A Honeybun and Coffee [Honeybun Hunks Series: Book 1]

by Sam Cheever

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  Red Rose Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Sam Cheever

  First published in 2008-12-18, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  www.samcheever.com

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  A Honeybun and Coffee

  Series: The Honeybun Hunks

  By

  Sam Cheever

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Honeybun And Coffee by Sam Cheever

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Publishing with a touch of Class! ™

  The symbol of the Red Rose and Red Rose is a trademark of Red Rose™ Publishing

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Copyright© 2007 Sam Cheever

  ISBN: 978-1-60435-271-9

  Cover Artist: Shirley Burnett

  Editor: Bernadette Smith

  Line Editor: WRFG

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away.

  This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Forestport, NY 13338

  Thank you for purchasing a book from Red Rose™Publishing where publishing comes with a touch of Class!

  A Honeybun and Coffee

  By

  Sam Cheever

  Chapter One

  Alastair Honeybun stood in a dark corner of the bar and wished he could be somewhere else, anywhere else, other than where he was. His penetrating, blue gaze slid around the noisy bar and he watched the drunken antics of his friends with a slight curl of his lip.

  At thirty-two years old, Alastair was growing weary of the constant bump and grind of male ritual that brought them, always and forever, into the same stale venues doing the same, juvenile things, night after night.

  His friends suffered from no such disillusionment. They were perpetually happy with their current stage in life and saw no reason to reach beyond into adulthood.

  Alastair didn't share their enthusiasm for the drinking and mindless search for the next great pair of tits or soft, round ass to bump against in the night. He was dangerously close to wanting more out of life. A singularly terrifying thing. And something that would most likely cause him no end of grief with his friends if he were ... stupidly ... to confide in them.

  So he didn't confide. Instead he moved through his days as a highly paid financial planner with a certain kind of contented glee, and his nights, as one of the guys, with much reluctance and teeth grinding.

  He decided he'd had enough “fun” for one night and turned to leave, only to bump into, or be bumped into, by a cute little thing with sparkling hazel eyes and gleaming black hair. She smiled up at him drunkenly and licked glossy, red lips.

  "Hiya hansome.” She slurred. Then the pretty hazel eyes slid shut and she started to fold toward the floor.

  Alastair reached out to catch her but found himself a beat too late.

  Two long arms, clad in shiny black suit sleeves, caught the girl under both armpits and reeled her into a broad, over-muscular chest covered by a pink shirt and a shiny red tie. Alastair looked up into dark brown eyes that were cold and empty like a shark's. He smiled. “Had a little too much to drink, eh?"

  The man hefted the girl into his arms and stared hard at Alastair, the coldness of his gaze barely warmed by an insincere bend in his lips. “My sister,” the scary looking man said unnecessarily.

  Alastair, lacking the usual conversational cues to help him out with this, simply nodded and watched the man turn away and leave the bar with the unconscious young woman draped across his arms. A tall, emaciated looking man held the door for the oaf carrying the woman and, after throwing a glacial last look at Alastair, followed him out.

  Alastair did a mental shrug and went to find his buddies. Maybe he'd stay for one more beer.

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  * * * *

  Angie Peterson ran a damp, soapy rag over the countertop and glanced at the clock above her head for the umpteenth time. The shop had been non-stop busy since six o'clock that morning and she hadn't had so much as a pee break since she'd walked through the door.

  The customer queue had dwindled finally to the point where she thought it might be safe to leave the counter to the two teens who helped her out in the afternoons for a five minute potty break. But before she could escape, the door opened and two more customers sauntered in.

  Stifling a sigh, Angie plastered on a bright smile as they approached the counter. “Welcome to the Dunk and Run, what can I get for you today?"

  The taller of the two men gave her an oily grin and winked. “How about a date, sweetie?"

  She forced the smile to stay locked onto her lips and her eyes not to roll and responded as she always did to such unimaginative offers. “I'm sorry sir, that isn't on the menu for today. But I'd be happy to get you a large mocha latte and a muffin instead."

  The man chuckled and pulled out a wad of bills that made Angie's eyes go a little googly. “Make that a vanilla latte with cinnamon and extra whipped cream and make the muffin two glazed donuts and you've got yourself a deal."

  The shorter man had been studying the menu board above their heads since approaching the counter. Finally his cool, black gaze dropped to her. “I want a small, plain coffee."

  Angie nodded, “One Grande mundane coming up."

  The man shook his dark head, dislodging the shiny ponytail at the base of his thick neck. “I don't want no Grande, Grande means big don't it? I want a small, plain coffee."

