Beef Cake (Donner Bakery Book 4) Read online

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” she’d tell me.

  “He was a patient,” I deadpan, hoping to end the conversation, but I couldn’t be so lucky.

  “He was sexy as hell,” she muses, in one of those airy, breathy voices that says I’d happily sacrifice myself at his altar.

  “If you say so,” I mumble, tossing my paper towel into the waste bin and making my way to the exit. Maybe I’m just hungry? A little food and everything will be right with my world again.

  She laughs, catching up with me. “I’m not the only one who thought so. Did you see the way Lana and Jody were staring? I swear, I thought they were going to drop their teeth on the floor.”

  Yeah, I don’t want to have this conversation, but now that she’s following me to the cafeteria, I have zero exit strategy. Not unless I want to head to the lounge for a repeat of last night’s dinner: stale crackers and a granola bar that’s probably been in my locker since I claimed it two years ago. So, basically, my choices are starving or letting Marie make my ears bleed. Guess I’ll be deaf soon. It was nice having my hearing for the last twenty-five years; I’ll really miss it.

  “Are you even listening to me?” she asks, checking me with her hip as we turn the corner.

  “Yes, he’s hot . . .” I nearly vomit on the word. “And you want to mount him . . . but you’ll gladly wait your turn, because even sloppy seconds with him would be better than any of the first courses you’ve had in your life.” Pausing, I wait with my hand on the door. “Did I forget anything?”

  Her smile turns conspiratorial. “I see what’s going on here.” Clicking her tongue, she nods her head and walks past me. “That’s fine. You saw him first. Does he have any brothers? Oh, wait—was that scary dude with him related? Now that I think about it, they do have the same eyes. I mean, have you ever seen anything like it? Mesmerizing.”

  You want to know what’s mesmerizing, Marie? Your ability to speak without breathing. That’s impressive.

  I smile, hoping it’s somewhere between you took the words right out of my mouth and stop fucking talking before you give yourself an aneurysm.

  Her head—and from the sounds of it, her panties—would literally explode if she knew there isn’t just one brother, but five. Yes, five fighting Vikings.

  How wonderful.

  “How are you always so unaffected?” Marie asks, grabbing a tray and making her way through the line. “Not just with men, but with everyone. I swear, someone could walk in here right now with their head hanging off their shoulders by a thread and you would calmly set your tray down, walk over to them, and start trying to patch them up.”

  I shrug, grabbing a salad, because unlike everyone else around here, I don’t want to die of early-onset diabetes. You’d be surprised how unhealthy health professionals eat. It’s alarming. “It’s my job,” I tell her, unsure how to explain the way I compartmentalize. I’ve done it for so long, I don’t even know how to undo it. “I just see a problem and try to work through it. Everything is a process.”

  Marie looks at me like I’m the one who’s lost her head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a robot. But I’ve seen you bleed.”

  “Maybe it’s synthetic,” I tease, trying to redirect the topic.

  That’s enough of Francis Reeves 101, but Marie’s not far from hitting the nail on the head: I don’t get attached. That’s the bottom line.

  It makes me a great nurse, but a shitty friend.

  Chapter 3

  Gunnar

  “Hands nice and tight,” Cage yells. “Relax your fucking shoulders.”

  I huff, sweat dripping onto my face. “They’re as fucking relaxed as they can get,” I yell back.

  The next thing I know, I’m no longer facing my sparring partner, Vince, and Cage is in my face. “Don’t talk to me like that when you’re on my mat. My studio, my rules. My opinion is the only fucking opinion that matters. If I say you’re breathing too much, you better slow that shit down. Understood?”

  Nodding, I know what’s coming next, but the past few weeks have been quite an adjustment. Going from brothers who can fight and get over it to a coach-student relationship is taking time.

  “What?” Cage asks, his nostrils flaring.

  “Yes, sir,” I bark back, trying to tamper down my aggression.

  “Again,” he says, nice and even.

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, firm but without the attitude.

  “Let’s go again.” He steps back and Vince resumes his position across from me, gloves up, and we begin.

