Page 34 of Bake the Town Red

“No worries.” The line has dwindled, anyway. No need to rush them when at eight p.m. sharp, I’m kicking everyone out. “Take your time.”

While they do, my love-riddled brain drifts back to Tyler. The less depressing memories from last night.

His lips. His tongue. The way his fingers closed around my neck. My tattoo. My scar.

His cock grinding into me.

His blog. Nope. That part is still depressing.

A low humph escapes me. There was no blog entry about me yesterday. CTCyfrin promised he’d blog again. He saw my target walk in here.

For the past three years, he’s been writing in his blog about me. CTCyfrin always had something to say. Especially at the end of the first day of October. A short entry that would rile up his readers. Start a speculation thread in the comments.

Darling protective Tyler never tells his readers I’m a woman. He hides my gender and thus my identity.

His obsession forces him to add me to his blog.

His devotion for me forces him to protect me. Keep my identity a secret.

He’s conflicted. At war with himself. Hates our history but loves me so insanely that it’s impossible for him to do the so-called right thing. Leave me alone.

I’m willing to bet thousands of dollars on this assumption. Millions.

Fuck, if anyone can prove me wrong, I’ll bake them a billion cupcakes, or just enough to last them a lifetime.

So, yeah, he didn’t write anything last night and I’m bummed. And butthurt.

Curious too.

Maybe… Yes. I’m worried about him.

A man who hunts down serial killers could have a target on his back.

Note to self: Climb Tyler’s fire escape on my way home to check he’s alive.

“Michael!” Atlas yells.

“Myers!” Cora matches his scream and adds a giggle on top.

Their dad doesn’t cringe. They don’t embarrass him.

That’s what my parents used to be like. Whenever my teachers called them to inform them I’d been drawing spiders and maggots climbing out of graves instead of happy-happy-crappy stuff, Mom or Dad would hang the phone in their faces.

My parents would go over to my classroom, take my drawings home, and put them up on the fridge.

They hadn’t taken them down. Hadn’t thrown them to the trash.

Uncle Al did.

Fuck that guy.

“One Michael and one Myers coming right up.”

I reach for the chocolate and vanilla cupcakes. They have frosting in the shape of Michael Myers’s hollow eyes on top. Vanilla for the chocolate cupcake, chocolate for the vanilla cupcake.

The kids squeal as their dad hands me a five-dollar bill. A moment later, they’re gone.

They, like the rest of my customers, will bite into the cupcakes. Hum at the vanilla, cream, and sugar exploding in their mouths. At the moist, wonderful texture is. Might even lick their fingers.

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