Page 3 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

We spend at least an hour making unsuccessful phone calls.

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Marcus—

I hold the phone to my ear. “Paul’s Grocery and Tap, Brandy speaking.”

“Hey doll, weird question. Do you have any Christmas tree cakes?”

“Our truck is unloading now. Let me check. By the way, unless you’re my dad or keeping my bed warm, I’m not your doll.”

“Interesting proposition, doll.” I stretch out the last word and hear a huff on the other side of the line.

“Do you want me to check or not?”

“Please do, Brandy.” I smile.

“Hold just a minute.”

The guys look at me questioningly.

“Truck just came. The girl's checking for me.” I see the hope in their eyes. We’re all ready to get home, and I admit, I have a bit of a personal motivation for hoping this place has got the product we're after. I’d love to see what the spitfire on the other side of the phone looks like. Her voice sounds sultry and melodic, and I can only hope she looks like the image I’ve conjured in my head.

Her voice picks up on the other end. “We have eight boxes, but they don’t stay on the shelves long.”

“Thank God. Can you hold one for me?”

“I can hold it for ten minutes.”

“We’re at least thirty minutes out.”

“Well then, may I suggest you haul ass?”

“Be there as quick as I can. Wouldn’t want to keep you waiting, doll.” I chuckle at the last word.

“We’ll see.”

I imagine her eye roll right before she clicks the phone off. I turn to the guys and call out. “We gotta roll. She has some, but will only hold them for ten minutes.”

“Damn, let’s go!” Billy jumps on his bike.

We roar across town and onto the lot of Paul’s, kicking up gravel as we come to a jolting stop. Walking inside, we find what appears to be a massive convenience store on one side, and a wall lined with beer taps and a long counter on the other. A display of glass growlers sits in the middle of the shop. Several stools are already taken.

A tall brunette with long loose curls has her back to us, filling a growler and giving a perfect view of her round ass in her skinny jeans. As she turns, my eyes travel up to the racerback tank she wears with the name and logo of a local brewery, taking in the ample amount of cleavage it reveals. My gaze travels farther up to connect with her rich brown eyes. She gives me a cocky smirk and walks over to ring up the customer. I stand behind him, watching her every move, hypnotized.

TJ bumps me. “You’re up.”

“Oh, hey. I’m Marcus. I called about the Christmas tree cakes.” My eyes connect with hers, and I can’t help but wink.

“Right.” She leans down, giving me an even better view of her cleavage, and reaches behind the counter, bringing a box out. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“Sorry, ma’am. You’re a little distracting.”

“Ma’am’s my mom. Call me Brandy.”

“Brandy.” I let her name roll off my tongue in a deep vibration.

“Is there anything else I can get you boys, or are you just here for your”—she glances down at the cakes and a smile forms—“snacks?”

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