  Jab, jab, elbow, elbow.

  Jab, jab, elbow, elbow.

  “Nice stance,” Cage calls out. “Front kick.”

  Jab, jab, kick.

  Jab, jab, kick.

  “Roundhouse, and then unleash,” Cage coaches. My heart is now pounding in my chest, blood rushing through my ears, but this is the shit I live for. When most people would feel like laying down and dying, I’m just getting started.

  Floyd Patterson had the Gazelle Punch.

  Mayweather had the Shoulder Roll.

  There’s Pacquiao’s Left Hand Straight and Tyson’s Peek A Boo Defense.

  And Gunnar Erickson’s Gunman.

  Don’t look at me—I didn’t title it, but it is my move. With my right arm extended, shoulders up by my ears, I snap my left fist out, making contact. Opponents have told me it’s like being shot with a rifle, hence the name. Regardless, it’s won me a shit ton of fights and it’s my go-to move.

  Of course, I’m sparing poor Vince the full brunt of the Gunman, but I still follow through with the move earning an enthusiastic fuck yeah from Cage as he paces the edge of the mat.

  After we finish, the three of us are sitting around on the mats, shooting the shit, when Tempest walks down the stairs. When she sees us, her face immediately drops, turning stern. “What the hell?” she asks, throwing her hands out at her side and letting them slap back down loudly, getting our attention. “He still has stitches in his face and the nurse said no fighting for at least—”

  “Seven to ten days,” Cage finishes for her. “He’s fine. It’s been a week and they’re starting to dissolve. Besides, he wasn’t fighting. He was sparring.” He jumps to his feet and approaches Tempest, closing in on her at the bottom of the stairs, his voice dropping.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, rolling my eyes at Vince, who’s only reaction is a smirk as he dips his head between his arms, avoiding eye contact.

  Thankfully, Tempest swats the horn dog off and walks around him. “Well, in that case,” she says hovering above me with a sweet smile, “how about one of you manly men run to the store for me so I can finish these double chocolate muffins I started.”

  When no one jumps at the chance, she adds, “There, of course, would be ample payment . . . in double chocolate muffins.”

  “I’ll do it,” I tell her, needing an excuse to get out of here for a few minutes. A drive to the Piggly Wiggly isn’t exactly my definition of excitement, but since I haven’t done anything except train for the last month, I’m an easy sell.

  “Thank you,” Tempest says, handing me a twenty. “I need a bag of dark chocolate chips and a bottle of Hershey’s syrup.”

  My eyebrows shoot up in interest.

  “Oh, yeah,” she replies with a cocky grin. The Duchess of Muffins knows her muffins.

  “Vince,” Cage says quickly. “See yourself out.” Swooping Tempest up and over his shoulder, she squeals before pounding on his back, demanding he put her down, but with zero force behind her fists or her words. “Gunnar, get lost on your way to the Piggly Wiggly . . . also, you should check out that pork-n-bean display on aisle six. Apparently, it’ll just jump right out at you.”

  “Hey!” Tempest yells. “I knocked them down one time. And it was an accident.”

  “Can we not talk about pork-n-beans while you have my future sister-in-law thrown over your shoulder like a fucking caveman?” I ask with disgust.

  That gets a laugh from eve
ryone in the room, except me. I’m fucking serious about finding my own place.

  A few minutes later, Vince and I make our way out of the studio, locking up on our way out as instructed, and I swear I can already hear the two love birds from all the way down here on the sidewalk. Surely there’s some sort of sound ordinance that could be enforced.

  I bet all it would take is one phone call to the police station, what with Tempest’s rap sheet and all.

  “Have a good night,” I call out to Vince as he gets in his car.

  “You too, man,” he replies. “Gotta go home and ice my shoulder to get ready for Thursday.”

  I laugh, shaking my head as I climb in Cage’s truck. Another thing I’m going to have to fix if I stay here much longer, besides getting my own place, is getting my own set of wheels.

