Beef Cake Read online

  Beef Cake

  Donner Bakery Book #4

  Jiffy Kate

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Batter of Wits, Donner Bakery Book #5 by Karla Sorensen

  Also by Jiffy Kate

  Also by Smartypants Romance

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2020 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  eBook Edition

  Prologue

  Frankie

  Two Years Ago

  They say curiosity killed the cat.

  I’m the cat in this scenario, but I’m hoping I don’t die.

  That would really suck.

  As I step out of my car in a dark parking lot of the Dragon Biker Bar in the outskirts of Green Valley, Tennessee, I seriously begin to question my sanity.

  What am I doing?

  Sure, I want answers. But I’m also pretty sure there’s a way to do that in the daylight and somewhere safer. However, my work hours keep me tied to Maryville Hospital and when I’m not working a shift, I’m sleeping. That’s how it is when you're fresh out of college, putting in nursing hours in the ER, working on your physician assistant training, with no seniority—you get shitty hours and all the shit no one else wants or likes to do. Just a lot of shit. I remind myself it won’t always be like this and I love it. Call me crazy, but I actually love taking the difficult patients and doing the things no one else wants to do.

  I’m always up for a challenge, which also might explain why I’m here.

  At this shady looking bar with a parking lot full of bikes.

  This is the hangout for the notorious motorcycle club, the Iron Wraiths.

  Up until a week ago, I didn’t know who they were. I’d never heard of them. I haven’t lived in Green Valley long, and like I said, when I’m here, I’m usually sleeping. So, after an awkward encounter with a few of them at the gas station, I mentioned it to my mother on my weekly visit.

  Her reaction is why I’m here tonight.

  Over the years, she’s been so subdued about… well, everything. If I ask about our past or my father, she nonchalantly passes over it, stating we’re better off without him and that my childhood was uneventful.

  But there’s something inside me that’s always revolted against that. Lies, that’s what my gut says. The nurse in me wants to get to the bottom of it—of my life.

  When I go to grab the handle of the front door, it flies open and a man the size of a house runs out, nearly knocking me over. Glancing behind him at the inside of the bar, it’s utter chaos—overturned tables, shattered beer bottles, a few broken chairs, and people everywhere.

  There are a few women huddled together in the corner, just inside the door, and clusters of men on the floor. And blood… lots of blood.

  I want to run.

  I hate violence.

  But I can’t.

  My need to help won’t allow me.

  People are suffering and I can help.

  Walking blindly into the dark bar, I kneel down beside the first group of men I come to. “I’m a nurse,” I inform, to which I’m greeted with harsh, confused looks. “Let me help him.”

  It’s obvious the man has a severe wound to his stomach. The blood soaking into this shirt tells me it’s probably a stab wound, but not too large or too deep. Thanks to my physician assistant training, I’m skilled in suturing wounds and giving stitches.

  Eventually, the two men flanking him move aside and let me get closer. Pulling back the man’s bloodied hand, I see the laceration is small, maybe an inch or so, just the right size for a blade to enter and exit cleanly. He’s not coughing up blood, just in pain, so I go through a series of questions I’d ask if I were in the ER.

  What’s your name?

  Can you tell me what happened?

  What level is your pain?

  Most of the questions are answered with a grunt, so instead of depending on my patient to give me details, I get to work.

  “I have an emergency bag in my car,” I tell the man to my right. “It’s a Mustang…” I stop myself. “The only car in the parking lot. The bag is grey and it’s in the backseat.”

  Without waiting for a confirmation or any sort of agreement, I reach the hem of the guy’s t-shirt and rip.

  “That’s hot.”

  Turning sharply to my left, I see the other man hovering over me, watching my every move, but it’s not because I’m tending to his friend. It’s more sinister than that. He’s somehow turned on by my ministrations and it pisses me the fuck off.

  “Go find some towels,” I demand, not letting him get to me.

  I’m good at this—blocking people out, focusing on the task at hand. It’s what I do. It’s where I feel most like myself and at ease. Somewhere in the face of trauma and chaos, I find peace.

  After I patch the first guy up, another meaty motorcyclist comes and grabs my arm, forcing me over to a make-shift hospital bed where another older guy lies, writhing in pain, holding his shoulder.

  “Can I take a look?” I ask, grabbing his attention, probably because outside of the few women I saw when I came in, I’m the only female around. Actually, I lost track of those women and I very well could be the only woman in the bar. That should probably bring me pause and make me run, but I’m in the trenches now. This dingy, roadside bar has become my ER. I won’t leave until I’m sure everyone survives.

