Page 5 of The Biker and the Baker
All dressed up and ready to go in another one of her expensive dresses and high-as-fuck heels, skin rich with melanin, Kyor gazes down at me with open impatience. “It’s bad enough you kept me up last night,” she grumbles. “Now you’re making me late for work. Get up. Get gone. You know the rules: Be out before I’m up.”
“Hmm,” I groan, stretching. “I feel so used. Cheap. Dirty.”
Her eyes roll and then I’m smacked with another pillow. I palm my morning wood and her eyes follow.
She bites her lip, nostrils flaring. “Owen… Not cool.”
Kyor and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Friends who sometimes bang. As a top-dollar therapist, she’s got her own views about relationships and monogamy and isn’t interested in anything serious. Works great for me, ‘cause relationships aren’t my thing. At all. So from time to time, we blur the lines of our friendship with random nights of tearing into each other like wolves. Responsibly. Neither of us catching feelings. No sexual or romantic attachment. All fun and effortless pleasure.
Chestnut skin and rich, dark hair, Kyor is bossy, confident, fierce, and has an ass likewhoa. She’s also a great friend and I appreciate the shit out of her. Sex aside, she’s one of the few people I trust.
“If you gave me a key like I asked—”
“The last thing I want to do is come home from a long day of work and find you pounding some thot on my sofa,” she says. “So no. Get the hell up.”
Pushing up on my elbows, I suggest, “You could always join. My girls are open.”
Throwing her hands in the air, she turns and flounces out of the room. I squeeze my dick as I watch that sexy ass roll.
After another long, lazy stretch, I untangle myself from her fancy ass sheets in her fancy ass uptown apartment and roll out of bed.
Half an hour later, I push through the doors of Desayunar. A restaurant that’s quickly becoming one ofthebreakfast spots in North Denver. Owned and operated by my buddy’s hot Hispanic wife—Leyana. It’s barely 7 AM and the place is already buzzing, the air sizzling with the aroma of bacon grease, coffee, and eggs.
The queue at the order counter is ridiculous. I shove to the front, ignoring the nasty looks being hurled at me. Leyana spots me from inside the large open kitchen and gives me a wide grin and a wave from where she’s making crepes on two griddles. She then calls to one of the cooks in Spanish, instructing him to get me sorted. In minutes, I’m walking away from the counter with the same thing I order each morning. Two croissant breakfast sandwiches, a fruit cup, and ginger tea.
No seats are available, but there’s a couple at a table not eating but just gazing into each other’s eyes as if it’s date night under the Eiffel Tower or something. I stand in front of them and glare until they get uncomfortable and scrape their lame asses up, giving me the table.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m stuffed full, but the effects of too little sleep begin to manifest in the form of a headache. I dump the disposable food container in the bin and stroll up the street to Cookie’s Treat, my aunt’s booming pastry café, overseen by yours truly.
I can hear the bakers chattering away in the kitchen—especiallyher—happy as clams, Meghan Trainor’sBetter When I’m Dancingplaying in the background. The pain-in-my ass pastry chef has her own key to let herself and the kitchen staff in, seeing as they have to be here as early as 4 AM sometimes.
After turning on the air conditioning, I add a float to the cash register, power on the flat screens around the cafe, and stock the fridge. When the floor manager clocks in some twenty minutes later, I collect his report from the day before and leave him to the rest.
Weary from the persisting lack-of-rest pounding in my head, I shove open the doors to the kitchen and, as usual, it’s like a goddamn party back here.Despacitospills from a Bluetooth speaker while the staff dances around as they work. I hardly come behind here anymore—not since Pia came on board over a year ago. Don’t know what that woman’s deal is with me, but she hates my guts.
She’s Cookie’s hire, not mine, and the kitchen staff is now managed by her, something she does exceptionally well. I’m glad for it. One more thing off my plate.
Won’t say I care much for her motley team, as I’m often particular and picky about aesthetics, but profits have tripled since Pia overhauled the kitchen crew, so I’m not complaining. Expertise and efficiency trump looks. In addition, this is the healthiest the work environment's ever been here. There used to be a shit ton of unnecessary drama with previous staff. It drove Cookie and me insane. None of that shit with Pia, though. She breathes life into this place, into the staff, keeps them motivated and happy in their work. Dancing to music all day long. She’s like a ball of fucking sunshine, that one. Except whenI’maround…
When everyone stops to look at me, I ask, “Any of you got painkillers?”
While most mumble out a “No,” Pia arches her brow at me. “Good morning to you, too, Onyx.”
For shit’s sake.“Good morning, Pia,” I grit out.
From the way she’s smirking at me, I’m betting that she’s the only one out of everyone here who’s got painkillers. ‘Cause the universe is sick like that. My headache is growing more intense by the minute, but I’d rather it crack my forehead in two than beg this cocksure bitch for anything. Even in her baggy white getup and tall chef hat, she’s daringly gorgeous. Her self-confidence alone is a major turn on. But hell if she doesn’t ruin it every time she opens her damn mouth.
She’s one of the happiest, most cheerful people I know, but also the fiercest—and the rudest.
“I have some painkillers in my handbag…” she trails off.
It’s not an offer, it’s torture.
“No thanks.” I turn and shoulder out of the kitchen and stifled laughter follows me out.
See,that’swhy I avoid going behind there at all costs. Pia Saxena is a goddamn thorn in my goddamn side.
Twelve minutes later, I ride into The Metal House Auto Repair Shop. Once my father’s, now mine. I enter the building from the back, tuck my shoulders in and foot it to Dad’s—well, Kendra’s office.
