Welcome to
Sugartown
By
Carmen Jenner
Welcome To Sugartown
Carmen Jenner
Copyright © 2013 Carmen Jenner
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the author’s work and not making me set various motorcycle gangs on you.
Published: Carmen Jenner November 3rd 2013
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Editing: Lauren K McKellar
http://laurenkmckellar.com/hire-an-editor/
Cover Design: Frankie Rose
http://frankierosewrites.com/
Formatting: Frankie Rose
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What The Critics Are Saying
“Very dramatic, very heart wrenching, very sexy, very intense, very violent, very scary at times. Very enjoyable!”
— Ali @ Ginger-Read Reviews
"5 Magnificent Stars! In this heart-pounding and addictive love story, Carmen Jenner will have you laughing, crying, and become so spellbound with these small town characters that you'll never want to leave. Who ever said small town living was boring has obviously never been to Sugartown."
— Debbie @ Keep Calm & Read Romance
“Well, spank my ass, that was flipping awesome! My world has been rocked by Carmen Jenner's debut book, WELCOME TO SUGARTOWN.”
— Paula @ Romantic Book Affairs
“Welcome to Sugartown will tear you to pieces but put you back together again with its humour and host of unforgettable characters.”
— Jo-Anne @ Worlds of Wonderment
“I don't think I'll ever see insignificant little towns in the same light again … danger, humour, tats, bikers, loads of pie eating (snigger), and enough chemistry to blow the roof off a science lab!”
—Leanne Pearson, Author
For Ari and Ava
May you find a love of your own as big as this someday.
For Book Bloggers Everywhere
Thank you!
Chapter One
Ana
There’s a mind-numbing restlessness that comes with living in small towns. The gossip, the people, and the unending monotony that makes you want to poke your eyes out with a fork. I’ve lived my whole life in Sugartown, so I should probably expect nothing to ever change, and each new day to be just as dull as the last. And yet, every day I wish for the unexpected. I wish for big cities, for open-mindedness, for the ability to jump on my bike and ride the hell out of town and never look back.
Every day I dream of leaving Sugartown. And every day I open this crummy pie shop, I make pies and serve customers, and stay several hours after closing to make pies for the following day. I’m nineteen. The world should be full of endless possibilities, right? Wrong. Oh, so very wrong because I’ve just finished high school and my family happen to own this joint. So instead of making the world my oyster and all that, I’m stuck wearing this retro waitress uniform for the rest of my days—my mum and dad had some kind of rockabilly diner fetish, it’s sad really, don’t ask.
Sugartown sits smack bang on the highway in the middle of nowhere. It’s a quaint little town and a pleasant enough place to stop on your journey from there to anywhere but here, but no one ever stays. And why would they? It’s surrounded on both sides by nothing but cane fields and the ancient sugar mill, that spreads its sweet acrid stench in a smoggy cloud over the whole town, making everything smell like burnt toffee. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, and the nearest town is 25 kilometres away.
I sigh and lean over the counter, staring out the window. Across the road, my dad has shut the doors to his other business, a garage specialising in custom Harley-Davidson fittings: Big Bob’s Bikes and Auto. He leans against his bike and smokes a cigarette as he waits.
My mum’s dream was to open a diner and make pies all day. My dad’s? To run a garage and customise Harleys. That way he could combine his early midlife crisis with his love of mechanics. They were both lucky enough to have had their dreams realized, and both unlucky enough to have them shattered when she found out she had cancer. Amid the chemo and the hospital visits, mum taught me how to make the pies from her recipes. Now I bake pies in the kitchen she taught me how to bake in, dad runs his garage across the street and in a way it’s like my mum’s dream is still alive and kicking. Though I doubt she expected the dragon stepmother to be a part of that dream.
“Ana, are you even listening to me?” My friend and long-term tormentor Holly screeches in my ear. Holly works every shift with me. She’s all kinds of crazy gorgeous with wild red curls, green eyes and more ‘personality’ than a whole ward of mental patients.
“It’s kinda hard not to listen to you, Hols.” I say, and then laugh as I add, “On account of you never shutting the fuck up.”
“Shut up, biatch, I know you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. Lucky for you, I’ve got no problems repeating myself.”
“Yippee.” I deadpan.
She waves that away like I’m the one with all the crazy and begins wiping down the counter with a dirty rag, smearing grease all over the Formica. I love her, but I think Holly may have been dropped on her head when she was a baby. “Anyway, as I was saying, are you going to Nicole’s party next week?”
A scruffy looking kid with strawberry blonde curls and bright blue eyes comes strutting through the shop, saving me from a tiresome conversation in which I continue to argue all the reasons why going to that party would be disastrous for someone like me and where Holly manages to twist the entire conversation back around to the fact that not going would be social suicide. The little brat acts like he owns the place, pokes his tongue out at me and jumps up on the counter that Holly just finished wiping down.
