Make Me (KPD Motorcycle Patrol 4)

She didn’t bother to argue, just went into her room and started packing a big bag, leaving me to explore.

I started in her kitchen.

Opening the fridge, I examined what she had in there, and was stunned when I saw nothing.

And by nothing, I meant nothing.

No milk or eggs. No cheese or lunch meat. Hell, there wasn’t even any condiment bottles.

The only thing in there at all was a cake box with half of an eaten cake sitting on the shelf.

I pulled it out and searched around for a fork.

“Okay if I have some of your cake?” I called out.

“Fine with me,” she called.

I coughed lightly, but luckily it didn’t turn into a coughing fit.

Pulling out a black fork from a drawer right next to the junk drawer from hell, I took a bite of the cake.

It was good.

Really good.

“Where’d you get this cake?” I called out as I started to finger through her junk drawer.

Every single house that I knew of had a junk drawer. The only difference between Royal’s junk drawer and everyone else’s junk drawer, it was immaculate. There was a place for everything, even the stray shoelaces and push pins.

It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen.

A bag thunked down on the counter next to the cake, and she took the fork out of my hand and stole a bite before giving it back.

“You probably just got the plague,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes.

“I’ve been pressed up against you for ten minutes, had you coughing all over me, and you’re eating cake straight from the box. Cake that I plan on finishing before I leave so I don’t waste it.” She told me. “So I’m not scared about catching your plague. I’ll get it or I won’t.” She tilted her head. “And the cake is from a friend. I met her a couple of weeks ago when I saw her advertising for taste testers.”

“Is she opening her own business?” I asked. “Because this is the greatest cake I’ve had since I left home. Jesus.”

“She’s thinking about it,” she said around a mouthful of cake as she left the room.

I didn’t bother following her, just continued to eat the cake that tasted like heaven in my mouth.

My phone rang, and I pulled it out of my pocket and answered it without hesitation.

“Pop,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Heard your mother say that you were coming home this weekend,” he said. “Will you bring me some Blackened Voodoo on your way?”

I rolled my eyes.

That was seriously the only reason my father liked when I came home. Blackened Voodoo was my father’s favorite beer, and the only place it could be bought was a small convenience store right on the border of Texas and Louisiana. And since I’d have to pass by it to get to him, he always solicited me to get him beer on my way.

“Not sure if I can make it this weekend after all,” I admitted. “I had sort of a situation arise.”

“What kind of a situation?” Dad asked, no longer sounding as bored.

I quickly recapped through the day, ending with how I no longer had just me to worry about.

“Bring ‘er with you,” he suggested. “Are you still bringing Lock?”

I’d asked Lock if he’d wanted to come with me because he’d mentioned wanting to check out a motorcycle that my father had for sale. He’d agreed—because he really, really wanted the bike—and we’d had plans to check it out this weekend.

“From what I understand,” I said. “There haven’t been any mentions of not going.”

He grunted out a ‘perfect’ and said, “Can you bring Saylor home, too?”

There was a long pause as I looked down at the cake on my fork.

“When did Saylor get down here?” I asked.

Saylor was a childhood friend. She and I had grown up with each other.

I hadn’t realized she was down here, though.

“Since she moved down there a few months ago,” he said. “She and her father had a disagreement about her cake business, and she moved to Longview because of a job opening at the local college. I thought your mother told you or I would have.”

It wasn’t a big deal. I mean, Saylor and I weren’t that close, but it still would’ve been nice to know.

“Why is she coming home, and why isn’t she driving herself?” I asked.

“She said she wasn’t wasting gas coming home for two days just to turn around and come back,” he said. “And Kettle mentioned that you were coming home. Said you could probably bring her. She said okay and that she would text you, but I see that hasn’t happened yet either.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.

“I really don’t want to get involved in whatever bullshit they’re fighting over,” I admitted.

Kettle was my dad’s good friend and a member of the Dixie Wardens MC, a motorcycle club that was founded in Benton, Louisiana. I thought of him like an uncle, but seriously, Kettle was overprotective of his kid.