Sweet Ride Read online

  S W E E T R I D E

  _______________________

  D a n i W y a t t

  Copyright © 2016

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit PopKitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Sweet Ride

  Stalkers welcome.

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE ONE

  EPILOGUE TWO

  PERFECT

  WHERE SHE BELONGS

  Other Titles by Dani Wyatt

  FOLLOW ME

  Thank You.

  A NOTE TO MY READERS:

  I appreciate every one of you.

  Dedicated to those of us that drop the F-bomb

  at family dinners and think spending Friday night with

  a few good donuts and a sweet, smutty book

  sounds pretty damn good.

  Stalkers welcome.

  Sordid fun and other dirty shenanigans

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  Dani Wyatt on Amazon

  PROLOGUE

  Eight Years Earlier

  THORNE

  “I’m out.” My words are met with a wall of silence from the other end of the phone. A long pause and then muffled, labored breathing. “You hear me? Done. Fuck!”

  My eyelid twitches as I stare at the evening news on the television. It’s unusual for me to turn on the electronic teat, but today, I got word I might want to take a look. No one knows when shit like this is going to hit home. In my world, for most, it never does. But for me, today is my day. My epiphany.

  The low static on the phone clears and I roll my eyes when I hear the voice on the other end. “You don’t get to tell me fuck-all about being done.” The man I know only as ‘Black’ is as pretentious as his pretentious code name.

  In my imagination, he holds court behind an enormous desk carved from some dark hardwood, pinching a Cuban cigar in his teeth while minions nod in agreement to whatever pontifications fall from his lips. But, truth be told, I have no idea what he looks like. In this business it’s better not to know too much about your associates. We have phone numbers on disposable phones, keeping things detached keeps you safe. As safe as possible I suppose.

  He takes a deep, raspy breath before he speaks. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” The gravelly voice twists with humor and my gut churns. The phone connection crackles, all I know is he’s on an island somewhere, which island I don’t want to know. Less is more. “And why the fuck do you care? People die. Fuck-all happens. It’s not like you pulled the trigger.”

  ‘Fuck-all’...his signature phrase. Jesus, get some new material. He’s a poorly written pulp-fiction character.

  There’s a pfft sound like he’s shrugging his shoulders. “Life is shit, Thorne. You do what you can to make yours a little less shit than everyone else’s.”

  “This is different. I did the drop. I delivered. But it went fucking sideways. Two civilians down. One’s DOA and the other in intensive care.” I steel myself to say what I have to. Let him know that I’m serious. I blink against the tears. Jesus, what the fuck is this? I’m soft in all the wrong places? “I’m fucking out. This is it. My name’s all over this. You and me, we don’t exist anymore.”

  This is no fucking way to live. And for some inexplicable reason, I decide I don’t just want to live.

  I want a fucking life.

  Something more. I don’t know that will be, but I’m damn sure going to live to find out.

  There is a rustling then a clunk on the other end of the phone and a distant chuckle. He does this shit as well. Sets the phone down in the middle of a conversation, just like that.

  How did my fucking life get here? How did I slide into this swamp of piss and filth?

  Somehow I’d convinced myself I wasn’t the bad guy.

  People kill people. Not guns, right?

  That’s what I’ve always told myself. I’m just an entrepreneur.

  They will get them from someone if not me, so why not? I needed to make a living. No education besides what living on the streets had taught me, I convinced myself that the gun trade was somehow a step above the low life of drugs or the multitude of other crimes that to my rationalization were fucking below me. What a crock of steaming shit that turned out to be.

  The lights came on for me today. Watching the news and finding out two people just died because they got caught up in the crossfire from guns I delivered not three hours ago. Why does this bother me now? I’d pushed away the reality of the facts for too long. Had people died before from guns that passed through my hands? Hell yes.

  Fuck. I should be the one lying in a hospital bed or worse. Whatever he decides to do to me, I’ll take it, because I’m not doing this again. I can’t.

  I hear Black barking orders to someone in the background, telling them to bring him a drink. The irony is I know nothing about him, and yet I know all the little details. I even know his goddamn drink. Always the same, he likes to call for it whenever we talk no matter the time of day. Fucker has some weirdness about him.

  Dry vodka martini, two orange twists, in a rocks glass.

  There’s other weird shit I hear, too. He’s an attention whore, likes to tell me shit I shouldn’t, and do not want to know. Thinks he’s impressing me by spouting off about fucked up shit I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I swear to Christ, during one phone call he was fucking bragging about taking kidneys out of people. Not willing people either. That’s some next level evil there.

  I pull the phone from my ear, hold it out at arm’s length and stare at it for a long minute.

  Finally, the faint voice of Mr.‘Fuck-all-Vodka-Martini’ broadcasts out of the tiny speaker talking about doing a new deal but I’ve stopped listening.