  Angie smiled at him determinedly. “Yes sir, the Grande is the smallest coffee we have."

  He scowled at her. “Is it small?"

  She shook her head. “Not really."

  His scowl deepened and Angie fought the urge to shiver. “Why don't you people sell no smalls?"

  Angie just shrugged. “Sorry."

  He uttered a particularly foul deprecation and turned toward the taller man with him. “Why do you always gotta go to these fancy coffee shops? Look at t
hat shit, it's three bucks for a plain coffee. That's just stupid. And they don't even gotta small."

  The taller man rolled his eyes at Angie and smiled. “I'll buy you the damn coffee, Louie. Don't worry about the three bucks."

  The man lowered his head and muttered. “It's the damn principle of the thing, Bones. What has this country come to. Three dollar flippin’ coffees the size of my head."

  Angie fought back a giggle and placed a plain Grande on the counter in front of the grumpy guy. “Here you go sir. I only filled it halfway. That will be a dollar and a half."

  Mr. grumpy smiled. “Now that's what I'm talkin’ about.” He took his coffee and headed for a small table in the back corner of the shop.

  The man called Bones threw a twenty on the counter. “Let me apologize for my buffoonish friend, Miss. He doesn't get out much."

  "I heard that!” Came from the table in the back.

  Angie grinned and thanked the slightly scary stranger, ringing up his purchase and giving him back his change. When he left to join his buddy at the back she turned to Petey, the most senior of her two counter help. “I'm going to the ladies. Hold the fort until I get back, okay?"

  Petey nodded and then, as Angie rounded the corner and headed toward the restrooms at the back of the shop, called out, “I forgot to tell you, some lady just told me the toilet's overflowed again. Apparently her kid stuffed half the roll of toilet paper into it."

  Angie closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip to keep from uttering foul deprecations. Then, opening her eyes and looking around she said, “That's okay, it's all women in here now except for those two and they just sat down so I think I'm safe. I'll use the men's. Do me a favor and stop them if you see them coming toward the restroom will you, Petey?"

  The boy nodded distractedly and turned to help the next customer in line.

  Angie opened the men's room door and called softly into the room to make sure it was empty. When she got no response she entered the single stall and sat down with a sigh of relief, leaning over and resting her head in her hands in exhaustion. She'd just sit there for a couple of minutes and take a much needed break. What harm could it possibly do?

  * * * *

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  The door to the Dunk and Run opened and a small wad of teens bustled noisily through. Petey looked up and saw several of his friends approaching the counter. He smiled at them and offered rock knuckles to a couple of his football teammates. Then he bent to the task of making the complex, sickeningly sweet concoctions his friends requested every time they came to the shop.

  He was head down and surrounded by chatty teens a moment later, when the two men sauntered past him and headed for the men's room.

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  * * * *

  Angie heard the door open as she was pulling her skirt back down and she leapt onto the toilet seat guiltily, praying whoever it was only needed to use the urinal on the wall.

  The deep gravelly voice and the slightly whiny one told her that her two newest customers had somehow gotten past Petey. She swore silently and vowed to restrict his donut consumption for the week as punishment.

  The sound of a zipper lowering was followed by a hesitant trickle that told her somebody had prostate issues. At the same time, water started running from the bathroom's only sink. Angie squeezed her eyes tightly closed and prayed they'd just finish up and go. But when the men started talking she forgot to worry about being discovered in the horror of what she was hearing.

  "We need to kill the guy.” Said the one she recognized as Bones.

  One last spurt from Mr. Grumpy and the sound of a zipper sliding back up. “We gotta find him before we can kill him."

  Angie heard the rustle of sleazy material that she figured was probably a dismissive shrug from the taller man. “He works for one of them financial planning places, how hard could he be to find with a name like this?"

  Angie heard paper changing hands and risked a peek through the crack in the stall door. Mr. grumpy laughed as he glanced at the small sheet of yellow paper in his hand. “What a faggot."

  Bones nodded. “The girl's parents will be notified tomorrow so we need to find this guy today. If he recognizes her face he'll know who took her."

  Angie leaned away from the crack and placed a fist in her mouth to keep from crying out. When one owned a small business selling coffee and baked goods one didn't generally deal with things like murder and kidnapping. This stuff was so out of her league.

  She heard the sound of paper being ripped, multiple times, and prayed harder that the two men would leave without needing to use the stall.

  Mr. grumpy flung the paper into the trash can and opened the door. “Let's go. The sooner we find this guy the sooner I can get to the gym. My pecs have shrunk an eighth of an inch since we been on this job."

  "You go on out, I need to use the john."

