Page 13 of Property of Chux

"Same volume?"

"Little more."

I make a note. Details matter. Too much weight can throw off everything especially if the Coast Guard pulls the boat before it’s docked or if Customs decides to audit us.

“Got a time frame?" I ask looking at the calendar.

"Four weeks. Should be packed and ready to move within a day of hitting your docks."

Tight window. Standard procedure. The Kings don’t let product sit.

"You contact my carrier yet or you want me to?"

"Working on it," Kane replies. "Might use the same route we did back in March need to verify they can do it. Seemed smooth sailing."

I consider that. The last run we did through that route went smooth, but it wasn’t without risk. Border patrol’s been nosing around some of the coastal drop points lately. We’ll need a contingency plan.

"Keep me posted," I tell him. "I’ll have space cleared when it lands. You need extra hands?"

"Nah, we’re covered." A pause. "We all good over there? Heard about the mess the other night."

My jaw tightens. I get why we as a club whole need to share any threat to any club, but I hate that it’s mine on the radar.

"We’re handling it," I say flatly.

Kane exhales. "You sure?"

"If I wasn’t, you’d already know."

Another pause. Kane’s smart. He knows when to push, and when to back off. "Fair enough, you need us, we roll out," he finally says. "I’ll send the manifest through the usual way. Keep your boys sharp."

"Always."

The line clicks off.

I close the burner and set it back down, staring at the shipping schedule pinned to the wall.

Four weeks.

Another load coming in. Another job to do.

Business as usual.

But my mind isn’t on the shipment. It’s still back at a tiny shop, tangled up in a woman who should be nothing more than a baker who smells sweet with a pretty face.

And somehow, I know this isn’t the last time she’s gonna be on my mind.

CHAPTER 6

ALAINA

The morning startslike 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.

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