to keep myself in top shape. Physically, I’m in the best shape of my life, but my right shoulder no longer allows me to have full-range of motion. I can’t complete an uppercut without excruciating pain radiating through my arm and up my neck, which leaves me vulnerable in the ring.

  Cage Erickson is synonymous with champion.

  I’ve only lost a handful of fights in my life and most of those came during my amateur years. And no, I don’t normally refer to myself in the third person, but I’ve made my name my brand and I refuse to let that be tarnished. With forty-nine wins under my belt, seven draws, and five losses, I was on my way to a title and a lucrative career as a UFC fighter.

  I can still remember feeling the tear, something foreign, a pain I wasn’t used to, but I kept fighting. I won the round and eventually the bout. Initially, I thought the injury wasn’t so bad. Maybe a few weeks in PT and I’d be good as new, until the doc sent me for an MRI and showed me the extent of the damage.

  Less than a day later, I was in surgery, having my shoulder cut open.

  Ruptured right subscapularis and bicep tendon tear.

  I spent six weeks in a sling and another six weeks doing physical therapy. And another six weeks going fucking stir crazy. Without an outlet for all my pent-up energy, I feel like breaking walls and smashing windows. The slightest thing sets me off these days.

  Which is what brings me to the quaint town of Green Valley, Tennessee.

  As the dust from the gravel parking lot whips up with a gust of wind, I feel like I’m in one of those apocalyptic movies. Except for the blinking sign on the building in front of me and the few cars parked in the lot, this place feels like a ghost town compared to the big city life I’m used to.

  “Cage Erickson.” A familiar voice brings my attention to a side door and Hank is standing there with a smirk on his face. “I wasn’t sure if you were gonna take me up on the offer.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure myself …” I tell him, walking toward where he’s standing, kicking up a little more dust as I go. A few hours back up the road, I was still deciding on whether or not I’d get here just to turn right back around and head back home, or if I’d actually stay. But something about the green trees and mountains and fresh air makes my mind up for me. “But a few miles back up the road, I decided it sounded like a good idea.”

  His smile widens as he lets out a laugh. “Well then. Welcome to Green Valley.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him, giving the building another once over. “So, this is your club?”

  Hank sighs, stepping out of the doorway to peer up at the building. “Yeah, she’s a beaut, huh?”

  Chuckling, I nod my head and toss one of my duffles over my good shoulder. “Not too shabby,” I agree, walking toward him. “How about a tour? And where can I find some food in this town? I’m starving.”

  When Hank slaps my shoulder, I wince.

  “Sorry, man.” He grimaces, giving
me a hard look. “About everything, really.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “You’re a hell of a fighter, best I’ve seen.”

  “Was,” I correct.

  “Are,” he insists. “Which is why I hired you to be my bouncer. I need someone around here to keep everyone in line. My girls are too pretty to be harassed.”

  As we walk into the building, he escorts me down a dimly-lit hallway and into the open expanse of the club. Surprisingly, it’s well-lit and well-furnished. I’m assuming it’s dark in here during the evening hours, but with the house lights up, everything is exposed, including a scantily dressed waitress walking our way.

  “Hi, Hank,” she drawls in a sweet southern accent. “Who’s your friend?”

  The blonde winks in my direction as she pushes her boobs together to bring them to my attention, which isn’t really necessary. They’re big. And her top is tiny. Along with the equally tiny shorts, she’s giving Hooters’ girls a run for their money.

  “Cage Erickson,” I tell her, dropping my bags and offering her a handshake. If we’re going to be co-workers, we might as well get off on the right foot.

  “Cage is our new bouncer,” Hank informs her. “He’s gonna help me get this place in order.”

  She raises her eyebrows and places her dainty hand in mine. “Sarah,” she says with a seductive smile. “Nice muscles.”

  “Thanks,” I deadpan.

  She’s pretty enough, but I’m not interested. I’m here to do a job and I’m not looking to get involved. One-night stands have been my style the last few years, but that never goes over well in a place of employment. It’s been a while since I’ve worked a day job, but the rules never change.