Page 1

Chapter one

Clayton

Clayton Robinson rolled into Stockton just past noon, his motorcycle growling like a thunderstorm as he pulled up outside the warehouse. The ride had been a blast—wind in his face, the open road stretching out forever, and not a single bar stool or cocktail shaker in sight. He swung off the bike, yanked off his helmet, and straightened his messy hair back into something resembling order. The June sun was blazing, turning the industrial district into a postcard of warm light and sharp shadows. He adjusted the leather strap of his satchel, stuffed with paperwork for the booze order, and headed inside.

An hour later, Clayton was done haggling over prices, inspecting bottles, and loading crates onto the back of a rented truck. The owner had his driver used the company truck to bring the crates to Lodi. His reward? A well-deserved break. Stockton wasn’t exactly his usual hangout, but he’d spotted the Rainbow Coffee Shop on the way in. Flower boxes, a chalkboard sign bragging about “Locally Roasted Coffee” and “Homemade Pastries”—it had charm written all over it.

The second Clayton pushed open the door, the smell of fresh coffee and sugary pastries hit him like a hug. The place was cozy as hell, with mismatched furniture and a wall plastered in local art. He scanned the room, taking it all in, and then—bam. There he was. Behind the counter stood a guy who stopped Clayton in his tracks. His eyes were so blue they could’ve been stolen from the ocean, and his smile looked like it came as easy as breathing. The name tag on his red apron said it all: Sawyer.

Clayton couldn’t help but grin. This day had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.

“Hey there,” Sawyer said, his voice warm and welcoming. “What can I get for you?”

Clayton stepped up to the counter, leaning his forearm on it casually. “I’ll take a black coffee, medium. And maybe one of those blueberry scones,” he said, pointing to the pastry case.

Sawyer grabbed a cup and started pouring. “Passing through?” he asked, glancing up briefly.

Clayton nodded. “Yeah, picking up some stock for my bar. Thought I’d stop in for a decent cup of coffee before heading back.”

“A bar? That’s cool,” Sawyer said, handing over the coffee and moving to grab the scone. “What’s it called?”

“The Timberline,” Clayton replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s up in Lodi, a small place, but it’s got a lot of character. Like this place, actually.”

Sawyer smiled as he placed the scone on a small plate and slid it across the counter. “Sounds like my kind of spot. I’ve always liked places with a story.”

Clayton noticed the rainbow bracelet on Sawyer’s wrist, and it rang a bell inside his head. He’s probably gay . Clayton viewed Sawyer’s bracelet as a quiet invitation to connect. Sawyer’s ginger hair contrasted against his pale skin, dusted with countless freckles. He was unbelievably cute! Clayton couldn’t believe his luck. This coffee shop run was turning out to be the best part of his day. Every time Sawyer looked up from the counter, Clayton felt a flutter in his chest. He’d never seen someone so effortlessly adorable. It was like Sawyer had stepped out of a fairytale, complete with an irresistible charm that made Clayton’s heart race. He couldn’t help but grin, already looking forward to any excuse to strike up a conversation.

“Well, the Timberline’s got plenty of those. You should swing by sometime. First drink’s on me.” Clayton wanted to scoop the barista up and take him home.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slightly worn business card. Handing it to Sawyer, he couldn’t help but notice the way the man’s fingers brushed his own for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Or maybe that was just his imagination running wild.

Sawyer looked at the card, then back at Clayton. “I just might take you up on that,” he said, his smile widening.

“You should,” Clayton said, his voice lower, more deliberate. “Everything is even better when you’ve got a good drink and good company waiting for you.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air thick with an unspoken connection. Clayton’s mind was racing, though he tried to keep his expression calm. He’d met plenty of men over the years, but something about Sawyer intrigued him. Maybe it was the ease of his demeanor or the way his eyes seemed to hold a world of kindness.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Clayton said finally, breaking the spell. He handed Sawyer the money for his order and picked up his cup and plate, offering Sawyer a final, lingering look. “Hope to see you up there, Sawyer.”

