“You need a therapy appointment and a shot of tequila,” Ally mutters as she steers me toward a stool behind the counter.“And possibly an exorcism.”
“I’ll settle for the sandwich.”
I sip water while she grabs food from the fridge.The bakery is quieting, the rush slowing.The soft hum of the espresso machine and the clatter of mugs is comforting, predictable.
Normal.
And then the bell over the front door jingles.
I don’t look up.I can’t.Not after this morning.If I see Riot again today, I might actually scream.
But it’s not him I hear.
It’s two men’s voices—deep and gruff—arguing quietly.Not unusual; bikers drift in here all the time since Ally got tangled up with Chux and the Kings of Anarchy MC.”
I keep my head down until something in their tone makes the hair at my nape stand up.
“…told you she’s connected to them now.Makes her an easy warning shot.”
My blood runs cold as I fight to casually make my way away from the front retail space.Warning shot?Ally steps back into the room and freezes when she sees my face.
“Kel?What?—?”
“Shh,” I whisper, tilting my head toward the voices.
The two men are near the door, not wearing cuts.Outsiders.Strangers.Their words float across the room in fragments.
“Kings sticking their noses…” rambles I can’t decipher, “…make an example…” more muttering “…accident wouldn’t take much…”
My stomach drops.Accident.They’re talking about anaccidentlike it’s something they could arrange.Something casual.
My throat tightens.A chill crawls down my spine.Ally notices my shaking hands.“Kelly,” she whispers, “you’re scaring me.”
I force a laugh that sounds nothing like me.“Probably nothing.Just customers being shady.”
Her eyes narrow.“Kel?—”
“Seriously, it’s fine.”I push her back towards the kitchen trying to shake off the unease.“Probably just talking shit.”
But deep down, something twists.Something uneasy, sharp, instinctive.
Like my body knows danger before my brain can name it.
The men leave after a minute, the bell jingling lightly behind them.
Ally watches them go.“I don’t like that.”
“Me neither,” I admit.“But we’re not detectives.We’re bakers.”
“Yeah, and bakers get murdered first in horror movies.”
I give a weak laugh.The knot in my chest loosens slightly, but the cold coil of fear remains.
It’s probably nothing.I misheard them.Definitely nothing.Still, when I walk to my car after closing, the street feels quieter than normal.The shadows seem longer.The breeze colder.
And for the first time in a long time, I wish Riot were here.
Not because I need him.But because I miss the way he always stood between me and the world—casually, naturally, like he didn’t even think about it.
