Page 15 of Stealing His Cupcake
I try to imagine the rest of her body but draw a blank. She’s beautifully full-figured, soft in all the right places, I know that, but what do her nipples look like? Her pussy? Does she shave, wax, trim, or go all natural down there? I don’t mind either way, but not knowing for sure is killing me.
I need to know more. I need to see her, touch her, make her mine and—
And what? Keep her forever locked up in my house and force her to bake for me? That’s no life for a sweet angel like her. She deserves better and I need to respect that, even if it hurts me.
It’s ridiculous, anyway, this obsession of mine. I’ve never even talked to her, so forgetting her should be easy. Tomorrow, I’ll visit Craig’s friend Turbo and that will be my last effort to find out more about the asshole’s death. Whether I find out what happened to Craig Denver or not, I’ll leave Kansas City and its heavenly cupcakes behind.
Chapter 10
Amy
Notevenamassivecup of coffee succeeds at truly waking me up the next morning. I’m numb, moving around my apartment on autopilot as I brush my hair and make myself a sandwich out of the last stale bread and some questionably-smelling ham. I should really go shopping, but it just doesn’t feel important enough. Kayla calls and I talk to her for a bit but afterward, I’m not even sure what we talked about. It’s like I’m underwater, looking at the rest of the world from beneath the murky surface. I wonder how long it will take for me to drown.
Kayla calls again not even an hour later, and, worried about my lackluster responses, threatens to drop everything she’s doing and drive over. From the panic lacing her words, permanently this time. That kicks my brain into a higher gear. I don’t want my best friend ruining her life for a failure like me. Dredging up some emotions from the sticky mud of my mind, I convince her that while I’m not fine, I’m not suicidal and I just need more time to deal with everything. It’s not even a lie. Killing myself would require an effort that I simply can’t muster right now.
While I’m content to curl up on the couch and mindlessly stare at the TV, my stomach soon reminds me that it’s been hours since I’ve had a proper meal. By then, the odor emanating from the ham has turned from questionable to downright revolting, so I throw it out and start mentally preparing myself for the strenuous task of going shopping. Not that it’s going to be a big shopping trip, with my dwindling funds barely covering my rent and utilities for the next two months. Honestly, if the rent wasn’t regulated, I’d never be able to afford the place. The apartment lease is the only good thing I ever got from my mother. But it’s not just the rent I need to worry about. Even with what I assume is a massive friend-of-a-friend discount from Miranda, therapy is still expensive, and food? Well, food has always been expensive and as I’m a big girl, I eat a ton.
Why can’t I have the kind of depression where people forget to eat for days? That would at least save me some money before I can get a new job. No, I have to have the eat-everything-in-sight kind of depression. It’s a miracle I didn’t devour all the chocolate yesterday before putting it inside the cupca— Nope. Not thinking about that. It had been a stupid idea.
After spending long minutes in the bathroom to ensure most of my bruises are covered with makeup, I stand in front of the apartment door. My eyes snag on the unfamiliar sight. The new locks, I realize. Kayla arranged them while taking me to a hospital so that Craig couldn’t come back.
Well, he’s certainly not coming back anymore, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. It doesn’t sound too devastated by Craig’s death. My first instinct is to shut it out, but then I remember Miranda’s words about letting myself feel. No judgment. It’s difficult, since the next thought that follows is,Suits him right. How do I not judge myself for thinking that?
I text Kayla a very belated thank you for the new locks and brave the outside world. The shopping part of my trip goes without a hitch and soon, I have all the basic supplies I need, plus a healthy—or not—amount of chocolate to eat away my depression. On the way out of the smallstore near my apartment, however, I make the mistake of looking at the newsstand.
The regular papers talk about an armed conflict in the Middle East and some stuff about stock exchanges I can’t even begin to comprehend, but the tabloids are having a field day with Craig’s death. It’s been almost a week since he died, but his bright smile is still on the front page. “Young athlete lost to drugs,” the caption reads. “Which of his girlfriends will attend the funeral? Find out more on page 5!”
“What?” I murmur to myself, quickly flipping to page five. The sight takes my breath away. Photos of Craig cover the spread and in each of them, he’s with a different girl. Wild parties, clubs, or official gala events, all taking place in the past year if the captions don’t lie. The same year we were together.