  Pulling into the parking lot of the small grocery store, I take note of the very few cars in the lot. I’ve always heard people talk about the sidewalks rolling up early in small towns, but I’ve never witnessed it for myself until now—and it’s fucking true. The entire town shuts down when the sun starts to set.

  With only two other cars in the lot, I park in front and don’t even worry about locking the doors.

  Small towns, man.

  Who knows? It might grow on me.

  The cashier greets me as I walk in the door and I have to smile. That would never happen in a big city. People run around like ants . . . or bees . . . whatever’s busier. They don’t pay attention to the person next to them, let alone a random guy walking into the grocery store . . . ten minutes before closing. Shit.

  “Does nothing stay open late in this town?” I mutter to myself under my breath—or what I thought was under my breath, until a reply comes from the end of the baking aisle.

  “Genie’s. Woodie’s, the Pink Pony . . . a couple of other bars, but that’s about it.”

  I turn to the kid stocking the shelves and smirk. He doesn’t even look old enough to know what a bar is and definitely not old enough to get into one without a fake ID. I had one once, but the need for it flew right out the window when I turned eighteen. Being tall and scary looking, thanks to my Scandinavian genes, has its benefits.

  “Thanks, man,” I tell him, tossing the bag of chocolate chips in the air and walking a few paces down, looking for the Hershey’s syrup when a blur to my left catches my attention. That’s when I smell her—the same citrusy scent mixed with the sterility of a hospital.

  Glancing up, I feel my luck begin to shift. “Nurse Frankie,” I muse, snatching a bottle of Hershey’s from the shelf directly in front of her and earning a scowl. When her eyes meet mine, I expect a shift in demeanor but she schools her features.

  “Your face looks good.”

  It’s not a compliment, at least, not for me. She’s complimenting herself on a job well done.

  “The stitches are holding nicely . . .” she says, evaluating her handy work. “Shouldn’t leave much of a scar.”

  “Just enough to give me some street cred,” I tease. It’s the same thing I told Cage when he kept going on and on about how bad he felt. If it hadn’t been a rogue chain, it would’ve been a flying fist. I was bound to have a face wound at some point. So when it didn’t come from the ring, that didn’t discredit what it did for my face. “Admit it. I make this scar look good.”

  Frankie rolls her eyes and grabs her own bottle of Hershey’s, tossing it in the shopping cart.

  “Chocolate milk junkie?” I ask, wanting to make conversation with her. Maybe I could make a suggestion for putting that chocolate syrup to good use; I have a few ideas that all include the two of us naked.

  What the fuck?

  Shoot me. We’re both attractive human beings. I’m attracted to her . . . my dick is attracted to her.

  “It makes my spinach smoothie taste better,” she deadpans, breezing past me.

  Okay, so she’s a health nut. That’s cool. Me too.

  “Have you tried powdered peanut butter?” I suggest. “Adds protein and tastes really good.”

  She stops her cart and turns to glare at me, but her eyes become hazy as they study my face, her lips parting softly. Goddamn, she’s gorgeous.

  For a moment, I think she’s going to finally acknowledge this zing of electricity that’s so obviously traveling between us. But instead, her stare shutters abruptly and she blinks, her jaw clenching tight. “I have five minutes before closing, five more aisles to make it through, and I’ve already exhausted all my bedside manner reserves for the day.”

  “I’m not your patient anymore, Frankie.” I drop my voice, making her lashes flutter as I step closer. “You can be real with me.”

  After another prolonged hazy stare that has the base of my spine warming, a sharpness enters her gaze and she flicks her hand through the air dismissively. “I doubt very much someone like you is capable of handling my realness, Mr. Erickson.” Her voice is a little breathless, and with that, she turns away.

  Someone like you…

  I can read between the lines, but it doesn’t mean I like what I read. Someone like me? Fun fact about someone like me: The bigger the challenge, the more I enjoy it. Unbeknownst to her, she just made this—changing her mind about guys like me—my new favorite pastime.

