Page 28 of Bake the Town Red

I’m a hell of a lot stronger. I lift sugar and flour bags, cupcake racks, milk, cream, and other heavy shit on a daily basis. I have no other employees. I don’t let any supplier inside. My back-back room is private.

It’s all on me.

A deceptively small and soft woman. A woman who has biceps of steel beneath the sleeves of her dresses. A woman whose mind has been twisted beyond repair by pain and grief and the unfairness of it all.

Beneath my sweet veneer, I’m a killing machine.

Only Tyler saw that. My sleuth stalker. He almost broke down until Gunner showed up. I almost had him.

“Bitch.” Gunner rattles beneath me a second time. His voice is hoarse, words choked. “I’ll fuck you up so bad, you won’t remember your name.”

I shouldn’t be thinking about Tyler at a time like this. He’s a distraction. A wonderful one, like finding a way to turn human flesh into powder and feeding it to the neighborhood’s stray dogs.

Another struggle from beneath me.

You’re distracted, the warning blares in my head.

“I am,” I agree with myself.

My knees press to the floor. The tips of my black Chucks sink into the space behind Gunner’s knees.

And I tug. I tug harder than the stray dogs fight over the skin of my targets every evening during October. Over thepowdered flesh that I sprinkle on the dog food every morning. Over the bones I let them have once October’s over.

Gunner continues to struggle.

“You got big lungs on you, mister,” I snarl.

A strand of my blonde hair breaks loose. It falls over my eyes, and I ignore it. Much like I ignore the fucker’s convulsions.

“This won’t do you any good now. Matter of fact”—last huffs of air fleet through his mashed mouth—“this is your last fight. And you lost.”

One, two, three, and Gunner passes out.

In his defense, he gave a good fight.

Sucks for him that I’ve never lost one. Not since Uncle Al.

I won’t either. Ever again.

Gunner blinks when I slap him. His eyes open.

And he spits at me. “Bitch.”

Words and spit. Nothing new here.

Gunner can’t do much else, seeing he’s bound to a wooden chair I have nailed to the center of the back-back room. His hands are locked behind him with black zip ties, his ankles shackled to the legs of the chair.

He isn’t naked or anything. His cock won’t be damaged.

I want to, for sure. It’s a fitting punishment for perverts, cheaters and rapists. Gunner is a pedophile. A molester in the making.

But I won’t chop his dick off. I already have one ofthese peopleon my list. Boy, what a delicious punishment awaitshim. Not Gunner, though.

This one gets to keep his clothes and, consequently, his cock.

Same can’t be said for his other offending body parts.

“That’s not a way to talk to a lady.”Tap, tap, tap, my scraper goes on his nose. “Then again, you’ve never been good at respecting women, have you, Gun-Gun?”

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