Page 14 of Stealing His Cupcake
IcametoKansasCity to kill one person. Ironically, that person was killed by someone else, but that doesn’t mean I’ll leave the city without killing anyone. Craig’s leering friend Turbo is definitely on my list and now, so are Craig’s parents. Fuck, those assholes are lucky I didn’t set their fucking house on fire with everyone inside the second that old bitch started yelling at Amy. I’m a cold-blooded bastard, but the things that hag said made even my skin crawl. How dare she say them to sweet Amy, who has never hurt a soul in her life?
My blood boils as I stomp out of the house and follow Amy. If I had more time, I would have nailed Mrs. fucking Denver to her front door, but I need to make sure no one bothers my precious girl.
They let me into their precious event. Me, a stranger they’ve never seen before, a stranger who was tasked to kill their asshole of a son. Just because I was wearing an expensive suit. The old hag took one look at the designer watch peeking out from beneath the cuff of my shirt and opened the door wide, welcoming me inside. She didn’t even ask how I knew Craig.
Originally I came here to seek answers, to ask about Craig’s friends and enemies. To find out if anyone had an inkling about his favorite “pastime activity”. It’s not like he could have gone around raping girls without anyone knowing.
Did his parents grow tired of covering for him and had him taken out before he could tarnish their reputation? Was one of his so-called friends involved and worried about discovery? Or, did one of the girls take matters into her own hands?
The questions, once so pressing, became inconsequential as I heard her voice. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. It happens to the best of us. Killing people takes a heavy tax on the mind. I thought I was dealing with it fine, but perhaps not. I wouldn’t know if I was losing my mind, would I?
Amy was real, though. She was really there. Of course she was. Craig was her boyfriend and, in spite of how he treated her, she loved him. She had more right to attend his wake than ninety percent of the people scattered around the vast lobby and the garden of the Denvers’ mansion. Including me. I mean, accepting a contract to kill someone hardly entitles me to come to their wake, does it?
Yet, Amy wasn’t even allowed inside. The old bitch kicked her out like she was a beggar, or a stray dog, and it’s a fucking miracle I didn’t kill her on the spot.
As I follow Amy through the streets, my need to protect her wars with my red-hot desire for revenge. How dare they treat my girl like that? How dare they make her cry? She’s crying even now, moving around in a daze. I follow closely, worried she’ll step into traffic or trip and hurt herself. What I’d do if that happened is unclear. I swore to myself that I’d stay away from her. At the time, it made perfect sense. Right now, all of my once logical reasons feel like utter bullshit.
I can’t have her. She’s too perfect for me. Yet, I can’tnothave her.
Just a single touch, my mind urges. A hug. A kiss. That’s all I need to stop this ridiculous obsession.
My mind is a filthy liar. I know damn well that if I ever touch Amy’s soft skin, if I ever kiss her lush lips, it’ll be over. I could never let her go, and what then?
The fantasy of having her in my life is nice, but I’m a practical man. I kill people for a living, and with strangers and brief acquaintances, I can pretend to be normal. If I let anyone close, though, they’ll see through my mask and discover the darkness hiding beneath. They’d see the parts I’m missing and run the other way. As much as the thought of chasing Amy down entices me, it’s simply not grounded in reality. What would I do with her? Keep her locked up forever? Watch her vibrant soul shrivel and die? Or…kill her?
A full-body shudder runs through me at the mere thought. No. I’d rather bite a bullet myself before extinguishing Amy’s life.
Whatever my depraved mind imagines being between us is nothing but a fantasy.
Yet, I keep following her like a bloodhound, never straying more than a dozen steps away. Her tears and muffled whimpers cut straight through my heart but they have one positive aspect, too. People glance at her, then awkwardly look away, not wanting to get involved in a stranger’s drama. While it says a lot about what a shitty society we live in, I’m grateful. I’m so primed for violence I’d eviscerate anyone who’d even think about comforting her. If anyone comforts her, it will be me, and I won’t, so…
Yes, I’m a selfish bastard. I never claimed I was a good man.