  “All right. How about we start with the basics. So, do you come here often?” I ask evenly, trailing behind as we both turn down the canned food aisle. I smirk at the display of pork-n-beans, thinking about what Cage said. Apparently, Tempest once had an encounter with this very display that sent the cans flying. The mental image makes me laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Frankie snaps, and I realize she’s stopped again in the middle of the aisle, her death stare aimed straight for my head. “Are you really so dense that you can’t take a hint? Have all of those punches damaged your brain? Oh, wait. My bad. Y’all don’t have brains to damage in the first place.”

  “Wow,” I say, raising my eyebrows and the two items I came for. “Judgmental much?”

  To that, she balks, her back straightening and her expression shifting from anger to indignance. She scoffs, tilting her head as she blinks her eyes, trying to find a rebuttal. But I don’t let her. Instead, I decide it’s time to correct some of her ignorant misconceptions about someone like me.

  “For your information,” I start, shifting both the chocolate chips and the syrup to one hand so I can point in her direction. “I graduated from college just like you. Yeah, I’m a fighter. I fucking love the sport, but that’s what it is—a sport. I don’t go out looking for backyard or back-alley brawls. I’m not in a gang and I’m not a streetfighter. There are codes and discipline involved. I am an athlete.”

  Her expression finally softens, remorse shining from her eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just—I really don’t like violence.” I . . .” She takes a deep breath, and I get the sense saying these words is hard for her. “I don’t like it at all. I’m sure you’re a—”

  “The store will be closing in three minutes. Please make your final selections and make your way to the front.” A crackling voice comes over the store intercom system, interrupting her and this moment we’re having.

  Her eyes stay connected to mine for longer than a second and there’s something in those chocolate browns that has the short hair on the back of my neck standing at attention.

  I think we’re having a moment.

  “I have to go,” she says, pink staining her cheeks. Before I can say anything, she quickly walks away.

  And just like that, it’s over.

  I still want to know what she was going to say. I’m a what? Nice guy? She’d be right, I’m a really nice guy. Fun guy? Right again. A great lay? Ding, ding, ding. Someone she should go on a date with? Tell her what she’s won, Johnny.

  Instead of prodding, I make my way to the checkout and place my two items on the belt, giving the cashier a crooked smile. “Sorry for keeping you so late.”

  “Oh,” she says with a blush and a smile. “I don’t mind. Nothing else go
ing on in this town.”

  “Right?” I say, digging my wallet out and grabbing the twenty Tempest gave me earlier.

  “Besides,” she continues, placing my two items in a bag, “Frankie is in here every Tuesday night, and always my last customer.”

  She takes the twenty and for a second I think she’s going to stop there, but then she gives me a small smile with my change and continues, obviously desperate to make small talk. “She works at the hospital in Maryville and doesn’t get back in town until late.”

  When I pocket the change and take the bag, the girl drops her voice and leans in, freely offering even more nuggets of information. “And between you and me, she doesn’t get out much. Except for the farmer’s market on Saturdays.”

  Farmer's market, huh?

  Why am I not surprised about that?

  Chuckling to myself—small towns, man—I give the cashier a smile and thank her just as Frankie walks up to the counter and starts placing her items on the belt. She made fast work, at least doubling what had been in her basket a few minutes ago. I don’t look, but I can feel her eyes on me. I can sense her restlessness, like she wants to say something.

  The cashier—Katie, according to her name tag—looks from me to Frankie and then back, obviously picking up on something between us. I decide to not make it awkward or cause Frankie any more grief for the night and give them both a short wave as I head out the door.

  Some instinct has me waiting in the truck, and I watch Frankie carry her two sacks out to an older Mustang and start the engine. Once I’m satisfied she’s safely in her car, I drive off, trying not to feel like a creeper—and failing miserably.

  Chapter 4

  Frankie

  I woke up in a funk today, which is weird because Wednesdays are one of my favorite days. I blame my late-night encounter with Gunnar Erickson. After our run-in at the Piggly Wiggly, I thought he was going to follow me home and I was going to have to call the cops, but fortunately, he went his way and let me go mine. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about him.