Page 23 of The Biker and the Baker
“I know.” With a chuckle, he finally takes the party bags from me, rounds to the driver’s side, and folds in. Fires up the engine and powers down the window. “See you around,babe.”
“I’m not—”
But he’s gone before I can finish.
Of course.
Chapter 5
Onyx
I ride upnext to Cookie’s G-wagon in her driveway. Haven’t seen this woman in days. Heard from her, sure—she calls around the clock for updates. But half the time I have to seek her out for a face-to-face.
See, Cookie is a go-getter. A mover and shaker. When she gets an idea about something, she acts without hesitation and sets things into motion. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been a “boss.” She was running people’s businesses for them long before she became an entrepreneur.
Somewhere around age seventeen, I began showing more interest in Cookie’s endeavors over my father’s. Hers almost always included hot, beautiful women. My father’s included guns, drugs, auto-mechanics, and coked-up whores. Since I’m all for the ladies, it’s a no brainer why I was all up in my aunt’s ventures.
Cookie is a micro-manager and doesn’t trust anyone but herself with her businesses, but the longer I worked for her and the more she taught me, the better I became. I was better with people, better at maintaining good business relationships, better at problem-solving and creating order out of chaos.
Where Cookie was hotheaded like my father, I was skilled at putting people at ease and keeping the peace. As a result, a lot of people refused to do business with her unless it was through me.
Next thing I knew, I was singlehandedly managing her entire operation while she sipped whiskey and baked cookies. Not that I’m complaining. My salary’s nothing to sneeze at.
Does Cookie ultimately have the last say? Not exactly. Truth is, she doesn’t give a shit about what I do and how I do it as long as we’re turning a sizable profit. Though, it’s easier to tell people that she does, because the best thing about having a boss is being able to say, “I’ve gotta run it by my boss first” or “Sorry, but my boss didn’t go for it” whenever I want to turn something down.
I’m not a “leadership” guy and I don’t care much for power or titles, so I’m cool with having someone to answer to.
With my spare key, I unlock her door. Trap music spills from the sound system at medium level. The woman’s got shitty taste in music. Inside is warm and toasty from the oven, a mixture of both weed and baked dough on the air.
“Yo, aunty!” I call out. “Where you at?”
"I'm out back!"
I find her out on the back deck, relaxing on a lounge chair with a glass of whiskey in hand and a plate of brownies on the table next to her. Living her best life as usual.
"Weed brownies?" I ask as I pick one up and lower down in one of the patio chairs.
"If a joint’s not between my fingers, then whatever I'm eating’s gotta be laced. You know that."
I chuckle and take a bite of the pot brownie.
"So, what do you want?” she asks. “Any of the businesses on fire?"
"Sure, ‘causeyou'rewho I run to when there’s a fire."
She scoffs. "Boy, I pay you well so I can live well. So shove your sarcasm where the grass ain't green."
It's true, she does. Much like what I'm doing with The Metal House: pay Kendra well so I can do what I'd rather be doing.
Much like I’d never call Cookie if there’s a fire until it’s outed, Kendra never calls me when there’s a fire with The Metal House. She takes care of shit then tells me after.
"I came to ask you about Pia," I say once I've polished off the brownie. Her pot brownies are fire.
Cookie looks over at me then, brow arched, interest piqued. "My Pastry Chef? What about her?"
"Well, what's her deal?"
"What do you mean?"