  Let the shit hit the fucking fan. He can find another gun runner. Someone will gladly step in to replace me. I get he might not like it, but I sure don’t think he’d take it so hard that he’d send me off the radar permanently but you never know.

  I hit the ‘end call’ button and gently place the cheap pre-paid phone on the floor. I bring the heel of my boot over the screen and listen to the steady crunching noise as I grind it into the faded linoleum floor.

  I’m out.

  Whatever that means, I’ll die a man not a pawn. I’m good with that.

  I sit there dead still for a long time. Long enough for the shadows on the tabletop to grow a few inches as the sun drops outside the window of my shit hole apartment.

  I set my elbows on my knees. Looking at my hands and the ink that decorates them. Then I bring them to my head and rub back and forth, the friction heating my palms. There is a faint scratching of something that has taken up residence in the cabinet under my sink.

  Truth is, I don’t have the heart to do anything about it. I don’t want to kill it, rodent or not, the damn thing just needs to eat and I remember scratching around for the same more than once in my life.

  The pounding on my apartment door hits me, making my body jerk and turn.

  Fuck. Maybe Black took it harder than I thought. Sent someone for me. A dark laugh comes out of me thinking he’s pissed that I broke up our little felonious romance.

  I wipe the back of a hand over my cheek and it comes away damp. Tears blur my vision and I look like a fucking pussy, but it’s not because I’m scared. I’m not afraid to die.

  After all these years, I accepted that risk. But now it’s just all hitting home: I never actually did anything with my life.

  I could run, but fuck that shit.

  The pounding comes again, harder.

  “Open up. Police.”

  ONE

  Present Day

  THORNE

  God, it smells so fucking good. I’ll never get enough of that smell.

  The backroom of the shop is clocking in at ninety-one degrees and it’s already cooled down a good bit from its highest point during the early morning baking hours. It’s also spotless, the steel and glass thermometer glinting in the sunlight through the window, and I make a mental note to thank the staff for keeping up on my standards.

  “Hey, boss man! I thought I heard your beast pull up. You ride that bike dressed like that? You are one of a kind, man.” Christopher Ward shakes his head and his eyes light up as I stride through the back hall. He’s in the prep area where he’s wiping down a gleaming, stainless steel table. “Guess it’s our undercover boss Friday, huh? How many stores we got now? Sixty? Sixty-three? I quit counting.”

  I straighten my suit
jacket and run a hand through my hair, a little smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Sixty-two opened last week in Times Square. But it’s your lucky day, man.” I slap him on the shoulder and he turns in for a quick bro hug. “Place looks great, as always. You run a tight ship. Don’t need to even come here, never anything to put on my report except ‘fucking outstanding.’”

  “That right?” He’s trying to hide the grin of pride, but I can see it. “Then why do you come here? Don’t you have investors to meet or something?”

  “Sure. But they don’t have your fucking personality, man.” I glance around. “Seriously, good job. I mean that. The place is safe in your hands.”

  I work at one of my stores every Friday. Always have, always will. I enjoy it; it reminds me of how lucky I’ve been. More than that, it lets the staff know that they’re not working for some faceless corporation. We’re in this together.

  “Awww, shucks, boss. Guess you raised me right. From thug to this.” He chuckles and spins his head, looking around the back room. “Who’da thought?”

  Tattoos cover his neck and hands, the only ink that’s currently on show, but I know from our time at Jackson State he’s almost eighty percent covered in color. I kid you not, and I have the community showers to thank for that information.

  My body isn’t far off from his ink coverage, either. But I’m a waist-up kind of guy when it comes to my body art. My ink is a kaleidoscope of color and covers me from hip bones up until it swirls up my neck under my crisp, tailored dress shirts. Yeah, my contradictions turn heads.

  I look up to the ceiling, thanking whatever higher power took a hand in my life. “Do you remember years ago when we opened that door, took a knee and prayed?” I set my legs wide and cross my arms as he nods back. “Fucking crazy ass ride it’s been, right?”

  “Fucking sweet ride. Here we are. Two felons selling three dollar donuts.” He throws his head back letting out a deep breath. “From making fucking glazed donuts for a thousand inmates in that hell kitchen. Now this. Some days, I still wake up and think it’s a dream.” He looks around the room, gleaming with stainless steel and racks and racks of decorated donuts in twenty-four flavors.

  Not just any flavors either. Try a Cappuccino and Coconut. Or our white chocolate truffle. My newest is a dark salted chocolate and mango. We name them all, too, with these chicken shit names that would have the old Thorne shaking his head.

  Names like: Mango Bango. CappoNut, 101 Dalmatians.

  I look through the window of a glassed cool room at the rear of the baking area, where two smiling women are chatting and working to apply the icing and decorative toppings that have become our trademark at The Sweet Spot.

  “You know you can come up to corporate anytime. Get out of the store. I told you.” I twist my head, trying to work out the kink that settled in from falling asleep at my computer last night. All work and no play makes Thadeus a rich, but lonely boy.

