Page 7 of Property of Chux

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya, Madman.” I murmur giving a nod to Grit all is a go. This is our regular set up with this chapter. The more casual any tradeoff is the better. Movies make shit look wild. No smart outlaw wants to attract attention to a transaction. The less we can be seen together, followed and connected, the better.

“You need extra coverage ‘til you sort the other day?” He offers since this order was delayed a little bit. Our plan was the day after the shooting make this drive. I was still pissed about getting shot at and told Madman a little bit along with rescheduling the drop.

My grip tightens on the phone.

“Still looking into it,” I mutter. “But leads are goin’ nowhere. Wished one of the fuckers could have lived until I got done gettin’ some answers. All is quiet on the home front again, for now.”

“We sure it ain’t a jealous boyfriend?” Madman says, voice lowering.

“Not that we have sorted. Not taking anything off the table, but my gut says this was on us. Just not sure why yet.”

“You need backup, you let me know.”

I glance at the bikes, the boys waiting for the call to ride out.

“Got it under control,” I say after a moment. “This happened on my spot, it’s personal now regardless of the who, what, when, where, and why. We’ll handle it.”

Madman exhales through his nose. “Figured you’d say that. Stay sharp, brother.”

“You too.”

I hang up, slide my phone into my pocket, and take one last look at the loaded storage unit before yanking the metal door down.

“Let’s ride.”

The engines roar back to life, and just like that, we’re back on the road, heading home.

My mind isn’t on the run anymore.

It’s on the men who stepped foot in my town.

And how soon I’ll get the chance to put them in the ground.

CHAPTER 4

ALAINA

Morningsat the bakery usually start with the smell of fresh bread, the quiet hum of the ovens, and the comforting warmth of a new day.

Not today.

No, today, I step into my bakery and find the floor covered in water.

The sharp, metallic scent of damp wood and mildew slaps me in the face as I wade forward, my sneakers instantly soaked through. The soft glow of the street-lamps outside casts long reflections in the standing water, making the kitchen look twice as bad as it probably is. At least I hope it’s not as bad as it looks.

I curse under my breath, my heart hammering. The source of the flood is obvious—the cabinet beneath the sink is wide open, water gushing from a busted pipe like a damn fire hydrant.

My stomach twists at the sight. Water damage is no joke. The wooden floors, the electric ovens, the expensive ingredients—everything is at risk. And worse, this isn’t the kind of setback I can afford right now. I make enough out of the shop to support myself and pay Kelly a salary, but I don’t have the kind of savings to literally replace my entire shop.

“Great. Just perfect,” I mutter, dropping my bag onto the counter and rushing to shut off the water valve. My hands are slick as I grip the knob and twist, cursing again when it fights me before finally stopping the flow. The sudden silence is deafening, the steady gurgle of escaping water cut off like a choked-off scream.

I stand there for a second, water dripping from my fingertips, my stomach sinking. This is bad. Really bad. If the floors warp, I’ll be in serious trouble. If the ovens short-circuit from the moisture, I’ll be down for days. And days without my bakery means losing money I don’t have to spare.

A breath shudders through me, and I force myself to move. I grab a mop from the back and start pushing water toward the door, the sound of wet slaps against tile filling the air. The longer I work, the more the frustration builds, swirling in my chest like a storm cloud ready to burst.

Then, reality sets in. I don’t have the means to fix this on my own.

I need help. As much as I don’t want to call him, I know this is a time I have to. It’s funny how as little kids asking our family for support is second nature. Then growing and maturing, we want to do things independently as if these people didn’t help us in the damn beginning. Why it bothers me to ask for help, I don’t know, but it’s absolutely the last thing I ever want to do.

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