I ruffle his hair and he smiles up at me. “What’s up, Sammy?”
“Nothing. Whereth mum?”
“The dragon’s out the back, primping her dragon lady curls for my dad.”
I was an only child, until I wasn’t any more. Until former Belle’s Pies employee Kerry sunk her talons into my dad after Mum died. Eventually they got married and she fell pregnant. Kerry sat around on her big-fat-pregnant bum while I worked double shifts on the weekends in the shop.
I was thirteen.
I can’t fathom what Dad sees in her. It must be the sex, because I can’t find a single redeeming quality. The only good thing to come out of that woman was Sammy. He’s six now, every second word comes out with a lisp and, despite his unfortunate parentage, he just may be my favourite person in the entire world. It appears I’m his favourite, too, a fact that irritates the dragon beyond belief, that I may or may not play in my favour just to piss her off.
“But thee thaid thee was going to take me for ice cream tith afternoon.”
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“It’s Friday night. Sorry, kiddo, but you’re stuck with me.”
“Ith OK. I liketh being thuck wif you, Ana Cabana.” He beams, and it’s so hard not to pick him up and squeeze him until his adorable little guts squish out.
“Aw, thanks, brat. I liketh being thuck wif you, too.” I mock and ruffle his hair once more for good measure. “Now, go do your homework and I’ll bring you a milkshake once the dragon lady is gone.”
“Thweet.” He jumps off the counter, poking his tongue out at Holly who pokes out her own in return and then proceeds to make monkey faces at him. I swear, sometimes it’s like Holly and Sam are the same age. She makes out like she can’t stand him when the opposite is true—she adores him just as much as I do.
Sammy bounds over to a booth in the back, pulls out his supplies and gets to work, his tongue poking out in concentration.
A few minutes later the dragon stalks through the back door and into the kitchen, huffing when she sees Sammy through the giant serving window. She struts over to him, leaving a cloud of cheap perfume in her wake.
“Sammy baby, you didn’t come and say hi to mummy.” Dragon ruffles his hair the way I do, but he pulls away when she touches him and glares at her.
“My nameth noth Thammy, ith’s Tham. And I’m not a baby.” He says indignantly and goes back to his studies.
Dragon shoots me a look. “Daddy and I have a party to go to tonight, so don’t wait up.”
God, it’s so gross when she calls him Daddy. The mental images those words conjure when they come from her mouth are enough to make me vomit for days on end. The sad thing is he’s almost old enough to be her dad. And now for the second time in as many minutes I’m thinking of my dad having sex, which is wrong on so many, many levels.
Without even a kiss goodbye for Sammy, Dragon sashays through the shop in her short skirt and too-tight singlet top with the cut outs and her high heeled boots.
“Do you ever want to crash one of their parties?” Holly pipes up, as we watch Kerry cross the street. She kisses my dad full on the lips and then straddles the seat behind him. He revs the throttle and they ride away into the sunset.
“And watch a bunch of drunk, greying old bikers boast about how big their engines are while their trampy women drape themselves across their laps? Not my idea of fun, Holly.”
“Yeah, bunch of hussies. Though I wouldn’t mind draping myself across Red Hot Rob’s lap again.”
“Whath a huthy?” Sam’s little lisp pipes up from beside me.
“Yo’ momma.” Holly shoots back with a cheeky grin.
“Seriously Holly? You don’t think he’s going to repeat that?”
She shrugs. “It’s true.”
“Hussy is a bad word,” I tell him sternly, giving Holly a pointed look. “If I ever catch you saying it there’ll be no more Banana Chocolate Cream Ana Cabana Surprise Pies, okay?”
They’re Sam’s favourite. It’s a concoction I made up one night when Dad and the dragon were at one of their booze fests, and Holly and I had raided their stash. Sam had been sound asleep, until we began marauding the kitchen with a serious case of the munchies. I’d pulled it together enough to bake a pie with the only edible things left in the house: chocolate, bananas, beer and mini-marshmallows. The beer was downed before it had a chance to meet chocolate and banana—probably for the best—and after passing out before we had a chance to taste the creation, we woke to Sam covered head to toe in chocolate. He’d devoured the whole thing. The name stuck, and oddly so did the recipe—minus the beer, of course—and now it’s one of our best sellers.
Sammy’s eyes go wide as saucers and he vigorously nods his head. “Okay.”
“And I thought I asked you to do your homework?”
“You thaid you wath gonna get me a milkthake when the dragon left, and the dragonth been gone for a hundred yearth, already.”
“If I get you a milkshake will you please go and do some schoolwork?” He nods enthusiastically and scurries back to his booth.