“You just might,” Sawyer replied, his voice carrying a hint of something that made Clayton’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t quite ready to admit.

Clayton sat at a table against the wall. He was halfway through his coffee, leaning back in his chair and scrolling through his phone, when the commotion started. At first, it was just raised voices, but then he heard the slur. That slur sent him back to when he was attacked at a bar in Bakersfield at sixteen years old with a fake ID.

Clayton had been minding his own business, trying to enjoy a rare night out with friends. The bar was dimly lit, filled with the scent of stale beer and the hum of conversation. He had just turned to order another drink when he felt a sharp shove from behind. Stumbling forward, he caught himself on the edge of the bar, his heart pounding in his chest.

Before he could react, a group of older men surrounded him, their faces twisted with anger and hatred. One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, spat out a slur that cut through the noise like a knife. The word echoed in Clayton’s mind, bringing with it a flood of memories and emotions he had tried to bury.

Fear and panic surged through him as the men closed in, their fists clenched and eyes burning with malice. He tried to reason with them, to explain that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but his words were drowned out by their jeers and taunts. The first punch landed on his jaw, sending a jolt of pain through his body. He tasted blood and felt the world spin around him.

As the blows rained down, Clayton’s mind raced. He thought of his family, his friends, and the life he had ahead of him. He wondered if he would make it out of this alive, if he would ever see his loved ones again. The pain was overwhelming, but it was the fear and helplessness that cut the deepest.

When it was finally over, Clayton lay on the cold, sticky floor of the bar, bruised and battered. The men had left, their laughter still ringing in his ears. He struggled to his feet, every movement sending waves of agony through his body. As he stumbled out into the night, he vowed never to let anyone make him feel that way again.

The memory of that night haunted him, a constant reminder of the cruelty and hatred that existed in the world. And now, hearing that slur again, all those feelings came rushing back, threatening to overwhelm him once more. But this time, he was determined to stand his ground; to face the darkness head-on and not let it consume him.

“Hey, pretty boy,” a man sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “You gonna make me a latte with extra fairy dust?”

Clayton’s head snapped up. Sawyer was behind the counter alone, his face pale but his jaw set tight. Two men, clearly bikers, stood across from him.

“I’ll get your order ready,” Sawyer said, his voice steady, but Clayton could see the way his hands trembled as he reached for a cup.

The second biker laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Yeah, make it quick, sweetheart. We don’t got all day to watch you prance around.”

Clayton was on his feet before he even realized it, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. But before he could intervene, the first biker lunged across the counter, grabbing Sawyer by the collar and slamming his head down onto the counter. The sound was sickening—a sharp crack that made Clayton’s stomach turn.

“Hey!” Clayton roared, his voice cutting through the room. He was across the floor in seconds, grabbing the biker by the shoulder and yanking him back. “You got a problem. You deal with me.”

The biker spun around, his face twisted in rage. “This ain’t your fight, asshole.”

“It’s my fight now,” Clayton shot back, his fists clenched.

The biker swung first, but Clayton ducked, his reflexes sharp from years of bar brawls and late-night scuffles. His punch landed square on the guy’s jaw, sending him stumbling back into a table. The second biker charged, but Clayton sidestepped, grabbing him by the arm and twisting it behind his back.

“Out,” Clayton growled, shoving the guy toward the door. “Both of you. Now.”

The bikers hesitated, but one look at Clayton’s face—hard and furious—was enough to make them think twice. They stumbled out, muttering curses under their breath.

Clayton turned back to Sawyer, his chest heaving. Sawyer was leaning against the counter, one hand pressed to his forehead, his face pale. Clayton’s heart ached at the sight.

“You okay?” Clayton asked, his voice softer now.

Sawyer nodded.

Clayton didn’t buy that he was okay on any level.