Fallen Faith (Fallen Lords MC 2nd Gen #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ever

The blender roared in my hands, drowning out the low hum of the Dairy Bar and the country song drifting from the back. I held the lid down and watched chocolate syrup twist through vanilla ice cream, turning it into thick, glossy ribbons.

There was something satisfying about making a milkshake. Simple. Sweet.

The kind of thing that didn’t ask much from me—just get the ratio right and don’t spill it all over the counter. Which, judging by the drip already running down the side of the metal blender cup, I had failed at.

The blender sputtered once, then smoothed out.

I let it go another few seconds before snapping it off.

I peeled the lid off and tipped the thick chocolate milkshake into a tall plastic cup.

It poured slower than I wanted, which probably meant I’d made it too thick, but I wasn’t about to apologize for that.

A milkshake was supposed to be thick. If someone wanted chocolate milk, they could go buy it at the gas station.

A thick blob slopped over the rim and landed on the counter. “Damn it,” I muttered.

Lark laughed under her breath. “I swear, Ever, you’re the only person I know who can make the same thing six hundred times and still spill it.”

I grabbed the rag tucked into the back of my apron and wiped up the mess before it could drip off the edge. “It adds character.”

“It adds stickiness.”

I ignored her and topped the milkshake with whipped cream, a drizzle of chocolate syrup, and a cherry. When I slid it across the counter, the guy waiting for it grinned. “Perfect,” he said, taking it from me.

“Better be,” I said. “You practically order the same thing every time.”

“That’s because I know what I like.”

I watched him go, then looked down at the fresh smear of chocolate I’d somehow missed.

“See?” Lark said, wiping it up. “Sticky. Maybe if you made less of a mess—”

“Maybe if you minded your own business…” I cut in.

Lark snorted and bumped my shoulder with hers. “I work here, so that makes this my business.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.

That was the thing about Lark. She could be annoying as hell, but she made closing shifts go faster. Or at least feel less miserable.

It was half past nine at night, which meant we still had thirty minutes before we could lock the doors, turn the sign off, and start the part of the night neither of us wanted to do.

Closing.

Cleaning the ice cream machines. Mopping. Wiping down every sticky surface in the place. Doing dishes until my fingers smelled like sanitizer no matter how much soap I used after.

I tossed the rag onto the counter and leaned back against it, stretching my lower back until it popped. “I hate closing.”

Lark copied me, leaning beside me with a dramatic groan. “Same. It should be illegal to make people clean after ten at night.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

We stood shoulder to shoulder behind the counter, both staring out over the Dairy Bar like it had personally offended us.

The place looked good. Warm. Familiar. The red booths had been here longer than I had.

The black-and-white tile floor had been redone when I was in middle school, but the rest of the place still looked almost exactly the same as it had when my parents first bought it.

Neon signs glowed in the front windows. The dessert case near the register was half full.

Two high school boys sat near the jukebox splitting a basket of cheese curds, and an older couple in the corner booth shared a banana split like they were reenacting a memory.

The Dairy Bar wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t trendy. It wasn’t one of those places people took pictures of to post online.

It was just ours.

“Well,” Lark said, dragging the word out, “at least your parents own the place, so you should be able to get out of closing.”

I barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that hasn’t worked for me yet after twenty-four years.”

She turned her head and looked at me. “That’s because you let them flit away.”

“Flit away?”

“Ever.” She gave me a look. “They are basically retired and leave you in charge all the time. They flit away.”

I made a face. “They’re not retired-retired.”

Lark held up a hand. “Please. They spend more time at that cabin in the U.P. than they do in town.”

That part was true.

My parents had always worked hard. Long hours, early mornings, late nights, ordering supplies, balancing books, dealing with employees who called in sick, and fryers that stopped working at the worst possible time.

They’d built the Dairy Bar into what it was, and now that they were older, they’d started taking off more.

Not vacations exactly. Just… stretches of time.

A week here. Ten days there. Sometimes longer if the fish were biting or the weather was good or my mom decided she wanted to sit on the dock and read in peace without the phone ringing every five minutes.

I didn’t blame them. They’d earned every quiet morning and every slow afternoon. It just meant I was here more. A lot more.