  Angle bit down on her fist and almost squealed in panic. Her poor heart was beating a frantic pulse against her ribs and she felt as if she was going to pass out.

  He pushed on the door and it didn't budge. “Damn thing seems to be stuck."

  She heard the rustling of cloth that told her he was probably bending down to look under the door and then a big hand grasped the bottom of the door and she almost peed herself.

  "Come on man, you can take a shit when we get to this guy's place. We don't have time to mess with a broken door."

  The hand disappeared from the bottom of the door and the two men left. Angie didn't let herself move or breathe for a full five minutes. When she was sure they were gone, she left the stall and ran to the trash can. Fortunately the trash had been emptied recently and it was easy for her to grab the small pieces of paper at the bottom. Then she left the bathroom, peering carefully around the shop before allowing herself to drop into a chair at an empty table near the restrooms.

  She wiped sweaty palms on her slacks and took deep, yogic breaths for a few minutes before turning to glare at Petey. He shrugged and mouthed, “Sorry,” before the press of customers made him turn his attention back to work.

  Angie's mind roiled. She knew she was the only person in the whole world who could save the man whose name was on that torn up piece of paper. Reaching into the pocket of her smock she fingered the jagged pieces of paper there. Not only did she have to warn this person, but she had to do it fast. Right away. Before those two thugs found him and did their worst.

  Pushing out of the chair with a sudden feeling of determination, Angie walked rapidly around the counter and behind it to grab her purse. “I need to leave for a little bit, Petey. You'll need to hold the fort until I get back."

  The young man, probably feeling guilty for letting the two men walk in on her, simply nodded without argument, even though it would mean overtime for him.

  Angie grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Before she left she called out, “And call the plumber about the woman's restroom."

  He gave her a little wave without looking up, his dark head bent over the cappuccino machine.

  Angie jogged the two blocks to her apartment and flew up the stairs to the third level where she kept a small, tidy apartment in a historic, three story townhouse. She pulled her keys out of her purse as she jogged up the last flight of stairs, jammed it ruthlessly into the door of her apartment, and flew through the door to the apartment's tiny kitchen.

  Her phone book was sitting on one of the bar stools at her kitchen counter. Her niece had used it for a booster seat a couple nights previous when she'd had her divorced sister and two kids over for dinner.

  It had a medium sized splotch of something brown and very hard on the front cover. Probably chocolate sauce from the chocolate sundaes she'd served for dessert that night.

  Angie yanked the phone book open and then realized she didn't know the name. Reaching into her smock pocket, she pulled the pieces of yellow paper out and dumped them in an untidy pile on the countertop.

  As quickly as she could she pulled out the pieces with ink on t
hem and jammed them together into the name, Alastair Honeybun.

  Angie thought this must be a joke and tried to move the pieces around to form a more reasonable name. But try as she might the pieces wanted to fit together into Alastair Honeybun. Rolling her eyes she picked up the phone book and searched frantically for the name in the residence section.

  The good news was that there couldn't be many Alastair Honeybuns in the phone book. Finding an A. Honeybun in Westbridge, about ten minutes away if she ignored all posted speed limits, Angie punched in the numbers and waited for the phone to be picked up on the other end.

  As she waited, tapping her foot and biting the nail of her long suffering right index finger, Angie thought about two things at once. First, it was the middle of a work day and A. Honeybun most likely wouldn't be at home. And secondly, how was she going to tell the man, a complete stranger, that she was calling to warn him he was about to be murdered?

  Angie had lifted the phone away from her ear and was getting ready to set it back into the cradle when she heard a muffled sounding voice on the other end.

  "Hewwo."

  Angie jerked the phone back to her ear. “Hello. Is this Alastair Honeybun?” She felt silly just saying the name.

  "Dat's me.” The man sounded awful. A series of violent sneezes followed his brief response.

  Angie frowned. “That sounds like a bad cold. I'll bet your throat is killing you isn't it. Have you tried drinking hot tea with lemon in it?"

  A long silence greeted Angie's helpful comment. Then finally, “Who are you?"

  Angie jammed the tortured nail back in her mouth and spoke around it. “Thorry. Ummm. You don't know me but,” How the hell was she going to tell him why she'd called? Finally she decided straight up, brutal truth was best. “I'm calling to warn you that two men are coming to kill you."

  Another long silence, filled only with heavy breathing of the clogged nasal passage kind. Then he finally said, “Real funny. Who put you up to this? Is this Bob's girlfriend? He's such an asshole. I gotta go.” An extended round of coughing was cut off in the middle as he hung up the phone in her ear.