I knew he was going to some of these events, of course. At first, I asked if he wanted me to accompany him, dreaming about wearing a beautiful gown and dancing the night away with the man I loved. Craig had just snorted in amusement and told me that the event was too fancy for me, that I’d be bored and feel out of place. That I wouldn’t know what to talk about with the people there. At the time, I thought he was being caring and protective. But was he really?
Craig couldn’t miss the events because they were usually about sponsorships for his team or something his parents organized, and he’d always told me he would bring a friend along. I didn’t mind because he was my boyfriend. I trusted him. But… Dammit! Kayla is my friend and while we sometimes sleep in the same bed, I never had the urge to grope her ass or explore her tonsils with my tongue. Clearly, Craig’s definition of “friendship” was different, because in most of the photos, he’s doing one or the other. Or both.
“Hey!” the shop clerk shouts at me. “This is not a fucking library. Pay for it or put it back.”
It takes me a moment to come back to reality and realize he’s talking about the newspaper. I don’t want to buy it, but since I’ve alreadycrumpled the edges by clutching it too tightly, I do the right thing and hand a five-dollar bill to the clerk.
Collapsing on the graffitied bench outside the shop, I open the newspaper again, hoping that perhaps the photos will look different in broad daylight. They don’t. My so-called boyfriend is there with other women, one more beautiful than the other, their slim bodies wrapped in perfectly fitting dresses. I’m not mentioned anywhere. The article even states how Craig would have a different girl on his arm every month but never was in a stable relationship.
Well.
I don’t even know how to react to that. I expect despair to flood in and drown me, or the stabbing pain in my chest to return. What I don’t expect is anger. Fury. Rage. It floods my veins like lava, burning me from inside. “How dare he?!” I yell at the tabloid in my hands as if the paper was to blame for my boyfriend being an absolute piece of shit.
Blinded by rage, I ignore the raised eyebrows of the few pedestrians who pay any attention to me. The suffocating fury has me jumping to my feet, ready to scream and fight. Except there’s no one to fight. No one to scream at.
Craig is dead. The realization hits me differently this time. He’s gone, and there’s no way I can confront him about all this crap. If he were alive, I’d march up to him straight away and demand answers. He’d offer excuses and explanations and reassurances, and yes, I would have probably forgiven him. It’s pathetic but I have no illusions about my strength when it comes to resisting sweet talk. I would have taken him back, but at least I would get to rage at him for a while, to give him a cold shoulder, to watch him grovel. I’d have an outlet for the furious energy currently consuming me. But the asshole is dead, conveniently beyond my reach. And yes, that is not a nice thought, but I’ll take Miranda’s advice and not judge myself for once because, what the hell? “How could you do this to me?”
Unsurprisingly, the universe doesn’t give me any answers.
Because of the police investigation of his death, Craig’s not buried yet, so I can’t even go yell at his grave. Not that I would. That’s a step too far even for the new furious me.
Because I apparently like torturing myself, I study the photos again. Perhaps they’re fake? The tabloids print lies all the time, don’t they? Is it too far-fetched to think they’d Photoshop a dozen photos of a semi-famous football player just to have a sensation to write about? Sure, the pictures look genuine but what do I know? I’m not a computer wizard.
The fury ebbs a little as I ponder the possibility of Craig’s cheating being a lie. It doesn’t go away completely, because deep down, I somehow know it’s all true. Still, I need to be sure. I need answers and my stupid boyfriend can’t give them to me because he’s dead. The thought of talking to his parents again has me breaking out in hives, but who else is there? I wasn’t really privy to much of Craig’s life except—
My eyes widen as I realize I do know someone who would have all the answers, and I even know how to find him. Craig’s best friend, Travis Donovan, or better known as Turbo. He’s objectively handsome and popular with girls, but I’ve never liked him. The way he looked at me always made me feel dirty. Fortunately, he largely ignored me the few times Craig and I met him.
The important part is that we met him at his place. I still remember the address. I can go there right now and demand answers. Being Craig’s best friend, Turbo’s unlikely to provide them, but at least I’ll be doing something. I’ll have someone to yell at, which is exactly what I need right now. Shoving the crumpled tabloid into my shopping bag, I stomp over to the nearest bus stop. I should probably go home first to put the perishables away, but I’m too angry to think rationally right now. Turbo better have some answers for me.
