Chapter 1 #2
Just… tears. Quiet, hot, humiliating tears.
I swipe them away quickly, glancing around to make sure no one sees me falling apart like a greeting card gone soggy in the rain. Freedom Falls is too small of a town for messy emotions in public. The gossip pipeline would have breaking news within minutes:
Local bakery girl cries before 8 AM. Biker may or may not be involved. More at eleven.
I choke out a laugh—half hysterical, half bitter—and duck around the corner beside the hardware store, where the alley is quiet and shaded. I lean back against the brick wall, the cool surface grounding me.
It’s not like I didn’t see this coming.
The late-night texts slowing down.
The mornings where he slipped out without waking me.
The silences growing longer, heavier.
I wasn’t stupid. I just… hoped.
And that’s the most embarrassing part of all.
Hope is a dangerous drug when the man you want is allergic to feelings. I thought by controlling the narrative and telling him not to fall in love would keep my own emotions in line.
I tilt my head back against the wall, close my eyes, and breathe in the warm, yeasty scent drifting from the bakery vent. It’s comforting, familiar, safe. Everything Riot is not.
We can’t be strangers, repeats in my head.
Yeah, okay.
Sure.
Acquaintances don’t kiss the way we kissed.
Friends don’t touch the way he touched me. Strangers damn sure don’t look at someone like they’re the last sip of water in the damn desert.
But maybe I imagined that part. Maybe I wanted to see something that wasn’t there. Maybe all the soft moments I’ve been replaying for months were just a matter of convenience for him.
My chest squeezes tight.
I know I’m spiraling, but knowing doesn’t stop the descent.
A motorcycle engine revs somewhere in the distance—a deep, throaty growl that is unmistakably a Harley-Davidson.
My heart lurches stupidly.
No. Nope. No, no, no.
I refuse to be that girl—the one who hears a bike and thinks, Maybe it’s him. Maybe he changed his mind. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum like I can physically push the ache back in.
This is what I wanted, right?
No strings.
No complications.
No promises.
God, I’m an idiot.
A soft buzzing vibrates in my apron pocket. My phone. I pull it out, praying it’s a distraction.
Ally: You okay? He left.
I close my eyes again. The words hit harder than they should.
Me: I’m good. Just needed air.
Her reply comes instantly.
Ally: Liar.
I huff out a laugh, thankful for her bluntness, but I don’t answer. I can’t. If I try, I’ll start typing things like: My heart hurts. I think I cared more than he did. I think I loved him a little. And I think he knows.
Instead, I tuck the phone away and count my breaths until the pressure in my chest eases.
By the time I head back to the bakery’s front door, I’ve wiped my eyes, straightened my apron, and forced my expression into something resembling “emotionally stable human.”
Ally takes one look at me and softens.
“You want me to throw a scone at him next time he comes in?” she asks under her breath.
A real laugh bubbles up this time. “Maybe something heavier.”
“Bagels are lethal,” she offers.
“Perfect.”
Her smile fades into sympathy. “You sure you’re okay?”
No.
Not even remotely.
But she doesn’t need that weight today.
“I’ll be fine,” I reply, and even though it’s a lie, it feels like one I can grow into truth eventually. “Just needed it to be done in a clearly communicated way.”
She nods, squeezing my arm before turning back to customers entering the space.
For the rest of the morning, I bury myself in work—mixing batter, boxing pastries, ringing people up with automatic smiles. The kind of mindless motion that leaves no room to think. It’s safer that way.
Still, every now and then, my eyes flick toward the door. Looking for him. Hoping.
Hating myself for looking.
By noon, the adrenaline crash hits me. My hands tremble as I tie a ribbon around a cupcake box, and my stomach twists sharply—not pain, exactly. More like exhaustion wearing a mask.
“Kelly, sit for a minute,” Ally urges.
“I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re tying a bow around the customer’s napkins, babe.”
I look down.
Oh.
Yes. Napkins. Tied up like a gift basket.
“I might need a sandwich,” I admit.
“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 an accident like 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.
I unlock my car, slide behind the wheel, and grip the steering wheel until my pulse stops racing.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
I start the engine.
Pull out of the lot.
Trying to remember to breathe.
And I don’t look in the rearview mirror.
Because if I did… I might see the pair of headlights pulling onto the road behind me.
Following.
Waiting.
Watching.
Lost in my own thoughts, though, I miss it all.