Stud Muffin (Donner Bakery #2) - Jiffy Kate Page 0,8

for sure.”

“Yeah, and it’ll keep you out of that damn head of yours while you continue to heal up.” Hank nods, thinking to himself for a second. “How is the shoulder?”

I give it a test spin, wincing when I get halfway around. “Still not back to fighting shape, but it’s better.”

Won’t ever be, I think to myself.

Hank huffs his response, his eyes boring into mine. “You’ll do just fine. Pretty sure you could take most people if you were blindfolded and hogtied.”

We both laugh, and I know he’s probably not too far from the truth. Fighting is in my blood. It’s what I’ve always known, what I’ve always been passionate about. Somehow, I’ve got to find a way to channel all of that into something productive.

Over the past couple months, I’ve felt the adrenaline building. There’s always this underlying current, something I’ve never been able to put a finger on, but it’s there. Fighting has always been my outlet, keeping it to an electrifying buzz instead of an overwhelming gong.

Anger?

Anxiety?

Excess energy?

I don’t know, but my father, being a boxer, recognized that when I was in the ring with him, I was a calmer, more collected version of myself. It gave me discipline, taught me respect for myself and others, and even helped me focus on tasks outside of the sport.

I’ve always been determined, motivated, and one of the best fighters in Texas, and most recently, the country. That is until my injury. Now, everything feels like it’s in slow-motion. A few months ago, I was cruising down a highway with no speed limit, and now, I’m on a back country road, trudging through the mud.

Without the rigorous schedule of training for fights and the reward of putting all of my hard work to use, I’m feeling pretty fucking lost these days.

Who knows? Maybe somewhere in this roadside strip club and quaint town, I’ll find myself again.

Chapter 3

Tempest

The way people look at me nowadays makes me feel like a stranger. It’s the same way they look at out-of-towners, or people they don’t trust—guarded and suspicious. My mama has given me one too many talks about putting on a good appearance, and Lord knows, I’ve been trying.

Fake it until you make it.

Put on a good face.

But I’ve never been good at lying and that’s what it feels like.

My bullshitter has been broken since the day I was born. I couldn’t lie my way out of a brown paper sack. For the life of me, I can’t understand what’s happening… why I’m acting the way I’ve been acting. My only explanation is that Asher brought out something in me, a level of anger and vindictiveness I’ve never known until now.

“I’ve raised you better than this,” my mama leans up and whispers as we sit in the courtroom and wait for the judge. "Tempest June, are you listening to me? You do whatever this judge tells you to and get a grip on yourself.”

“Not now, Mama,” I hiss back. I love her. God knows I do, but I’m so tired of everyone telling me how I should feel and how I should act and how I should turn the other cheek. Normally, she’d full name me—first, middle, and last—but since she knows the mention of Williams causes my blood to boil, she did me a favor and stopped at my first and middle.

Small mercies.

“Tempest Williams,” Judge Carson says, as if on cue, and I grit my teeth.

Apparently, he didn’t get the memo.

“Here, Judge Carson,” I say, standing from my spot in the second row and making my way to the podium where I try not to fidget. Forcing a smile, I smooth out the pale-yellow skirt I picked out for today. Not sure why, but it makes me feel pretty and I need any little help I can get these days.

The last time I saw Judge Carson, we were arguing over the last slice of Mississippi mud pie at the church Pie Supper. When he gives me a stern, serious stare, I wince and give an awkward wave. “Seems to me you’ve been in a little trouble, Mrs—”

“Miss,” I correct, cutting him off and clearing my throat, because if I have to hear Mrs. Williams one more time I’m liable to do something that’d earn me a permanent spot in Sheriff James’s jail and as nice as those upgraded cots are, I’m not looking to change my address. “Miss Cassidy. I’d prefer Miss Cassidy.”

“Is your divorce final?” he asks, looking down through the reading