Brick
Lords of Carnage MC
Daphne Loveling
Contents
Mailing list
1. Sydney
2. Sydney
3. Brick
4. Sydney
5. Brick
6. Brick
7. Sydney
8. Sydney
9. Brick
10. Brick
11. Sydney
12. Sydney
13. Brick
14. Sydney
15. Sydney
16. Brick
17. Brick
18. Sydney
19. Brick
20. Sydney
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23. Sydney
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25. Sydney
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27. Sydney
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29. Sydney
30. Brick
31. Sydney
32. Sydney
33. Brick
34. Brick
35. Brick
36. Sydney
37. Brick
Epilogue
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About Daphne Loveling
Books by Daphne Loveling
Dedication
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1
Sydney
“You don’t have kolaches?” the elderly man on the other side of the counter huffs at me.
A frown of confusion crosses my face. “What’s a kolache?” I ask him.
The man rolls his watery blue eyes. “All these baked goods,” he says disdainfully, nodding toward my display case. “And no kolaches.”
“I’m sorry.” I try for my most patient tone. “If you can explain to me what a kolache is, maybe I can point you to something in the case that would be similar.”
He scoffs. “Nothing similar in there.” He fixes me with a withering look, as though he’s half-expecting me to die of shame right on the spot. “I’ll just have a cup of black coffee with some creamer.”
“Sure, thing,” I say brightly, reaching for a cup. I fill it with hot, freshly brewed coffee and set it down on the counter. “There’s milk and cream in those carafes over there,” I say, pointing over toward the condiment bar, “so you can pour it in yourself.”
“You don’t have any Coffee Mate?” His face goes from sour to incredulous.
Oh, lord.
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t.” I try to make myself sound deeply apologetic. “There’s cream, two percent, and skim,” I tell him. “And refills are free! You can help yourself. Right next to the cream and milk.”
I don’t know why I was hoping that might brighten his mood, but it definitely does not.
He snorts. “Figures.”
I don’t even know what he means by that, but I’m not about to ask. Apparently, I have sunk to exactly the depths of immorality he expects from the owner of a fancy-schmancy coffee shop.
I ring him up, trying not to look apologetic or defensive when I tell him the total. It’s clear from his expression he thinks it’s an exorbitant amount to pay. Thankfully, though, he seems sick enough of me by now not to bother arguing. He pulls a crumpled bill out of his pants pocket and slides it toward me, then waits in silence until I give him his change. With a loud harrumph, he stalks off without leaving so much as a penny as a tip. Of course.
My dissatisfied customer hobbles to the condiment bar and gingerly pours in a thin trickle of skim milk, as though a single drop too much might just poison him. Then, he shoots me one last disdainful look, and goes over to join the two perfectly pleasant old men I served a few minutes earlier, who are occupying a nice sunny table by the window.
I take in a deep breath and slowly let it out, then plaster my best customer-service smile on my face and turn to the next person in line. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m remarkably thin-skinned when it comes to interactions like this. But, as I remind myself for the hundredth time, it’s par for the course in customer service jobs. You knew what you were getting into when you opened the Golden Cup, Syd. So suck it up, buttercup.
And it’s true. When I opened up the first and only full-service coffee shop in Tanner Springs, I figured I’d have more than a few customers on a learning curve at first. If I had any customers at all, that is. Fortunately, I seem to have been correct that the residents of this small town would welcome a new place to congregate over good coffee and homemade pastries. My worst fear was that no one would ever come into the shop, and that I’d spend my days wistfully looking out the window, watching all the money I’ve invested in this place spiral the drain. Thankfully, that has not come to pass.
But opening this shop hasn’t been without its bumps in the road. And one of the downsides has been that some of my older clientele — Grumpy Kolache Guy, for example — is more used to diner coffee. And diner prices. They can be a little tough to please, to say the least.
I busy myself with my morning tasks and helping other customers, noting with some satisfaction that Grumpy Guy helps himself to refills on coffee not once, but twice. The sour expression never leaves his face, though. I’ll be surprised if he ever comes back to my shop again after today.
The thought doesn’t exactly fill me with sadness.
It’s a little after seven-thirty in the morning when, right on schedule, the morning rush begins. Every weekday, Monday through Friday, there’s a sudden onslaught from now until almost eight-thirty. A steady stream of humanity files through the front door of the shop, each of them seeking to feed their caffeine and sugar addictions. There are professionally dressed adults hustling in on their way to work, and students on their way to high school before first bell. Many of them I recognize by now, and I do my best to remember details from past conversations and ask after their families. They seem to appreciate the attention, and I know the routine of our little morning chats is one of the reasons they’ll keep coming back for more.
