Baker Daddy (Small Falls #3)

Chapter 16

Dwight

I gripped the wheel tighter, my knuckles stiff and pale. The highway stretched out like it was endless, just mile after mile of empty nothing. Fast-food wrappers crinkled when I shifted in my seat, and the burnt dregs of coffee sloshed in the cup holder every time I hit a bump. My eyelids felt heavier with each passing mile, but it wasn’t just exhaustion. It was something sharper, sitting low in my gut, twisting like a knife.

Her face wouldn’t leave my mind—Marie, eyes red but defiant, standing by the bakery door. She had tried to smile, even as tears slid down her cheeks. “You’ll come back,” she’d said, words cracking like brittle paper. God, I hated hearing her cry. Hated knowing I was the reason for it.

"One last tour," Patrick’s voice echoed in my head, smooth as oil and just as slick. "Or you won’t have a business to go back to."

The bastard didn’t need to say more.

I slammed my palm against the steering wheel, the sound sharp and satisfying in the stale air of the truck. Idiot. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known Patrick would pull something shady eventually. The man always had a way of turning contracts into shackles. I was surprised the rest of the band were okay with it, though.

My foot pressed harder on the gas, the engine growling in protest. I didn’t want to think about them—Jared, Beck, Myles. We’d been brothers once, or so I thought. A family. Dysfunctional, sure, but which family isn’t? Nights packed into a van that smelled like sweat and cheap beer, playing dive bars for scraps. We bled for the music, all of us. But somewhere along the line, it stopped being enough.

I adjusted my grip and rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the ache settling between them. I reached for the cold coffee, took a sip, then immediately spat it back into the cup. Bitter as hell. Figures.

"All for her," I muttered under my breath, because that’s what it came down to. Marie. Her wide smile when I walked through her cafe doors at the end of each day. The way she slipped her hand into mine whenever the world got too loud. I couldn’t lose that.

***

The parking lot was a mess—concrete spiderwebbed with cracks, weeds sprouting up like they owned the place. Glass crunched under my boots as I stepped out of the truck, a sound that set my teeth on edge. I stretched, rolling my neck until it popped, but it didn’t do much for the stiffness. Too many hours behind the wheel.

The neon sign over the door buzzed and flickered, half the letters burnt out so it just read “_ehears_l S_udi_.” Fitting. The whole place looked like it was hanging on by a thread, same as me.

I slammed the truck door harder than I meant to. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe anger. Hell if I knew anymore. My shoulders felt tight, my fingers twitchy. I shoved them into my pockets and headed for the entrance. The handle stuck when I yanked it, and it took an extra shove with my shoulder to get the damn thing open.

The hallway was dim, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent bulb overhead. It threw out just enough illumination to highlight the grime streaked across the walls, which were covered in faded gig posters layered so thick you could barely make out the plaster underneath. Names of bands I used to know. Places I’d played. Memories I didn’t want.

A bassline thudded somewhere down the hall, muffled but steady. My stomach curled up tight. I followed the sound, boots scuffing against the sticky floor, each step heavier than the last.

It had been over a year since I’d been part of this world, and I didn’t want to go back.

The door at the end was beat to hell—dents, scratches, even what looked like a boot print near the bottom. Classy as always. I stopped in front of it and let out a slow breath, trying to calm the pounding in my chest. Didn’t help. My hand hovered over the handle for maybe two seconds too long before I finally grabbed it and pushed.

The smell hit first. Beer, sweat, and something metallic underneath, like old amps left to corrode. A flash of movement caught my eye—Jared’s drumsticks flying, Beck hunched over his guitar, Myles with his head bobbing to the beat. They were locked into some mid-tempo groove, loud and loose. Same as always.

Then they saw me.

Everything stopped. Beck’s hands froze on the strings, Jared’s sticks hovered above the snare, Myles blinked like he wasn’t sure I was real. Their faces were a mix of things—shock, confusion, maybe a little pissed off. Hard to tell under the harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed above us.

"Well," I said, dragging the word out, letting it hang there. "Don’t stop on my account."

The silence stretched too long. Myles shifted first, setting his bass down with a low squeak against the amp. The sound cut through the tension like a knife. I didn’t move, not yet, but my eyes flicked to the corner of the room where Patrick stood like he owned the place. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, that smirk on his face made my blood heat up fast.

"Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. All it took was a legal threat, I guess," Patrick said. His voice had that sharp, slick tone that always made me want to punch something—or someone. He stepped forward, holding a yellow legal pad like it was some kind of weapon. "Even so, I wasn’t sure you’d crawl out from under your pile of flour and cupcakes."

"The bakery is doing great," I said. “Thanks for asking.”

