5. Damian
CHAPTER 5
DAMIAN
The morning sun is already brutal by the time I roll up in front of Frosted and Filled. The heat clings to my skin, thick and unrelenting, but I don’t feel it. My mind is on business—always is. Alabama summers can be intense with the humidity of the deep south.
The two prospects I sent to fix the pipe should be done by now. The instructions Grit gave them to repair the pipe fitting that busted were simple enough. If they fucked it up, they’ll be learning how to fix a whole lot more than plumbing. Being a Prospect for the Kings means proving yourself, and if they can’t handle a simple job like this, they won’t last long. I’ll assess the damage and determine if she needs new floors. If so, that can be their next task.
I kill the engine on my Harley-Davidson Road King, drop my kickstand, swing off, and adjust my cut. The place looks the same as always—quaint, warm, too damn innocent for the kind of men that own it. A lie wrapped up in pastel-colored window trim and the sweet scent of fresh bread.
The Kings might hold the deed, but she is the one who gives it life.
Alaina.
The name rolls through my mind like a slow burn. I didn’t expect to take much notice of her. She’s just another face in town, another person running a business that we allow to keep running. But she isn’t just another anything.
She’s fucking beautiful.
She caught my eye the first time I came in. Then one taste of her treats and yeah, I’m a man hooked. I promised myself I wouldn’t taint her with the darkness of my life, my world, my very soul. Yet, no matter how I much I should stay away, I don’t. Here fate brings us together again.
Even now, frustrated and frazzled, she is still gorgeous.
Not in a way that she knows it, not in a way that’s deliberate. She’s all soft curves and warm eyes, that wild blonde hair always pulled back, like she doesn’t have time to worry about how damn good she looks. But it’s her mouth that gets me—the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the way her breath catches when she’s caught off guard.
And I plan to catch her off guard a lot.
I don’t need a distraction, but I’ll be damned if she won’t be a fun one.
I push open the door, the small chime above it completely out of place for a man like me. The scent of sugar and coffee wraps around me immediately, a direct contrast to the grease, smoke, and gun oil I’m used to.
She’s behind the counter, talking to one of the Prospects—Dipshit #1, judging by the shaggy brown hair, it’s James. That’s his actual name, not that I’ll ever call him that. I don’t need to hear what she’s saying to know she’s pissed.
Her brows are furrowed, hands on her hips, frustration rolling off her in waves.
The second I step inside, she stops mid-sentence.
Her lips part slightly, and those wide, honey-colored eyes land on me.
I smirk.
Gotcha, sweetheart.
I don’t take my sunglasses off as I step further inside, letting the silence stretch between us, letting her process that I know exactly who she is.
"Alaina."
Her breath catches. Gotcha, I think while smirking.
Her name sounds good on my tongue, better than I expected.
She blinks, like she’s trying to figure out how the hell I know it. Her throat moves as she swallows, and I watch her closely, noting the way her fingers tighten around the counter’s edge.
"You—" she starts, then stops. "You know my name."
I let my smirk deepen. "Yeah."
I see the confusion in her eyes, the hesitation, the way she’s trying to keep her guard up but failing miserably.
"You don’t wear a name tag," I continue, leaning a little against the counter, crowding her space just enough to make her aware of me.
I hear her inhale sharply. She’s flustered, and she hates that she’s flustered. She is rarely rattled. I’ve come in regularly enough to know.
"You’ve been coming in here?" she asks, voice softer now, like she’s trying to understand how I know anything about her.
That is the thing about her and even the Kelly chick that works here. They both are this dynamic duo, but so focused on pastries, puffs, and serving the customers they don’t see all the things and people around them.
They are comfortable.
I like that. The caveman inside me wants her to feel safe anywhere I’m tied to. But, she knows nothing of me and my kind. She is anything but safe around me.
I tilt my head. "Maybe."
The truth is, I’ve noticed her before. Every time I’ve come in, every time she’s been too busy behind the counter to pay any attention. But I noticed.
And I liked what I saw.
She shifts on her feet, probably without even realizing she’s doing it, like she doesn’t know whether she wants to back away or lean in closer.
I decide for her.
I reach up, slow and deliberate, and slip my sunglasses off, letting her get the full effect of my gaze. Her breath hitches again.
Yeah. That’s the reaction I wanted.
"Pipe’s fixed?" I ask, my voice low and sure. "Prospects didn’t screw it up, did they?"
She blinks, like she has to force herself to focus.
"N-No," she stammers, then scowls, like she’s mad at herself for sounding breathless. "I mean yes. It’s fine. They are fine. Everything is fine."
I glance over at Dipshit #1 and Dipshit #2, who are watching this whole exchange like they might take notes. I give them a sharp look.
"Outside. Now."
They scramble out the door without question, leaving me alone with her.
I turn back to her, tapping my fingers on the counter. "You got a problem, sweetheart?"
Her spine stiffens. "I don’t have a problem. I just didn’t know who was my landlord. It’s been an eventful morning.” She gathers her composure no longer taken aback by my presence.
