6. Alaina
CHAPTER 6
ALAINA
The morning starts like any other—flipping on the lights, preheating the ovens, setting up the display case with yesterday’s leftover pastries front and center while fresh dough proofs in the kitchen. If something doesn’t sell within forty-eight hours, I donate it to the homeless shelter for their food service patrons.
The scent of coffee mingles with sugar and yeast, the kind of comfort that wraps around me and makes me forget about everything outside these walls. It’s this almost coming home feeling. My grandmother freshly baked bread every few days at home and always had a different pastry every morning.
Everything going normal, I should feel like any other morning.
But my skin prickles with unease, a nagging feeling that’s been hanging around ever since my encounter with the Kings of Anarchy. Sure I’ve known about the club, everyone does. Yes, they have come in the shop before. Outside of what would you like this morning, though, I’ve never had a conversation with any of them.
I don’t know how to explain it. The two prospects were rough around the edges but they didn’t make my entire body feel electrified like the Chux man. The overall presence of him as he kept his eyes locked to mine was more than I’ve ever experienced before. Intense is the only way I can describe the entire thing
I try not to think about it as I head toward the back door, expecting my bulk order of flour and sugar to have arrived overnight. My supplier’s been good about leaving deliveries before dawn, and I need the stock for this weekend’s wedding cake. It should have been here three days ago, but some mix up happened and not a single part of my order came in. I’m on pins and needles to get this because frankly I’m behind schedule.
When I swing the door open, my stomach sinks.
There’s a pallet as expected alright—except that is the only thing as it should be. The pallet is wrapped in thick black plastic around the sides, stacked with heavy brown boxes inside that covering.
Not the usual white bags labeled with the supplier’s logo.
Frowning, I grab the box cutter from my apron pocket and slice through the plastic, tearing it back to get a better look. My fingers find the corner of a cardboard box lid, and I pry it open.
Then my breath stops.
Inside, neatly stacked in perfect rows, are literal bricks of something wrapped in duct tape. I can see hints of a white powder between the tape but mostly it’s just rectangle blocks covering in tape.
Not sugar.
Not flour. Not a single thing I’m supposed to be receiving.
I stumble back, my hands shaking.
No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
I know what this is. I don’t live under a rock. I’ve watched enough television shows.
Cocaine, most likely. A drug of some sort without a doubt, but my instincts says it’s cocaine.
Kilos of cocaine , sitting at my back door like a package from Amazon.
My pulse hammers through my neck, a cold sweat breaking over my skin.
Why the hell is this here? Who put it here? And how did they get my bakery’s address?
I take another staggered step back, my brain screaming at me to do something, anything, before this situation blows up in my face.
Fight, flight, or freeze is the typical response from anyone else.
My reaction to trouble is easy.
Yes, with shaking hands, I grab my phone and dial the one person who might have answers.
"Ally?" My grandfather’s voice comes through, calm as always.
"Dedushka," I whisper, fighting to keep my voice steady, even though my hands are trembling so bad I can barely keep the phone to my ear. "There’s a shipment here that isn’t mine."
There’s a pause. An extended one.
"Ally…" he exhales, and suddenly his voice isn’t so calm.
I grip the phone tighter. "I don’t know what to do. It’s not mine. But I can’t give it to anyone and I can’t keep it."
Another pause.
Then, in the background, I hear another voice.
"Give me the phone." Low. Deep. Demanding.
I freeze. My stomach does a summersault.
That voice. The biker. Chux.
Why is he so wrapped up in everything that goes wrong for me?
Before I can even process what that means, there’s a heavy knock at my back door.
A shiver races down my spine.
I turn slowly, pulse pounding, and through the back window, I see a man standing there—tall, broad, wearing a leather vest with a front patch saying Riot.
His features are similar to Chux, but he has a rounder face. I don’t know if they are related or my brain is so muddled I’m envisioning all of the bikers looking the same.
I don’t know him, but everything about him screams I’m in danger.
My grip on the phone tightens. "There’s someone here," I whisper.
Chux’s voice comes through the line this time, sharp, decisive, and very firm.
"Go with him, Ally."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"It’s not a request." His voice is unyielding. "Your grandfather is in a meeting with me right now. If you want to make sure nothing happens to him, you’ll get in the damn car and come with Riot."
Cold fear spikes through me. “What the hell is going on?”
A low sigh comes through the receiver. "You got caught in something that wasn’t meant for you. But now it’s at your door, and that means you need to come in."
I turn back to the window. Riot is still standing there, arms crossed, looking like he has all the time in the world—but I know better.
The Kings don’t wait.
