U-Turn (Bayou Dogs MC #2)

Chapter 1

one

GREER

The smell of rubber and motor oil fills my nose. A man in a leather vest sits behind the counter. He gives me a curious expression, then asks, “You need something, lady?”

Placing the cardboard box on the countertop, I respond, “I’m dropping this off for the Bordelon-Richards wedding.”

He coughs out a laugh, then reaches for a pocket knife, his lips still tipped into a sly smile. After breaking the seal, he inspects the contents. “Bring it this way.”

He leads me into the back and down a hall, stopping midway. All too eagerly, he bellows, “Darcy, delivery.”

“Go ahead and sign for it,” a feminine voice answers.

“Nuh-uh, this one’s special. You gotta come get it yourself.”

I linger, feeling out of place while the pair talk back and forth until a woman about my age comes out of the office. Dark straight hair falls to her waist, almost hiding the beginning of a baby bump.

She smiles in welcome. “You have something for me?”

I plaster on a practiced smile in return and try to act professional. “I’m delivering the samples from Marcel’s Bakery that you requested.”

Darcy’s smile vanishes faster than a babysitter’s boyfriend when a car pulls up. She purses her lips and says gloomily, “Lemme guess. Wedding cake?”

“Yes, we picked out the ones we thought would pair best with the red velvet groom's cake.”

“He ordered already?” Darcy asks, staring at me with wide eyes, mouth agape.

“You’d have to ask the owner about any particulars,” I deflect, not willing to take the heat of an unwanted order.

I saw the mock-up before the groom approved it. It’s Harley-Davidson themed, with a funny “groom dragging the bride” topper.

With a tight expression, Darcy holds out her hands for the package.

She flips open the box to examine its contents, then shakes her head, frustrated. “That man. ‘Get planning,’ he tells me, then he goes and does it because I’m not doing it fast enough.”

Reaching into her pocket, Darcy pulls out some bills and hands them to me. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch. If I’m not in jail for homicide.”

After leaving the cake samples on a counter, she marches past me and straight out the door, a woman on a mission.

Someone is in hot water.

This is probably one of the weirdest customer interactions ever.

Eager to get away from whatever is about to go down, I scurry toward my car. After working at my aunt’s bakery these last few weeks, I know not to be around when an argument is brewing.

She watches me approach from the passenger seat, heart-shaped sunglasses covering her eyes. Turning to her, I say, “Brides are crazy. Please get better soon so you can deal with them. I still can’t believe you took such a bad tumble.”

She points to the walking boot on her right foot. “I’m trying. The doctor should clear me to drive next week. Besides, we both know the clinic is going to send a job offer any minute. Then you’ll be free and clear from making deliveries.”

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” I remind her. After two interviews at the small town practice, I can’t help but hope for the position. I’d be the only nurse, but there’s more pluses than drawbacks for me.

In the meantime, I don’t mind helping out at my aunt’s bakery. I enjoy it even. I just hate deliveries and drama.

As I look over my shoulder to pull out, I’m not surprised to find the bride having it out with a tall man with long brownish blond hair. He’s wearing a motorcycle vest like one of the men in Darcy’s office with patches the same shade of blue.

Darcy’s making big swooping hand gestures as the man watches patiently, tattooed forearms crossed around his chest. Her voice carries across the street, but the words are muddled over the radio.

As Darcy airs her grievances, the man isn’t angry at all, nor condescending.

He’s quiet, his eyes trained on his wife-to-be.

In the handful of pre-marital spats I’ve seen, not one of the grooms watched their soon-to-be spouse the way he does Darcy.

Even while she's reading him the riot act, he’s staring at her like she’s the sun on his face and the air in his lungs.

You know a couple is in love when even their arguments make you heart sick with want.

Without any other traffic, I cruise down the main street of the small town.

The painted signs are sun-dulled, the ceramic planters by the doors to the market are scuffed, as if hit repeatedly with a shopping cart.

It reminds me of the set of a Hallmark movie after the crew leaves.

Slightly scruffy and worn, but loved and still beautiful.

“I think this is the wrong direction,” Allie remarks.

“I remember seeing that fleur-de-lis sign before,” I insist.