  Which suits me fine right now. I love to work. Dating and getting laid for the sake of getting laid are not in my wheelhouse. Just doesn’t make me tick.

  If I don’t feel it, it’s not my jam. And the truth is I haven’t felt anything in the below the belt department for so long, I’m not even sure my damn equipment still works in a real life scenario. Maybe I’ll find out someday, but until that right girl hits me in all the right places, I’m a workaholic who doesn’t want an intervention.

  “Not a fucking chance.” Christopher shakes his head with a crooked smile. The scar on his cheek pulling his eyes a bit crooked. “I like being on the ground. The early mornings. The customers. The routine. It’s my home, bro.”

  Christopher has a good nest egg going I’m sure. Like me, he’s not an extravagant spender. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I like my suits and my bike but I don’t spend like I could. I prefer a few bank accounts with plenty of zeros showing.

  I’m sure neither of us ever thought we’d be part of the upper crust as we used to call it. The right side of the tracks I guess.

  Christopher could come up to corporate, sit in an office, buy a nice place in a suburb, find him a gorgeous wife, suit out his life with a dog and 2.5 kids. But like me, this crazy ass donut business got under his skin. It’s just part of who we are right now.

  The bells on the shop’s front door jingle as I nod at my friend in agreement.

  I get it, it’s the customers, the routine, early mornings and the smell of donuts baking. That’s what it’s all about. Out at the front retail area Angela greets whomever just walked in with a familiar, “Good morning, what can I get you?” She sounds happy, which is just the way I like it. Treat the staff well and it pays dividends.

  Literal dividends in my case.

  I clap my hands in front of me, then rub them together before speaking. “Alright, bro. I’m going to go check out the front. Watch Angela work her charm. You tell everyone it’s lunch on me today. If you guys want to go out, I’ll cover the store. Or I’ll bring in whatever you want.”

  I look down at my watch. Then pull the cuffs of my shirt so the white shows evenly under the dark grey of my suit sleeve then turn to step toward the front.

  “Yes, boss. Er, hold on, wait, there’s something else.” The lightness in Christopher’s voice turns to hesitation. “I got something else you need to know.”

  Christopher is no drama queen, so I know whatever is about to be said will not be fucking rainbows and unicorns. I lick my lips and pause at the swinging door that separates the back room from the sales area. He’s rubbing and squeezing his temples, not meeting my eyes.

  “I got a call yesterday.” Christopher drops his hand from his temples to grip at the goatee that covers his chin. “Saul, man. He called. Again. Showed up last night. Again.”

  Fuck me. I was having a fucking good day.

  “Jesus. What the fuck did he want?”

  “He wants to work. Hey, that’s what he said, man, I’m just passing on the message.” Christopher shakes his head.

  My shirt collar is pinching the back of my neck when I throw my head back. Fuck. I let out a breath to relieve the pressure that’s building inside my head as Christopher continues. “He said he’s straight, and that you told him once if he got his ass straight you’d give him a shot.”

  “Yeah, that was before he took two more rides for breaking parole. He’s not straight. I’ll tell you right now, he’s still down on Cass, shuffling whatever he can to get his fix.”

  “I don’t doubt you, boss. But he just said you promised and I’m just delivering the message. You’ve helped out brothers before, so it’s not for me to decide.” Christopher throws his hands up and shrugs.

  I take a breath and close my eyes. Funny how Saul’s name turned my mood from sweet to sour. He and I were cellmates for a good two years in the fine accommodations at Jackson during my stint. Sharing a small space like that, you get to see the light in people despite all the darkness. So when I got out and made good, I made sure to do what I could to help others like me.

  See, the thing about being a felon...you do your time, you get out, you’ve got that big fucking F that comes up on your background check and no one’s going to hire you. So I do what I can when I can for brothers like me. But I’m also not putting my own ass and my whole business on the line for someone who can’t show me they’re ready for something new.

  Now, Saul—and I can forgive a lot—but he has two downs for sexual assault with a minor. He says he thought the girl was eighteen, and it was a long fucking time ago, yadda-yadda-yadda, but still. Some shit’s difficult to forgive, and he never denied the rest.

  I know people can change, and even with that black mark against him I’d give him another chance. Really I would. That’s why I told him what I told him. If he changed, then okay. But he hasn’t.

  “If he calls again, tell him I’ll be in touch. I won’t leave him hanging, man. But he’s not ready. Trust me. But I’ll tell him myself. It’s not your job.”

  “No, I’ll do it. I’ve got your back. If he comes around or calls, I’ll tell him it’s not his time.”

  I nod and drop my arms, hands in my suit pockets. “Thanks, man.”

  “Sure.”

  For a split second I think about Black and my final gun delivery. Never heard from him again which, considering when it came out the guy that died that day was Black’s son not just an innocent bystander I figured maybe he had an epiphany too and took himself off the grid.