  Doesn’t really matter if they’re in-laws or outlaws.

  I’m not a doctor. I haven’t taken the Hippocratic Oath. But I have pledged my life to saving people. And something tells me I was meant to be here. Why else would a woman who steers clear of any sort of violence walk into a bar just after a fight?

  The universe wanted me here, so I’m staying until the last wound is stitched and then I’ll make sense of the rest.

  “Grab my bag,” I tell the man who’s been shadowing me ever since he retrieved my supplies from the car. “I’ll need the alcohol and the gauze.”

  This cut isn’t deep, in a spot that will make this old man wish he’d stayed home tonight.

  “It’ll probably be sore for a while,” I tell him, reaching for the proffered alcohol. “And this is going to sting a little.”

  Do I get pleasure from making grown men cry? No.
But it is slightly satisfying when I know they brought the pain on themselves. I’m not sardonic, but I believe in karma.

  Half an hour later when everyone with visible wounds has been attended to, I gather up what’s left of my supplies and start to tuck them away into my bag as neatly as possible. Everything will need to be sterilized or possibly even discarded, but I’ll deal with that later.

  Right now, the only thing I can think about is getting the hell out of here. And a hot shower.

  “Not so fast,” one of the men from earlier croons as he saddles up beside me, placing his large hand over mine. “The boys would like a word with you.”

  Boys?

  I glance behind me, looking around, and definitely don’t see any boys. I see men—some burly, others lankier, but all of them are wearing leather vests and exude an air of danger.

  Someone turns on the lights and then everything somehow looks less and more scary all at the same time. Less so because there aren’t any dark corners to hide in and I can see every face. But that’s probably what makes it more so.

  I can see every face.

  Every set of eyes.

  And they’re all on me.

  They’re menacing.

  Some sneering.

  Some lingering.

  All questioning.

  “Who are you?” The man asking the question is standing at the bar, leaning against it like he’s holding it up, or maybe it’s holding him up. His eyes are squinted and his drawl is thick, but I can’t tell if it’s due to alcohol or just the way he talks. If I had to guess by the smell permeating this place, I’d opt for the former.

  “I, uh . . .” I begin, faltering a bit as I brush my hair back and shoulder my bag, somehow feeling protected by its weight against my back. Also, hoping it’s a stark reminder that I just helped a few of his men who would’ve been a lot worse off if I hadn’t shown up. With that bit of information flowing through my veins, I straighten and start again. “I’m Frankie Reeves.”

  There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes, the exact response I was hoping for an hour ago when I drove my car into the parking lot.

  This is what I wanted: to walk in here, go up to someone, tell them my name and get a reaction.

  “Do you know my father?”

  When the question is out of my mouth, the room around me fades into silence.

  Chapter 1

  Gunnar

  “Oh, yeah, that’s it!”

  You know when you’re somewhere between dreaming and waking up and you’re unsure what’s real or not?

  That’s where I am right now.

  “Right here,” he says, somewhat out of breath. “That’s perfect, baby. Stay still, though, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I can handle it.”

  I could’ve sworn I was having a sex dream but now, I’m not so sure.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  They’re going to break the fucking bed with the way the walls are shaking.

  “Shit, it’s still not going in all the way. Do it harder, Cage.”

  And, I’m awake.

  Hearing my oldest brother’s name being called out and told to do it harder is enough to kick me out of the deepest sleep.

  Guaranteed.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “That’s it! Just a little more, babe. You’ve almost got it.”

  “I don’t want to break it,” Cage growls out in frustration.

  “One more stroke and you’re there.”

  My god. There aren’t enough pillows in the state of Tennessee to bury my head in to block out the sound of my brother and his girlfriend having sex.

  Also, is he trying to kill the poor girl? He’s twice her size and it sounds like he’s trying to plow her through the damn wall.

  BANG.

  “That’s it!” she exclaims, elation thick in her tone. “You did it!”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, babe.” He sounds out of breath and it’s all I can do to keep last night’s dinner from spewing all over the bedroom. I could’ve lived another twenty-two years without being witness to this exhibition.

  “That stud was a nightmare to get the nail through.”

  Huh?

  “That’s why these old buildings are so great,” she says. “They were built to last, strong and sturdy, just like my Viking man.”