In a sugared, sarcastic tone, Allie says, “Welcome to Louisiana. We have Mardi Gras, we have alligators, we have mosquitoes large enough to carry off a small child, and we’ve got fleur-de-lis plastered on anything that’ll stay still long enough.”

“Ha ha very funny. Set the GPS, will you?”

“My phone’s almost dead,” she apologizes. “I need to have the battery replaced. It’s draining fast.”

I creep down the road, hoping not to somehow miss my turn. “Grab mine. The passcode is five, eight, one, two.”

“There,” Allie says.

Over Bluetooth, the robotic voice announces, “Make a U-turn.”

“Okay, so wrong way,” I admit, already pulling into a small market to turn around.

My cousin and I laugh at one another, just the comfortable goofiness that comes with close family.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says.

“Me too.” As a military brat, I’ve lived at quite a few duty stations.

Some were amazing, but lately, the bayou has been beckoning me home.

As much exposure as I’ve had to other areas, I’m still Cajun in my bones.

Even when it’s a new experience, like riding in an airboat, it feels natural.

It’s as if my DNA recognizes what my eyes have never seen.

Besides, I’m twenty-two years old. It doesn’t make sense for me to establish myself at a new job near Dad’s duty station, only for them to move back to Louisiana when he retires next year.

The way I see it, I moved back home ahead of them.

“Speaking of moving,” Allie says. “Look at that.”

I follow the direction she’s pointing to a coffee shop next to the market. On the second floor balcony is a sign advertising “Apartment for Rent.”

A bubble of excitement builds inside of me as I look around. The street is beautiful, and across the road is a small park with a running track. It’s picture perfect and in the center of town. With a shake of the head, I let out a resigned sigh. “It’s going to be so expensive.”

“In Parran? No,” Allie insists. “People move this far out because the rent is cheaper.”

“I have Hank. They might not want to rent to someone with a dog since it’s above a business.”

“My friend’s apartment is above a corner market, and they let her have a chihuahua. She just has to pay a deposit.”

A prickle of hope starts to grow. Not only am I working for my aunt and uncle, but staying with them. With four children, the house can be busy at times. I love them dearly, but a place for me and my dog would be amazing. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to call.”

As we pass the auto supply store again, I’m not surprised at all to see the bride and the supposed groom already in a clutch. A tattooed hand is on her ass in the middle of the street, and they aren't just kissing. They are kissing.

“Holy smokes,” Allie says. “Did you see him?”

“Look at how he’s holding her,” I point out.

She must not have noticed the couple when we drove by before.

As possessive and primal as his grip is, the man’s complete adoration for his woman is obvious.

Even though they’re on a public sidewalk, it feels like you’re watching something incredibly intimate. My chest squeezes again.

Nope, I’m not jealous at all. Allie can clearly read my mind as we share a look. My face almost always gives away what I’m thinking.

“I feel like I need a cigarette after watching that,” Allie says with a laugh.

“They’re so in love. You can tell she’s his everything.” My voice is dreamy even to my ears, the sappiness of my inner hopeless romantic taking over.

In the meantime, I just want a guy who sees me as special.

The long screech of my insulin pump alerts me that my blood sugar is predicted to go low soon.

It’s best to have a sugary treat before hypoglycemia hits.

Without being prompted, Allie reaches into my purse and pulls out my candy stash.

With the calmness of someone used to the constant ups and downs of a Type 1 diabetic, she opens a bag of fruit snacks and then pours them into my waiting palm.

The sugar sticks to my teeth as I slowly chew the candy, looking around for anything familiar.

As I approach the only red light in town, the rumble of a bike drowns out Hozier.

The signal is red, giving us a moment to gawk.

Coming from the opposite direction, a heavily tattooed rider sits astride a jet black Harley.

With the small intersections, I’ve been blessed with a relatively close view.

A half helmet covers his hair, but a glimpse at those tanned forearms is enough for my eyes to linger longer on this man.

The tattooed muscles of his arms flex as he adjusts his stance on the bike.

A gray tee sticks to him like a second skin.

He starts to look around, showing off an inked throat.

“Holy book boyfriend,” Allie gasps.

You know when you take something out of the oven, and it looks amazing? But if you cut into it, you’re gonna get burned. That’s the biker boy. The man probably has women swarming him. The fact that Allie and I are both focused on him is proof enough.

But I can still enjoy the eye candy in front of me.