Page 27 of Bake the Town Red

Ding.

The bell chimes. Dahlia drops the knife that clatters on the floor.

“I’m here for the cupcakes.” The man sounds justified. As if he has the right to demand things from Dahlia. “Where are they?”

Someone’s asking to get his head ripped off.

By me.

I want to shout at him to leave and never return. Tell him in my sternest voice that we’re closed, then fuck the wild animal beneath me until she writhes and cries. Until both of us get four years’ worth of anger and grief out of our systems.

I won’t.

This thing Dahlia is doing every October, it’s helping her. It fixes her when I can’t. Because if I do, she’ll end up dead.

A bite from a rabid rat. One of her knives slicing her skin instead of her target’s, cutting an artery and making her bleed out. Slipping on a wet floor and breaking her neck.

I’m overwhelmed with every bad thing that could happen to her. I have to leave.

Taking a step back, I shake my head slowly at Dahlia. Her attention is split between me and the entitled jerkoff here.

The space clears my head. I breathe easier. The air makes it easier for me to think. To let go.

“We’re not done,” I tell her at the door, despite myself. “I’ll catch you later.”

Dahlia raises her apron to wipe the lipstick streak off her cheek and around her lips.

“Not if I catch you first.” She winks.

She can’t know about my blog. Impossible.

“Okay, this was nice.” She’s at my side, pushing me out to the street. Locks behind her. “Bye, Tyler.”

The cold night air whips at my face. I stay there, watching her beckon the bulky man behind the counter.

“Come on, Gunner, I have your order in the back.”

I press an ear to the door, listening in when they disappear behind the door. Drinking in her saccharine-sweet voice.

“Saved it especially for you. My favorite customer.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Dahlia

“Glgltgltglt.” Gunner’s fingers with his dirty fingernails grip the rope I have around his neck.

We’re standing in my baking room, where there are no Happy DeathDay cupcakes. There’s only me, my arms raised, my hands tugging on the rope as hard as I can.

“What’d you say, sunshine?” I kick the back of Gunner’s knee, bringing us both to the floor. “Didn’t hear you over here,” I say while we go down, me on top of him.

He lands headfirst onto a splotch of frosting that must’ve slipped from one of the piping bags. I inwardly chide myself for missing it.

Gunner’s body thrashes left and right, trying to flip me over.

“Never.” My biceps flex as I pull harder on the rope.

No way is he getting out of this alive. So what if I weigh about fifty pounds less than him?

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