Not far from her apartment, Amy finally seems to come out of her daze. She studies the big white box in her arms for the longest time, clearly fighting an internal battle I wish I knew more about, then sets it by a dumpster. Blending in with the crowd at the nearby bus stop, I watch her take in her surroundings. She’s frowning. Perhaps she’s wondering how she got here, but the keen attention she gives the people on the sidewalk suggests otherwise. It’s like she feels my gaze on her, like she knows someone’s watching.
Taking a step further back, I join a group of office workers. They’re chatting about some corporate event and as I nod and smile along with them, Amy’s eyes slide right over me. After looking around for a few more seconds, she shakes her head dismissively and resumes walking. As she’s much more alert to her surroundings now, and hopefully no longer in danger of stepping into traffic by accident, I let her go, and focus on the box she left behind instead.
It’s a little squashed in one corner and lightly streaked with dust from when she dropped it. An unshaved man in a torn trench coat glares at me as I pick it up. I glare right back and he scatters off like a sewer rat, frightened by the darkness swirling my eyes.
A bus comes and goes, leaving the bus stop mostly deserted, so I take refuge on the uncomfortable seat under the small roof and peek inside the box. My heart stops when I see it’s full of delicate white flowers. Wait, no. Not flowers. I pick one up, surprised to see it’s not a plant at all, but an exquisite piece of pastry. A cupcake, and not a store-bought one, either. I recognize the design from photos on Kayla’s Facebook. Amy made these. She slaved away all night to make these beautiful creations for her dead abuser. Loyal to a fault, that girl. Her loyalty is misguided, but still admirable.
Having taken contracts from both sides of abusive relationships, I know a thing or two about the psychology in play there. I don’t subscribe to the general belief that women who stay with men who regularly send them to the hospital are weak or stupid. It’s not lack of intelligence that keeps them chained in place. It’s fear, lack of other options or, like in Amy’s case, loyalty. Love.
I ponder the word. I’ve never felt love, I think, nor been the target of it. No parents, raised by an overly religious grandmother who’d spank rather than hug me, mine is the usual sob story you hear from criminals when they try to justify their actions. I don’t use it to justify anything. The past is in the past and I only focus on the present. And the future… What future is there for someone like me?
Examining the delicate pastry flowers, I wonder for the first time what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such loyalty. Devotion. Love. Craig hurt Amy, and she still loved him. How much would she love someone who actually loved her back?
That thought forces a bitter laugh from me. I’m obsessed, yes, but love? There’s no way I’m capable of that. I’m up to my eyeballs in blood and gore on a monthly basis. My barren emotional landscape can’t support something as delicate as love. I need to let Amy go and hope she chooses a worthier target for her loyalty next time.
Like the idiot I am, I bite into the cupcake. I figure that one small bite can’t hurt, but I quickly find out that I’m so fucking wrong. The second the exquisite taste hits my tongue, I’m lost, drowning, floating endlessly in the void. The sweetness of the frosting wars with the bitterness of the dark chocolate filling, creating the most delicate harmony. I moan as the purest pleasure floods my veins.
I shove the cupcake into my mouth so quickly, I nearly bite off my fingers. Another moan breaks free as I chew. An elderly lady sitting on the other side of the bus stop casts a worried look in my direction, then shuffles away. I don’t care. I’m in sugary heaven, inhaling the pastries like they’re a drug. And, like a drug, I need more. More!
Gravel crunches between my teeth as I reach the slightly smashed side of the box, but that doesn’t stop me. I eat all the cupcakes, dirt and stones included, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever ingested. Heavenly mana like from the fucking Bible.
All too soon, the box is empty. I run a finger over the bottom and around the edges, collecting the stray flakes of frosting and licking at my fingers like a madman. Only now do I notice I’ve gathered an audience, and judging by the not-so-subtle side glances, the people aren’t far from calling the police, if they haven’t already. To my utter mortification, I’m also sporting a massive erection, so I hold the empty box in front of my crotch as I clear the scene. The last thing I need is to get arrested for public indecency. That would hardly be in line with keeping a low profile.
Striding back to my hotel, my cock softens to a passable level, but as soon as I lock myself in my room, it’s back at full force. All it takes is one look at the empty box resting on my nightstand. Amy’s full lips taunt me from the countless photos I’ve saved to my phone, and it’s those lips I imagine wrapped around my cock as I shove a hand into my boxers and stroke myself viciously.