The sound of a bike tearing up the street draws the attention of all three of us. Growing up around a motorbike enthusiast I’ve come to learn the sounds that the engines make. Dirt bikes sound all high and whiny, like something got caught in the garbage disposal unit. Well-oiled machines, like the Harley-Davidsons my dad rides and customises, have almost a growling purr to them. It’s musical and primal all at once. It sends chills up your spine and sets your teeth and nerve endings to vibrate.
And then there’s the hard and fast variety, the Japanese models made for speed and not endurance, or so my dad says. He calls them pushbikes because that’s exactly what they sound like, a motorized pushbike.
This bike, though, this bike sounds like it’s on its last legs. It’s low and gravelly, and kind of sounds like a lawnmower on steroids. Which tells me one thing—the rider is more than likely not from around here, or my dad would have had that baby on a hoist the first time he’d laid eyes on it.
A black beat-up bike pulls up to the curb in front of Dad’s garage. The rider’s decked out head to toe in black: leather, jeans, boots and helmet. Of course, from across the street I can’t make out how good looking, or even how old he is, but the cut of his shoulders in his leather jacket kinda makes me a little melty.
He removes his helmet, runs a hand through his faux-hawk and my heart practically stops. I look at Holly, who in turns, then looks back at me, “Oh my—”
“HOT!” I finish. We glide over to the window to get a better look at the newcomer. He can’t see us, of course. Well, he probably could, if he bothered to look over here, but he’s not. He has his face pressed to the glass of Big Bob’s Bikes and Auto. He walks to the roller door of the workshop and knocks hard, three times.
Holly runs her finger up and down the glass before her, as though she’s stroking his body through the window. “He’s way hotter than your cousin.”
“He is way hotter than my cousin.”
“And it wouldn’t be incestuous for you to sleep with him.” She presses her palm flat against the glass, and then smiles appreciatively at me.
Oh no. I know that look. Nothing good ever comes from that look.
“You should go over there.” Holly states as we watch him remove his jacket and get the full effect of his profile. The t-shirt he wears is fitting and black, and there are tattoos almost everywhere. Oh, sweet mother of god. I’ve never wanted to lick anyone’s bicep before, but even from across the street I can see how edible this guy is.
“What, are you crazy?” Heat claws at my cheeks because that’s exactly what I want to do; go over there and ride this guy’s bike. Sweet baby Jesus, even my thoughts need to be censored.
“Ana, you should totally go and talk to him.”
“I’m not going to talk to him.”
“He’s at your dad’s shop. What if it’s a life or death situation?” she screeches, and I swear it’s so loud that it causes hot decrepit-bike guy to stop looking at his watch and glance up at us. He shields his eyes and squints into the sun. His head cants to the side just a little when he finds us watching him. Holly, the traitor that she is, pulls the cloth from her apron and pretends as though she’s innocently cleaning the window. I, on the other hand, simply stare as he crosses the street towards us.
“Crap. Now he’s coming over.” I turn and head back to the counter. Holly just keeps wiping at the window with her cloth, but all she’s doing is smudging sticky caramel over the clean glass.
“You’re welcome.” She giggles like a hyena on crack.
“You’re cleaning that window properly before you leave.”
She lifts her fingers to her forehead in some kind of wacked out girl-scout salute. “Yes ma’am.”
The bell above the door jingles and I feel my spine stiffen. The smell of leather, motor oil and boy sweat fills our tiny shop and I start inhaling hard and fast. I’m kinda surprised I don’t hyperventilate.
“Hi, I’m Holly. Holly Harris, what can I get you?”
“Uh, hi.” I turn and see him withdrawing his hand from Holly’s too tight grasp. “The shop across the street, do you know the guy that owns it? I was supposed to meet him there earlier today, but I got held up in traffic.”
“Ana, would you like to field this one?” Holly asks, drawing me into their conversation and forcing hot decrepit-bike guy’s eyes to look me over. Is it my imagination that his hungry gaze glides over me from head to hip? Twice?
“He’s gone for the day. Friday night’s bonfire and booze night down by the river.”
“Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have stopped earlier.”
“Shop opens again at ten am.”
“Nah, that’ll be too late. Any idea where I could find this river?”
“Eight blocks down, second turn on your right, then you wanna follow the cane fields for another five kilometres, you’ll run right into it.”
Holly’s standing behind Hot Guy making lewd hand gestures and snapping her teeth at his bum like she wants to take a bite. I shoot her a warning glare and jerk my head in the direction of the kitchen several times, but it’s Holly, so of course she doesn’t take the hint, which leaves me looking like a stroke victim.
Hot Guy’s brows furrow. They’re killer brows, all tapered in the right places but rugged enough so you can tell they haven’t been trimmed or plucked. Dipping my eyes a little lower, I notice how long his lashes are, thick black lashes that any women would kill for, but the observations don’t stop there. His eyes are such a deep, dark chocolate that they’re almost black and I think I see the first hint of a dimple when he gives me a bemused smile.
Welcome to Sugartown Page 1
