Page 19 of That Girl is Trouble

I’m locked in a stand-off with the menu board at Della’s Bakery.

The donuts here are good. And the coffee’s decent if you stay away from that overpriced espresso-latte-cappuccino bullshit. When I order coffee, I just want a damn cup of coffee. No foam or flavouring. Nothing fancy. I shouldn’t have to read through a menu to figure out what kind of caffeine a place is selling.

That’s the problem these days. Too many options.

It’s the same with this damn cake. Too many flavours. Chocolate, vanilla bean, lemon, hazelnut, almond, coconut, strawberry. There’re probably two fucking dozen listed out on this damn board, yet none of them feel right.

“Shouldn’t the prospect be doing this?” Tex asks as he drops into one of the few seats in the small bakery.

“Jesse was passed out on the pool table when I left this morning,” I say over my shoulder. “Kid was so still I almost checked his pulse on the way out.”

He shakes his head. “Fucking lightweight. Hasn’t been drinking long enough,” he says with a grin. “Me? Woke up this morning with a clear head.”

Preacher snorts and folds his arms over his chest, the gold cross around his neck glinting as he shifts against the wall. “That’s called alcoholism.”

“And with a mouth around my dick.”

Closing his eyes, Preacher tips his head back and lets out a sigh. “God, grant me the serenity—”

“She was a pretty one. Real enthusiastic little thing.”

“—to accept that this man will never change. The courage—”

“I can share next time if you want. When’s the last time you got laid?”

“—to resist the urge to punch him in his face. And the wisdom—”

“Will you two shut the fuck up?” I snap. “And no prayers today, Preach.”

Preacher absentmindedly reaches for his necklace, as if touching it will cleanse him of the latest sin he feels guilty about committing. I’m sure there were a few last night. Drinking, dope, a couple fights, women. Maybe all of the above. Halloween marked the end of our annual fall charity ride—and we rode in the biting cold all goddamn day to raise money for the South Bay Hospital. It’s one of those things we do to make up for all the bad we put into this world. Checks and balances. Bad shit, followed by good shit, followed by bad shit.

And the bad shit always follows.

After a night like last night, where we’re all booze and blondes, Preacher tends to get a little… preachy. He was a priest once upon a time, though the man looks like the furthest thing from it. Covered in tats, leather cut, a crooked nose from getting punched in the face one too many times. He was young when he took the collar and young when he abandoned it. And regardless of how many times I’ve seen him with blood on his hands, the life he had before this one is fucking ingrained in him.

Confess. Repent. Atone.

He may be a Sinner, but every Sunday, he’s in church paying penance to his God for all the shitty things he’s done on behalf of the club. Good shit followed by bad shit.

Tex kicks his feet up on the chair next to him. “What about Funfetti?” he says, jerking his head up to the board. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

“Sprinkles in the cake batter,” Preacher murmurs, mind still elsewhere. “Seems a little… cheery for Kitty.”

I nod. Too cheery. Which brings me back to the fucking board. Tex is right. Jesse should be here, deciding on what flavour of birthday cake to get his woman. Instead, for some goddamn reason, I dragged my own ass in here, and as each second ticks by, this war I’m having with that list of flavours is becoming more ridiculous.

Just fucking pick one.

With a dramatic sigh, Tex pushes up from his seat and treads over to the counter, putting on his most charming grin. He tilts forward and rests his elbows on the glass that displays a dozen or so pre-made cakes.

“Hey, honey,” he says to the pretty woman behind the counter. “What flavour would you pick?”

“Um,” she stammers. “Well, what’s it for?”

“Birthday cake. For a lady.”

Her face falls. “Oh.”

“Not my lady,” he says with another smile.

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