  Tempest’s voice just dropped.

  Why did her voice drop?

  Cage laughs, and his voice is deeper and . . . husky? And that’s my cue to get up and make it known I can hear everything going on before things really get going. It also might be time to move to the other side of the apartment.

  Or the fucking state.

  I’ve been here in Green Valley for a week and it’s been great so far, but I don’t want to cramp their style or make things uncomfortable. I also don’t want to inadvertently be a third wheel to their fuck-fest on a regular basis.

  That happened too many times back home with my other brothers and it’s a trend I don’t care to continue. If I had a job, I could move into my own place, but Cage is a fucking hardass and the training schedule has been brutal. Any employment outside of training for a fight and teaching classes is out of the question. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. That’s why I’m here—to train and be the best, and eventually, to be as good as him.

  By the time I’ve dressed, brushed my teeth, and opened my door, Cage has Tempest pushed up against the wall across from my room with his tongue down her throat, right next to the framed picture they obviously just hung.

  Tempest immediately pulls away and hides her face in his chest as she chuckles, but my brother can’t bother to even pretend to be embarrassed.

  “Just let me get to the kitchen before you two attack each other again, please,” I mutter, quickly walking past them, avoiding all eye contact.

  Tempest calls out, “Sorry!” But Cage follows up with, “No, we’re not,” before I hear a door slam closed.

  Quickly, I fix myself a protein shake and head downstairs to the studio to begin my morning workout. I’m not mad at the lovebirds upstairs, not in the least. I’m thrilled Cage has finally found his person and is in love. But I’ve just met Tempest and, although I think she’s great and perfect for my brother, I’m not comfortable seeing her being manhandled by the guy.

  I’m used to my brothers bringing random chicks to the studio and to the house we used to share, but I knew I’d most likely never see the women a second time. In this case, I’m pretty sure Tempest will become my sister-in-law, sooner rather than later, and I’d rather not know any intimate details about her, if you know what I mean.

  My warm-up takes the usual thirty minutes or so and then I switch to my official workout. It’s seamless, one flowing into the other. It's like breathing to me: easy but necessary. I need to feel the burn of my muscles, the sweat rolling down my body, the tightening of my lungs every day. It helps to clear my mind and stay focused while getting me closer to my goal of being the top MMA fighter in my weight class.

  I’ve been going at it for a good hour when Cage finally waltzes in, his smile making it very clear he was going at it good too, but in a different way.

  Asshole.

  Between punches, I glance at him, giving him an intense glare just like I would an opponent. I swear if I wasn’t wearing boxing gloves, I’d flip him off just for being his smug self and silently rubbing his sexcapades in my face. It’s been way too long since I’ve been balls deep in anything besides my palm and I don’t appreciate being woken up with a resounding reminder that, once again, Cage gets everything he wants.

  And he’s the best at it.

  Fucker.

  He’s even good at retiring, even though it was forced upon him thanks to a career-ending injury. Regardless, he’s excelling at it, totally making it his bitch. This new gym is everything he ever wanted Erickson’s to be and more. It’s personal, one-on-one coaching. There isn’t any showboating. Everyone is treated equally.
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  Sure, he doesn’t have many patrons yet, but he’s building a good, solid foundation. Besides, once I go pro, he’ll have all the publicity he can handle, and I’ll be doing for him what he spent his career doing for our family gym back home.

  “I’m sorry, man,” he finally says, breaking the silence with a laugh. When he sees I don’t believe his bullshit, he holds up his hands in surrender. “I am, I mean it.”

  Eventually, I hold my punches and face him straight on. “Look, I’m happy for you and Tempest, but I really don’t want to walk in on the two of you fucking. If I need to find another place to live, I will.”

  “Don’t be stupid, G. We’ve had this place to ourselves for months; you’ve been here a week. It’s an adjustment for all of us, but we’ll make it work.”

  A few beats pass before I give him a nod, sweat dripping off my hair and onto my forehead. After swiping the back of my covered hand over the damp skin, I continue hitting the bag in front of me. I know he’s right, and I’m damn thankful to be here. Without Cage and this opportunity, I’d have to tuck tail and go back to Dallas and get lost in the mix of Erickson MMA. With all the big names and bigger egos, that’s the last thing I want.

  Even though Green Valley, Tennessee is a culture shock, it’s already growing on me and it’s the perfect place to buckle down and focus on my end-goal—be the best, no distractions, make it to the top.