“Still,” Lark said, picking at a spot on the counter with her fingernail, “you pretty much own the place now.”

I let out a short laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.” She nudged me with her hip. “And when they fully retire, it’ll actually be yours.”

That settled in my chest funny.

Not bad, but not good, either.

Just big.

Owning the Dairy Bar someday had always felt like one of those things sitting off in the distance. Real, but not immediate. Like a road sign for a place you knew you were headed to eventually, just not tonight.

I crossed my arms and looked around the place again. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

Lark shrugged. “You’re already doing it.”

“Doing it and owning it are two different things.”

She opened her mouth, probably ready to argue, but the older couple in the booth stood and started toward the door. We both straightened.

“Night, girls,” the woman called.

“Good night,” I said with a wave.

“See you next time,” Lark added.

The bell over the door jingled as they left, the sound familiar enough that I usually didn’t notice it.

Tonight, I did.

Maybe because it was getting late. Maybe because we were both counting down the minutes until ten.

The high school boys finally got up next, tossing their trash and shouting a quick thanks before heading out.

That left the Dairy Bar mostly empty.

The fryer was off. The grill had already been cleaned. The soft-serve machine hummed behind me, and the overhead lights cast the whole place in that same warm yellow glow they always did at night.

Lark sighed like a woman on the edge of collapse. “If one more person comes in and orders food, I’m crying.”

I snorted. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I really will.”

The bell above the door jingled.

Lark closed her eyes. “I hate this place.”

I looked up automatically and Jesse walked in.

He paused just inside the door long enough to glance around, then his eyes landed on me. He smiled a little and started toward the counter.

“Your admirer is here again,” Lark said teasingly. She bumped her hip into mine.

“He is not my admirer,” I insisted.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the rag to wipe the counter. “Sure, it’s normal for a guy to come in four times a week to talk to only you, order a vanilla cone, and then leave.”

I watched Jesse make his way to the counter with his eyes right on me.

Lark wasn’t wrong.

He’d been coming in for the past two weeks. Eight times, from what she’d been counting. I hadn’t been. At least, not officially.

It had become a thing with her though.

There he is again.

Vanilla cone guy.

Your boyfriend is back.

All of it ridiculous.

“I am going to go start the dishes,” Lark said.

“You’re abandoning me?”

“I’m giving you privacy,” she whispered loudly.

I shot her a look, but she was already heading toward the back with a grin on her face.

The second she disappeared, Jesse stepped up to the counter. He rested his forearms against it like he belonged there, relaxed and easy in a way most people weren’t around last call.

“The usual?” I asked him.

He smirked and leaned against the counter. “Have I become a regular?”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “You’re becoming a local,” I said with a wink and grabbed a cake cone.

“Yeah?” he asked.

I shrugged one shoulder and reached for the vanilla. “Could happen.”

He watched me while I worked, and I could feel it. Not in a creepy way. Just… steadily. Like he wasn’t pretending he’d come in here for the menu.

“Vanilla or do you want to try something different?” I asked.

“You’re the one who told me to get vanilla. I’ll just stick with that.”

I scooped the ice cream, careful to build the cone neatly. “You don’t strike me as the adventurous type anyway.”

He laughed softly. “No?”

“Nope.”

“And what type do I strike you as?”

I lifted one shoulder and kept my eyes on the cone. “Routine. Safe. Maybe a little boring.”

He put a hand over his chest like I’d wounded him. “Or maybe I just don’t feel the need to impress you yet.”

I finally looked up at him. “You come in, order the same thing, talk to the same person, and leave.”

His mouth kicked up on one side. “Maybe I like consistency,” he said. “Or maybe I just know what’s worth coming back for.”

Something in the way he said that made me pause. Not because I believed him, but because I didn’t know what to do with it.

Men did not come into the Dairy Bar wanting me. That wasn’t me being dramatic. It was just the truth.

I’d spent enough years in this body to know how the world worked. Pretty girls got stared at. Tiny girls got flirted with. The girls with flat stomachs and perfect hair got asked out just for standing still in the right light.

Me?

I got treated like one of the guys half the time and invisible the other half. Background.

I wasn’t stupid. I had mirrors.