I work as quickly as I can, making sure the line doesn’t get too long. Business has definitely been picking up in the last few weeks, and it’s getting harder for me to handle the morning rush by myself. I’ve been putting off hiring someone to help me out in the mornings, even though at this point, I can probably just about afford it. Truth be told, I sort of like the rush-rush of working these mornings by myself. It makes me feel like Superwoman to handle it all without getting in the weeds.
I’m feverishly steaming milk for an order of espresso drinks when the bell to the shop sounds. I look up to see the familiar figure of my only employee, Hailey, walking in.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask her as she slips behind the counter. “Your shift isn’t until this afternoon.”
“Math test,” she replies, pulling down a to-go cup. “I need the caffeine.”
Hailey helps herself to an iced latte while I’m serving other customers. “Also, I wanted to let you know I’m going to be a little late coming in today after school,” she explains in an annoyed voice. “My friend Melissa talked me into being on some stupid Senior Activities Committee.”
“No problem,” I say. “Just get here as soon as you can.”
She rolls her pale blue eyes and blows her dyed lilac-colored bangs out of her face. “Believe me, I will. You’re my excuse for cutting out of there as soon as possible.”
I laugh as I ring
up a customer. “Why are you doing it, then, if you don’t want to?”
Hailey shrugs. “I don’t know. What can I say? I’m a giver.”
Just then, the phone rings. Shit. “Do you have time to grab that, Hailey?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, picking up the receiver. “Golden Cup Coffee, this is Hailey…”
The line to be served is six deep now. This is the busiest I’ve ever been during a morning rush so far. It’s just a regular Friday morning, and I can’t think of any particular reason there should be so many people today. I feel a little buzz of elation at my success, but quickly squash it down because there are customers to attend to. I cast a worried glance at the pastry case. Already I’m running low on muffins, and I wonder whether I’ll need to start making more.
Hailey speaks a few more words into the phone and hangs up. The shop bell tinkles again as I straighten from retrieving a lemon poppyseed muffin from the case.
“Who was it?” I ask her.
She turns to answer me, but then her gaze shifts toward the door. Her eyes widen in surprise. “Holy cow,” she murmurs. “Who the hell is that?”
2
Sydney
I glance over to see who she’s looking at, and almost immediately the skin on my arms tightens with goosebumps.
The man standing in the doorway is so massive that he blocks almost all the light coming through it. Looking at him, the first word that comes to mind is dark. His hair is black as night, cropped short and no-nonsense in an almost military style. The dark shadow of a beard accentuates his square jaw. Tattoos line his arms below the taut sleeves of his black T-shirt.
As I try not to stare, the man’s deep brown eyes lock on mine. He gives me a lazy, sexy smirk. I draw in a sharp breath and give him a quick nod, then look away.
For the past two weeks, this mass of a man has been coming into my shop about every other day. He always orders a black coffee to go, and sometimes a pastry. He rides a low, black motorcycle whose engine rumble I can recognize immediately by now. It’s a testament to how busy I am today that I didn’t hear him pull up.
The worn leather vest he always wears is adorned with various patches. They tell me he’s a member of a motorcycle club called the Lords of Carnage. One patch on his chest says, “Brick,” which I assume is his name, or a nickname. Another says the word, “Enforcer.”
I know all of this because I’ve spent the last couple of weeks staring everywhere but at his face.
Hailey gives a low whistle. “He’s crazy hot,” she whispers.
“And a little old for you,” I murmur back.
“Well, maybe,” she concedes. “But not for you.”
“He’s a little… tattoo-ey for me,” I reply, keeping my voice light. “Besides, he’s a customer.”
She snorts. “It’s not like there’s some sort of rule against hooking up with someone you sell coffee to.”
“Hailey,” I warn. “Drop it. I have a business to run. And I am not in the market for a boyfriend.”
“Psh,” she dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “Everyone says that. But everyone is.”
I shake my head but don’t try to argue with her. I know the less I protest, the quicker she’ll drop the subject and move on. And I am really not interested in discussing my love life, or lack thereof, with a high school student. Or the relative sexiness of my motorcycle-riding regular customer. Hailey is seventeen going on thirty, and far too nosey for her own good.
Also, maybe a little too perceptive.
Because deep down inside, I have to admit that his tattoos are super hot.
Hailey takes her cell phone out of her back pocket and glances at the time. “I have to go,” she mutters. “See you this afternoon.” She pulls out a couple of bills, and starts to put them on the counter, but I stop her.
“On the house,” I tell her. “Good luck with the math test.”
“Thanks,” she grins, and flicks her eyes toward Brick. “Good luck with Mr. Hottie.”
I resist the urge to reply, and go back to serving customers. The rush seems to be slowing now, thankfully. No one has gotten in line behind Brick yet. I make lattes and mochas as fast as I can take orders. The steam from the machine heats me up, and I start to perspire. I can feel Brick’s eyes on me, and have to resist the urge to reach up and smooth my hair. A trickle of sweat slides down between my breasts.
