Page 18 of Bake the Town Red

“Yum,” she exclaims before her mother ushers her out.

The kid’s black Mary Jane shoes don’t make a sound on the black and white tiles of my small shop. One more step, and they’re gone.

“Excuse me.” The words are spoken not as a question. As a demand.

Gunner.

Since the moment he got in line, I’ve been waiting for his attitude. For him, period.

My smirk is inevitable. I run my hands over my black and orange apron, smoothing it over my black knit dress. I fake caring about appearances like any respectable shop owner would, patting the high bun I have on my head.

Pretending to benormalis a skill I’ve perfected. It also grates on his nerves that I take my sweet time serving him.

“Are you done?”

“How can I help you, sir?”

Sir. What a joke.

Abuser more like it.

I’ve watched how he tortures his family at home. Sadly, I see it now just as vividly.

Poor Adrianne Ricker, his blonde, much shorter, and slimmer wife. Pounds of makeup cover her right cheekbone, and the hint of purple is still visible beneath it.

He beat her up. Maybe last night. Maybe this morning.

My hand raises on its own to the snake tattoo curling on the side of my neck.

My scars are there much like Adrianne’s bruise is on her cheek. Mine never fade, though. No amount of covering up will be enough to mask the humiliation. The pain. The torture.

Nothing will.

But I have a way to improve her and their teenage girl’s lives. The one the balding Gunner grips around the neck. Possessive. Too possessive. How a father who grabs his daughter’s ass would hold her.

You’ve grown a nice rack over this summer, Jane. A sweet, round butt. That’s my girl.

Gag.

The few black strands he has left on his head will make such a nice meal for the stray dogs later tonight.

“Fifteen of your Happy DeathDay cupcakes.” He slaps a fifty on my marble black counter. There’s dirt under his nails. His rude voice booms over Donovan’s “Season of the Witch” I have playing over the speakers. “Make it fast. I’m late for work. And for walking this beauty”—his slimy black eyes slide to his daughter—“to school.”

My fake customer-pleasing smile is plastered on my face. Cemented there. Nothing will move it.

My insides, though, fester with loathing. They riot. My hate for him is as dense as a cupcake mix without baking soda. Dense. Dense, dense, and even more dense.

“I’m sorry, sir.”Sir Fuckface, I say his actual name in my head. On the outside, I gesture toward the display. “My supplier forgot the sprinkles today. A disaster, I know. He promised he’ll drop them off this afternoon.”

“The fuck?” Gunner’s cheeks redden. Anger flashing behind his eyes. “I took the morning subway for this?”

Exactly the reaction I was counting on. He makes my job of luring him in here later a walk in the park.

“I understand your frustration.” The bright smile on my red lips feels genuine. Because now it is. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll give you ten percent off and have them ready for you after I’m closed. Eight-thirty tonight, fifteen Happy DeathDays will be ready just for you.”

“Hmph. Okay.” His thumb strokes the side of his daughter’s neck. He’s appeased. I’m about to throw up all over my display. “Fine.”

The color leaves Jane’s cheeks. Her large brown eyes search mine for help. Her mother’s, on the other hand, are glued helplessly to the floor.

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