Snitches Get Stitches (Bear Bottom Guardians MC 8)

It must’ve been the dog that I missed.

But, hours later, as I was staring at my half-eaten cupcake in dismay, I realized it wasn’t the dog.

I wanted him to come back the moment he left.

I wanted nothing more than to just get a glimpse of his face from across the room.

Taking another bite of the cupcake, I hoped that he’d be back.

I just didn’t realize my hopes would be met only a short eighteen hours later.

***

I was sitting outside, near the garden that I tended for The Bridge when I heard the familiar click-click of nails on concrete.

My heart started to pound a million miles an hour, and I looked over my shoulder.

My heart stalled in my chest when my eyes met those of a dark chocolate brown. Eyes the color of hot cocoa—my favorite drink in the world once upon a time.

I sat up a little straighter and smiled as the dog came to me, sat on his butt, and buried his nose into my hair.

“Monster, have some fuckin’ manners for Christ’s sake,” Liner muttered as he gently wrapped his hand around Monster’s collar.

“Fancy,” I said as he pulled Monster back. “I like the collar.”

Liner hadn’t actually wrapped his hand around Monster’s collar, but the handle that protruded from the collar. Monster’s name was embroidered in a neon green print on the dog collar with an American flag stitched right next to it.

It really was an awesome collar.

One that I bet the military used…or something very similar.

It looked very chic on the large poodle and gave him an air of authority that he likely wouldn’t otherwise get thanks to his breed.

Generally, when a person looked at a poodle, they saw a stuffy dog that was bred for the finer folks in life. However, Liner, with his harsh and brash demeanor, pulled off having the poodle really well. It also helped that Monster didn’t have a standard poodle haircut. He was curly and shaggy all over. The only part of him that wasn’t black was a small tuft of white on his right eye encircling it halfway.

“I had it made,” Liner explained as he took a seat. “No wheelchair today?”

I looked at the bench that I’d been sitting on before the sun had cooled the stone well enough for me to sit on the ground, then shrugged.

“Didn’t need it,” I admitted.

Not thanks to the cupcake and the meals I’d consumed.

I wasn’t sure why I’d consumed them.

Normally I didn’t.

Eating was one of the only things that I could control in the hell hole I called life, and so I just didn’t do it. Not unless a beautiful brown-headed girl with curls down to her waist brought me a cupcake.

Or a large, Goliath of a man with multiple tattoos, a beard that could rival a Viking’s the color of a summer sunset—all golden red and beautiful—in a tattered pair of blue jeans.

God, he was beautiful.

I’d watched Vikings on Netflix recently, and Liner looked like he could fit right into the show without even trying. All he’d need to do was take off his shirt and display his abs.

Abs that I knew were there based solely on the way his t-shirt fit against his skin.

“Here,” Liner said, producing another treat out of his messenger bag. “I got this at the bakery. It’s still warm.”

I took the box carefully, nervous and fearful to look inside all at once.

What was it that I was doing here?

Should I be doing anything?

Today was Tyson’s day to visit, and I planned on asking him about Liner. Making sure that it was okay to talk to him.

But for this visit, I would act how I wanted to act, and do what I wanted.

It was only for an hour.

What could it hurt?

Plus, the box that I was holding—which was warm—could hold a poison for all I cared. It wasn’t like my life was worth living anyway.

I was a prisoner. I was here because I was being held captive.

What did it matter if what he was giving me was something that could harm me?

“I swear it won’t bite,” Liner said, surprising me enough that I jumped. “The lady at the front counter said that those were her best-selling products. I’d gotten there just as she’d pulled them out of the oven.”

I popped open the lid of the bakery box and stared inside.

Inside was a rather large muffin. One the size of about three of my fists. It was also quite beautiful for a muffin. The top of it was dusted with powdered sugar, and there were chunks of strawberry poking out the top.

“I asked her how she got those chunks of strawberry to stay at the top,” he said. “And she told me that she pulls out the muffins when they’re about halfway cooked and drops them on top so they don’t sink to the bottom.”