"Sure, sure," he said, waving me off like I hadn’t spoken. His grin got wider, smug as hell. "But let’s talk about what’s not doing great, huh? The band? The contract you signed and then skipped town to play house?"

Beck cleared his throat, but he didn’t say anything. Jared wouldn’t even look at me. Myles fidgeted, tapping his foot in that nervous way he always did when things got tense. They weren’t gonna step in.

"Get to the point, Patrick," I said. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. It helped me focus, kept me from snapping. "You didn’t drag me here for small talk."

"Ah, straight to business. I can respect that." He flipped a page on the legal pad, making a show of reading something off it. "Here’s the deal, Dwight. When you bailed, you cost us—big time. That last tour, the one we planned around the final album?" He raised an eyebrow, like he expected me to interrupt. I didn’t. "Gone. Poof. Label pulled back their support, gigs canceled, merch unsold. You left us holding the bag."

"That’s not my problem anymore," I said, my voice low. Controlled. Barely.

"Wrong," Patrick snapped, taking another step closer. "It’s exactly your problem. You think you can just walk away and start over without consequences? Think again." He jabbed the legal pad toward me, like he wanted me to read it. "This contract says otherwise. You owe us—time, money, losses. And if you don’t want to pay up, you’re getting your ass back on stage for one last tour. Simple as that."

The muscles in my neck tightened, a dull ache spreading up to my temples. I glanced at the guys—at Beck, whose fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for his guitar again; at Jared, whose jaw worked like he was chewing on words he wasn’t brave enough to spit out; at Myles, who looked anywhere but at me. None of them said a damn thing.

"Let me guess," I said, shifting my weight forward, just enough to make Patrick take half a step back. "You’re all on board with this? Thought suing me would be a fun group project?"

"Hey," Patrick cut in before anyone else could open their mouths. His grin sharpened. "Don’t blame them. This is business, Dwight. Your business. And trust me, if you don’t agree to work this out, there’s a lawyer downtown more than happy to handle it for us. You’ve got two options: tour or court. Your call."

Jared wouldn’t look at me. His shoulders hunched as he stared at some invisible spot between his boots, fingers twitching like they wanted a cigarette. Beck wasn’t any better—arms crossed, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes glued to the floor. Useless. Spineless.

"Really?" My voice came out low, rough, the kind of tone that used to make stagehands scatter. "Nothing to say? Either of you?"

Myles shifted, his sneaker scuffing against the sticky linoleum. He’d always been the kid—the one we teased for being too eager, too green. Now, though, he wouldn’t even meet my gaze. He rubbed the back of his neck, mumbling, "We just . . . want compensation, man. That’s all."

There was something about the way he said it, though, that made me doubt I was getting the whole story.

"Compensation," I repeated, slow and sharp, like the word burned on my tongue. My chest tightened, a knot of anger and something uglier twisting deep inside.

These were my friends. Once. We’d sweated together under hot stage lights, crashed in shitty motels, eaten gas station burritos at two in the morning without a damn care in the world. Now they looked like strangers—or worse, like vultures circling something half-dead. And the thing bleeding out was me.

The anger clawed up, hot and bitter, but I swallowed it down. I wasn’t here to yell. Not yet.

"Fine," I said, yanking a battered chair upright and dropping into it with a thud. The legs squealed against the floor, loud enough to make Patrick glance over from the corner where he still stood, smug as hell. I ignored him. Focused on the guys.

"Let me lay it out for you." I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees, hands clasped tight enough that my knuckles popped. "I’ve got a life now. A real life. There’s a bakery back in Small Falls with my name on it—" My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, forcing it steady. "—and someone who needs me there. Someone I’m not about to walk away from."

"Doesn’t sound like our problem," Patrick cut in, but I shot him a look sharp enough to slice. He raised his hands, smirking, like he’d won some invisible round.

"Listen," I went on, pulling my focus back to the band. "I can’t go back to that life. Chaos, booze, sleeping in vans. It doesn’t work anymore. I’m not twenty-two and stupid enough to think that’s sustainable. I worked my ass off to get out, and I’m not throwing it all away just because Patrick here wants to play hardball."

"Then why are you here?" Beck finally spoke, his voice flat, tired. His eyes flicked up, met mine for half a second before darting away again. Then, to my surprise, he looked at Patrick before saying, "If you’re not gonna do it, why show up at all?"

"Because I thought maybe we could figure this out like adults." My tone hardened, less controlled than I wanted. I dragged a hand through my hair, feeling the tension buzzing behind my eyes. "You want money, fine. Let’s talk numbers. But I can’t tour. Not how you want me to."