By the time he gets to the head of the line, I’ve over-rehearsed our conversation in my head enough times that I hope I’ll manage not to sound like a complete dork.
“Good morning,” I say in an overly chatty tone. “The usual?”
He gives me a panty-melting half-grin. “Am I that predictable?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble.
“Medium dark roast, to go, no room for cream, in your to-go cup,” I rattle off automatically. “A blueberry muffin if you’re feeling crazy.”
He laughs, a low, sexy growl that starts way down in his throat. It reminds me weirdly of the sound of his motorcycle engine. “Shit, I guess I am that predictable,” he says, deadpan, and hands me his travel mug. “Maybe I need to branch out a little. What do you recommend?” He glances over at the pastry case.
“Well…” I consider the options. “I just made some apricot-ginger scones. It’s my first day offering them.”
The scone is kind of a challenge, actually. In my experience, big, muscular types like him tend to have a congenital allergy to anything they think of as girly or “foo-foo.” It’s almost like they think it will make their testicles shrivel up and fall off. Scones definitely qualify as one of those things. But to my surprise, he considers it for a moment and then nods. “Sounds kind of good. Okay, you got it.” He glances toward the tables. “And I’ll take my scone for here today.”
“Oh… um, sure,” I say. He’s never stayed here to eat before. I realize I’ve sort of been counting down the seconds until he leaves the shop and I can relax. “In that case, just have a seat.” I give him my best professional smile, wondering if it’s too big and I look like a maniac. “I’ll bring the coffee and scone to your table in a second.”
He pays in cash and stuffs a couple of bills in the tip jar, then goes to sit at a small table in the corner that has a newspaper sitting on it. As he settles in, the three old men stand up from their table and get ready to leave. One of them, a rotund man with a Wilford Brimley look and a crown of silvery white hair, gives me a friendly wave.
“Thank you much, miss,” he calls to me as they reach the door. “We’ll be back again soon!”
“I hope everything was tasty,” I call back as I walk toward Brick’s table with his scone and coffee.
Grouchy Guy sniffs as he follows his friends out the door. “I still say, this is no kind of bakery without kolaches,” he announces to no one in particular, jutting out his chin defiantly.
Brick looks up at me with a frown.
“What the hell’s a kolache?” he asks.
3
Brick
This girl’s a fucking knockout.
I knew that the first time I saw her, of course. But up close, without a counter between us, I’m almost blown away by the sight of her.
I came into the Golden Cup for the first time a couple weeks ago, after a night of pretty intense partying with the Lords. I was hung over and on my way to the clubhouse for an early morning run Rock had set up. My coffee maker was broken, my ass was dragging, and I felt like shit. Then on my way through downtown, I noticed the new coffee shop I’d driven by a few times, and decided to stop in.
Turned out the coffee was damn good. But the chick serving it to me was even better.
I bought a new coffee maker the next day, but it’s still sitting on my kitchen counter in the box it came in. Since then, I’ve been coming in a few times a week for a cup to go on the way to the garage. Shit, this girl’s even got me eating goddamn muffins. I’ve taken a fair amount of ribbing from the brothers about it, but fuck them. Those muffins are good.
Today, whe
n I come in, there’s a bigger line than I’ve ever seen. Coffee girl is working like a madwoman behind the counter. I’m last in line, but I don’t mind waiting. It means I can stare at her ass while she works the espresso machine.
By the time I get to the front of the line, there’s no one behind me, and the shop has pretty much cleared out except for a trio of old dudes by the window.
The hot redhead cocks her head at me and gives me a saucy smirk of recognition. “The usual?” she asks.
“Am I that predictable?”
“Medium dark roast, to go, no room for cream, in your to-go cup. A blueberry muffin if you’re feeling crazy.”
I’m due at the shop, to help Hawk finish up work on a bike that a customer wants to pick up later today. But for some reason, instead of taking my usual order to go, I decide on the spur of the moment to sit down and stay for a while.
“What the hell’s a kolache?” I repeat as she sets my coffee and a scone in front of me.
“Huh?” The girl’s eyes flick from the doorway down to me, then back again. “Oh,” she shrugs. “I guess it’s some kind of pastry,” she says. “He seemed really upset that I didn’t have any in the case.”
Up close like this, I notice there’s a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I’ve always been a sucker for freckles. While she’s still distracted, I take a moment to stare at the swell of her breasts under the simple white T-shirt she’s wearing. Her thick auburn hair is pulled back from her face into a high ponytail, exposing the creamy skin of her neck. I want to wrap my hand around it and tug her head back, just a little. Just enough to see the pulse point as her heartbeat speeds up.
BRICK (Lords of Carnage MC) Page 1