Page 2 of Bake the Town Red

Tyler isn’t here. Not today.

Why would he be, when it’s Halloween?

Everyone’s outside, having fun. Going trick or treating. Drinking orange punch at a Halloween party. HavingScream, orHalloween, orTexas Chainsaw Massacremovie marathons. Enjoying this night.

While we’re stuck here.

Ian and I are alone with the monster.

We face each other in the living room. I’m wearing the oversized black T-shirt I slept in before Al threw me out of bed. Ian’s in nothing but his sweats. His broad shoulders are squared, the muscles in his throat flexing.

He’s built for a seventeen-year-old. His large frame is almost enough to hide our ugly-ass uncle from me. It isn’t enough to fight a man who’s twice his size.

Wake up, Dahlia. Ian. Needs. You.

“Yes,” I spit out. “I remember.”

I lick the sweat from the top of my lip. I’m scared of what’s coming for me. Nevertheless, I steel my blue eyes to hide my fear from Ian. I won’t add to his pain.

It hurts him down to his bones, beating me up.

What goes on in our shoebox Manhattan apartment makes my brother sick to his stomach. I see his sanity draining from him every day we spend in this hellhole. I hear him punching the wall in anger when Al isn’t here. Watch him get down on his knees when it’s just the two of us and—unnecessarily so—beg for my forgiveness.

Any sign of distress on my face would mess him up even more.

I won’t do that to him.

“Better—” I start.

“Valentine,” Al, drunk out of his mind, stumbles to the fridge. He waves his vodka bottle at us, high up so I can see it behind Ian. “The girl’s still standing. Why the fuck is she still standing?”

“Repeat it for me, Dalí.” Ian rears his arm back, bent at the elbow. His large hand is curled into a fist. His lips are twisted, eyes tormented. “Please, I need to hear you say it. I need it so I won’t feel so fucking bad.”

Giving the subtlest of nods, I whisper the words that help both of us sleep better at night, “Better you than him, brother.”

“I love you,” he mouths.

“I love you.”

Ian’s blow hits me a split second later. White-hot pain explodes in my cheek, sending my face to the opposite side. Spit flies from my mouth as I cry out. A drop of blood joins it. I catch the sight of it landing on the strands of my long blonde hair.

Despite the sting on my cheek, looking at my hair is what gets me. It used to be soft and shiny. Now, it’s a greasy and tangled mess.

Anything to stop my fucking uncle from leering at me.

Survival is my number one goal until Ian turns eighteen. Keeping Ian and me alive. Then he’ll become my legal guardian. We’d run away. Be new people in a new place. If we do it now, Al would send the cops after us.

We have to survive.

Then we’re out of here.

Ian will get married one of these days. He’ll have his own family. I’ll have mine. We’ll have Sunday brunches and barbecues in the backyard. I’ll bake them all the cupcakes, as spooky as I wish.

We’ll be happy.

So ha—

“Another one!”

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