I study her for a second. "And now that you know?"
She lifts her chin, forcing herself to meet my gaze. "I don’t see how it matters."
I grin, slow and lazy. "Honest. I like that."
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away.
"You don’t seem like the type to do business with a club like ours," I say, watching her carefully.
She shakes her head fiercely. “I don’t know enough about a club like yours to say whether I would do business as you say.”
I smile, “would you like to get to know more about my club?”
She tilts her head sideways studying me. “Business is business,” she looks to the patch on my cut, “Chux. I don’t care who comes in here as long as they have money to pay, aren’t rude, and don’t leave a mess.” Her last words she looks over her shoulder back to her kitchen.
“Someone leave a mess, sweetheart?” I ask reading her like a fucking book.
Quickly realizing her mistake, she rolls her shoulders back. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. I’ll get it cleaned up.” She gives a half-hearted smile, “just need to get back to work if you don’t mind.”
“This drive you got, is that why your grandfather backed your business?”
Her lips press together like she doesn’t want to answer, but after a pause, she does. “No, he did it because he believes in me."
Something about the way she says it makes me pause. She’s got a quiet strength in her, a fire under all that soft.
I like that, too.
"You keep baking your cakes, sweetheart," I murmur, leaning just a little closer, my voice dropping just enough to make her breath hitch again. "And we’ll keep making sure nothing happens to your pretty little shop."
Her fingers tighten on the counter again, but this time, I see something flicker in her eyes that’s not just frustration.
It’s intrigue.
And that turns me the fuck on.
The clubhouse isn’t some hole-in-the-wall dive bar like people probably expect. It’s an old warehouse for the port, built back when this town was still figuring out what the hell it wanted to be. Thick steel beams hold up the ceiling, rusted just enough to remind you this place has been standing longer than any of us. Concrete floors, exposed brick, massive rolling doors at the back that lead right to the dock where shipments come in at all hours.
We’ve converted parts of it—meeting rooms, a bar, a handful of private rooms for brothers who need a place to crash. But the heart of the Kings beats in the main hall, where the long wooden table stands in the center, Kings’ insignia crown carved deep into the wood. Anarchy reigns in all of us.
My office is off to the side, tucked in a quieter section of the warehouse. Not that there’s ever true quiet in a place like this.
I drop into the chair behind my desk, stretching out my legs as I rub a hand over my jaw. That girl—Alaina—she’s got me thinking. And I don’t like that.
She’s soft in a way that’s foreign to me. Too sweet for the kind of life I live.
But that breathless look she had when I leaned in close?
Yeah. That wasn’t innocent.
Before I can let my mind go any further down that road, my burner phone buzzes on the desk. I pick it up, glancing at the number before answering.
Kane-South Carolina Charter flickers on the display.
I flip it open. "Yeah."
A familiar voice comes through, low and sure. Kane, the VP of the South Carolina chapter, and I go way back.
"Got a schedule to go over with you," he says, casual as hell, like we’re just discussing dock logistics.
I lean back in my chair, glancing at the shipping schedule pinned on the wall beside me. "Go ahead."
"Shipment’s coming in from down south," Kane continues, keeping it vague, just like we always do on the phone. "Need it processed through your port. Gonna be a mixed load—same as last time."
"Same volume?"
"Little more."
I make a note. Details matter. Too much weight can throw off everything especially if the Coast Guard pulls the boat before it’s docked or if Customs decides to audit us.
“Got a time frame?" I ask looking at the calendar.
"Four weeks. Should be packed and ready to move within a day of hitting your docks."
Tight window. Standard procedure. The Kings don’t let product sit.
"You contact my carrier yet or you want me to?"
"Working on it," Kane replies. "Might use the same route we did back in March need to verify they can do it. Seemed smooth sailing."
I consider that. The last run we did through that route went smooth, but it wasn’t without risk. Border patrol’s been nosing around some of the coastal drop points lately. We’ll need a contingency plan.
"Keep me posted," I tell him. "I’ll have space cleared when it lands. You need extra hands?"
"Nah, we’re covered." A pause. "We all good over there? Heard about the mess the other night."
My jaw tightens. I get why we as a club whole need to share any threat to any club, but I hate that it’s mine on the radar.
"We’re handling it," I say flatly.
Kane exhales. "You sure?"
"If I wasn’t, you’d already know."
Another pause. Kane’s smart. He knows when to push, and when to back off. "Fair enough, you need us, we roll out," he finally says. "I’ll send the manifest through the usual way. Keep your boys sharp."
"Always."
The line clicks off.
I close the burner and set it back down, staring at the shipping schedule pinned to the wall.
Four weeks.
Another load coming in. Another job to do.
Business as usual.
But my mind isn’t on the shipment. It’s still back at a tiny shop, tangled up in a woman who should be nothing more than a baker who smells sweet with a pretty face.
And somehow, I know this isn’t the last time she’s gonna be on my mind.