And if Chux is telling me to go? I have a feeling I really don’t have a choice.
I end the call and grip the edge of the counter, trying to calm my nerves. My body wants to run, every instinct screaming at me that this is bad, terrible even, but my mind won’t let me.
Because I know the truth deep inside my soul. This isn’t about me anymore. Hell, it wasn’t ever about me in the beginning. Chux is right about that, I am caught in something not meant for me. I’m here though. This is about my grandfather—and I’d do anything and everything for him.
Even if it means walking out of this door into the hands of the very people I swore I’d never get involved with.
I swallow my fear, give a nod to Riot who exits my shop, but turning around to watch me. I move around securing things, putting up items I had taken out before locking my shop and stepping outside.
Riot doesn’t say a word. He just nods toward the bike.
And ungracefully I get on behind him.
No helmet, unknown destination, and no clue what I’m doing, I ride. My front pressed to his back, I cling to the stranger in front of me as if my life depends on it because in some ways it does. The ride is long. Longer than I expected. What I expected though, I really don’t know. To me, it seems like we keep going and going with no final destination ahead.
Riot doesn’t say much—not that I was expecting a warm, chatty conversation from a man wearing a Kings of Anarchy vest. The only words out of his mouth since I climbed onto the back of his bike have been a gruff, hang on and don’t fall off.
Hold on I do.
We ride for what feels like forever, leaving town behind, moving past the open highway and deeper into the unknown. The air grows thicker, the trees taller, and when Riot finally slows the bike to a stop, I realize I have not the first idea of where I am.
The clearing is empty, except for a single shipping container sitting in the middle of the woods like a misplaced relic from the port. While the container is an odd burned rust color, the porch on the front looks cozy as if this mental box has been converted.
Something inside me turns ice cold.
Riot swings his leg off the bike and looks at me over his shoulder. "Come on, girl."
That’s all he says. No explanation. No reassurance. Just come on girl. I hesitate before climbing off the bike, my hands shaking.. "Where are we?"
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he heads straight for the metal structure, stepping up to the door and pulling it open with practiced ease. He waits, watching me.
I glance at the dense trees surrounding us. No roads. No signs. No way to call for help .
I inhale deeply, my pulse hammering, as I fight to tame the fear inside me. I don’t have a choice.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I follow him inside.
I expect… I don’t even know what I expect.
Cold steel walls? A dark, musty space with nothing but a cot and a chair?
Instead, I step inside and find a cozy, homely space.
Not a cold, empty box—a fully transformed and functional living space.
The walls are insulated, paneled in reclaimed wood, warm and homey. A tiny but functional kitchen is built into one corner, with a stove, sink, and even a stocked mini-fridge. The sitting area has a worn leather couch, a low coffee table, and a shelf stacked with books. There is a bed at the far end, neatly made with dark gray sheets, and next to it, a small bathroom with a shower and sink.
It’s cozy.
It’s clean.
Outside of the glass shower making me feel exposed, the house is charming. The bathroom is the only extra door in the house. At least I can pee in privacy is the positive I’m clinging to right now.
While parts of this can be simple or talked down into an okay situation, most of it is full of unknowns. And yet, my chest tightens because it’s also a trap.
There’s only one way in and one way out.
The windows are small, oblong, set high across the top of the walls—like little skylights. No way I could fit through them. No way escape at all.
I turn just as Riot steps back, away from me.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me as he reaches for the handle. "Wait—" My voice shakes as I step forward, fear consumes me, "What?—"
But before I can finish, he slams the door in front of my face.
Then I hear it.
The unmistakable click of a lock engaging.
My breath hitches, and I rush forward, panic filling me as I try helplessly to open the door.
It doesn’t move.
I pound on the door, panic rising in my throat. "Riot!"
Silence.
I bang my fists harder, slamming into the steel. "You can’t just lock me in here!"
Nothing.
I press my ear against the metal, listening for movement outside, but all I hear is the sound of my own heart beat rushing through my ears.
I’m alone.
I step back, my lungs crushing against my ribs as panic climbs inside me with every passing second.
My hands tremble as I dig into my pocket, grabbing my phone like a lifeline. I pull it up, pressing the screen?—
No signal.
The little zero bars mock me from the corner of the screen. No calls. No texts. No way out.
A single, broken sob escapes my throat.
Sliding down the door I get to the floor., my back hitting the cool steel of the door as I curl into myself, my fingers clenching the phone in my lap.
I don’t know how I’m getting out of this.
And for the first time, I have no idea who the Hell can help me..
But one thing is very, very clear. This isn’t just about a shipment gone wrong.
This is about me.