Patrick flipped through the legal pad with a deliberate slowness that set my teeth on edge. His lips twisted into that smug grin I’d seen too many times before, back when he thought he owned us. Maybe he still did.

"Let me spell it out for you, Dwight," he said, tapping the pad with his pen like he was scolding a damn kid. "You bailing cost the band huge potential earnings. We’re talking millions from that final album cycle. You walk away now, and we’re well within our rights to take this to court. And trust me, you don’t want that."

"Millions?" My voice came out sharp, louder than I meant. I forced myself to sit back, unclenching my fists. "What millions? The album barely broke even." It was a joke. There was no way we would have made millions—we’d never even come close.

"Because there was no tour to support it," Patrick shot back, his tone dripping with condescension. "No tour means no ticket sales, no merch, no buzz. That’s on you, buddy."

My chest tightened, but I kept my mouth shut. Across the room, Jared shifted in his seat, eyes glued to some stain on the floor. Myles fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, and Beck crossed his arms, jaw tight. None of them looked at me.

"Come on," I said, my voice low, steady. "You’re really gonna let him do this? Drag me through the mud over something we all knew was falling apart anyway?"

"Don’t make this about us," Beck muttered, not meeting my gaze. "It’s—it’s business, man."

"Business?" I scoffed, shaking my head. "We were friends. Brothers, for Christ’s sake. And now what? You’re just gonna sit back while he picks me clean?"

"Nobody wants that," Myles mumbled, barely audible.

"Then stop him," I snapped, my frustration bleeding through despite my best efforts. I glanced at each of them, searching for some flicker of loyalty, of the bond we used to have. But all I got were uneasy glances and silence so thick it felt like drowning.

Patrick leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me squirm like it was his favorite show. "This isn’t about friendship, Dwight," he said, his voice smooth, calculated. "It’s about contracts. And you signed one. No one forced you to."

"Yeah, well, people change," I countered, standing up so fast the chair legs screeched against the concrete floor. "I’m not that guy anymore."

"Change all you want," Patrick said, unfazed. "Doesn’t make the contract disappear."

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. I took a breath, then another, trying to push down the panic clawing its way up my throat. I couldn’t lose the bakery. Couldn’t lose Marie. Not over this.

"Do you remember how we started?" I asked, my voice softer now, almost pleading. I turned to the band, ignoring Patrick’s smirk. "Sleeping in that busted van, splitting gas money with quarters and dimes. Playing for beer tabs at dive bars where half the crowd didn’t even bother looking up from their drinks. We built something out of nothing—together. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?"

Jared’s shoulders sagged, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Myles wouldn’t meet my eyes, twisting the fabric of his shirt until it stretched. Beck’s expression cracked, just for a second—a flicker of guilt—but he clenched his jaw again, locking it down.

There had to be something more to this. Just had to be.

"Maybe it does," Patrick cut in, stepping forward, "but none of that changes the fact that you signed on the dotted line. Nostalgia doesn’t pay the bills, Dwight. You walked away, and they paid the price. Now it’s your turn."

"Shut up," I growled, glaring at him. The words scraped my throat, raw and bitter. I turned back to the guys, desperation creeping into my voice. "You know me. You know why I left. I needed out—needed to figure out who I was without all . . .this." I gestured to the room, the amps, the drum kit, the shadows of a life I barely recognized anymore. "If I’d carried on, I would be dead by now. I’m sure of it. Instead, I’m alive. Finally. Please don’t take that away from me. There has to be another way."

But the silence that followed hit harder than any argument ever could.

I gripped the edge of my chair so hard my knuckles turned white. The idea of it—of going back on stage under those lights, swallowing the same air as Patrick and pretending we were a team again—made my stomach churn. My throat tightened. Long nights. Cramped vans. Cheap motels that smelled like mildew and regret. That world didn’t have room for Marie’s soft laugh or her playful teasing when she called me "Daddy" in that sweet, innocent way that made me want to drop everything just to hold her.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, pressing my fingers to my forehead. My pulse was racing, pounding against my skull. I couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think straight.

"Problem, Dwight?" Patrick’s voice cut through the haze, smug and sharp enough to draw blood. He leaned against the amp stack like he owned the damn place, flipping through his legal pad like it was the Bible. Like he held all the answers in those stupid pages.

"Just—" I waved him off and took a deep breath, biting down the urge to snap. Storming out wouldn’t help. Losing my cool wouldn’t help. But damn, it was tempting. "Give me a second."

"Take all the time you need," Patrick said, smirking.

My jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I stood up fast, the chair legs screeching against the floor, and started pacing. One, two, three steps, then back again. The tension wrapped around my chest like barbed wire, tightening with every smug glance Patrick threw my way. Jared shifted in his seat, avoiding eye contact. Beck fiddled with the strap on his guitar. Myles looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

"Here’s what’s gonna happen," I said finally, forcing the words out before I exploded. My voice shook—not loud, but sharp enough to cut. "I’ll talk to a lawyer. We’ll figure out a fair settlement, and this ends here."

"Fair?" Patrick let the word hang in the air like a bad joke, then barked out a laugh. "You think there’s something fair about walking out on a contract? On your band? On your obligations?"

"Don’t push me," I warned, pointing a finger at him. My hand trembled, but I didn’t drop it. "You don’t get to tell me who I am anymore. You hear me? I’m not some kid you can bully into doing whatever the hell you want."

"Sure, sure," Patrick said, grinning wider now, like he’d already won. "Go ahead. Lawyer up. Spend more money you don’t have. Let’s see how far that gets you, Mr. Baker." He spat the last word like it was an insult. Like chasing a life that wasn’t drowning in chaos was beneath me.

"Enough," I snapped, my voice louder than I intended. The sound echoed off the walls, bouncing between the peeling gig posters and stacks of amps. Patrick raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself, but the guys flinched. Jared’s knee bounced. Myles stared at the floor harder. Even Beck’s stoic mask cracked, just a little.

"Look," I said, softer this time, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’m not saying you don’t deserve something. I get it—I walked away, and that cost you. But dragging me through court? Trying to destroy everything I’ve built since? That’s not the answer."

"Isn’t it?" Patrick tilted his head, his grin never wavering. "Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like the only answer. Unless, of course"—he paused, savoring the moment—"you’re ready to come back for one last ride."

"Not happening." The words came out low and firm, leaving no room for argument. But my hands still shook, and my chest still felt like it was caving in. Marie’s face flickered in my mind—her smile, her bright eyes, the way she fit against me like she belonged there. There was no place for her in this mess. No place for us. And if I lost her... God, I couldn’t even finish the thought.

"Then good luck, Dwight," Patrick said, snapping the legal pad shut with a flourish. "You’re gonna need it."

The room went quiet again, except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. None of the guys said a damn word. Not to Patrick. Not to me. Just sat there, watching me like they didn’t know who I was anymore. Or maybe like they didn’t want to remember.

The air inside the studio felt like it was turning solid, pressing in on me from all sides. My chest was tight, my hands clammy. Patrick’s voice droned somewhere behind me, sharp and smug, but I couldn’t focus on the words anymore. My pulse was too loud in my ears.

My relationship with Marie was so new, so fragile. I didn’t know if it could survive something like a tour.

“I need air,” I muttered, already pushing back my chair. It scraped against the floor with a grating squeal, cutting through the silence. Nobody said anything as I headed for the door. Not the guys, not Patrick. Fine by me.

Outside, it felt like everything was falling apart. The chain-link fence near the lot caught my eye, and I made a beeline for it, gripping the cold metal tightly. It bit into my palms, grounding me just enough to slow my breathing. In and out. Slow down, Dwight. I stared at the stars scattered across the black sky and tried to pull myself together. They blurred a little, but that might’ve been the sting in my eyes. Damn it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, startling me. I fumbled it out, blinking at the screen. Marie. Just her name steadied me for half a second before the text lit up: " You okay? "

No. Not even close. My fingers hovered over the screen for a beat too long, until I finally typed out: " Not good. Call you later. " My thumb froze above the send button. She didn’t deserve this—me running off, dragging all this old baggage back into my life, into our life. But if anyone could make me believe I could fix this, it was her. I hit send and shoved the phone back in my pocket before I could second-guess it.

I pushed off the fence, glancing toward the parking lot. The van sat there, dark and hulking in the corner, its silhouette pulling me back to nights spent crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with these guys on highways that never seemed to end. Fast food wrappers, cigarette smoke, endless bottles of whiskey. Drugs, groupies, shitty jokes to hide how tired we were. That used to be my life. Hell, it used to feel like freedom. Now it looked like a cage I’d clawed my way out of, only for someone to try shoving me back in.

"Over my dead body," I muttered under my breath.

I yanked open my truck’s door and tossed my duffel onto the seat. My chest burned, fury and despair tangling together into something too big to hold. I gripped the steering wheel for a second, knuckles white, then let out a slow breath.

This wasn’t just about me. It was about the bakery, the place I bled for. It was about Marie, who trusted me to build a life with her. To stay.

I turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life under me. As I pulled out of the lot, I glanced in the rearview mirror once, catching sight of the van again. My jaw tightened. Let them come for me. Let Patrick throw everything he had. There was no way I was giving up Small Falls or losing Marie without fighting them every damn step of the way.

And I knew exactly who to ask for help.