by Kira Graham
Here’s the thing. I know what I want when I see it. I always have. When I got my first car, it took me months because, as with everything else in my life, it wasn’t about a brand, ordering something custom or having people recommend things. It was me going to dealerships and looking, waiting, and then seeing the car I knew was mine. That’s how I always make decisions, and it’s why it’s taken Connor and me this long to win this last round against Keenan. I had to feel it, to know that the deal and moment was right, and once I did, I went for it. With Louisiana, that’s what happened. I saw her, I knew, and now I’m using her kitten to keep her in my sights—and if that’s wrong, call me crazy. I don’t care. I like her, and if she could just get to know me, I think she’d like me back. Heck, I hope so because I intend for her to be my wife, and it’d really suck otherwise.
“Wait. Okay. This is a joke,” Peter laughs, his eyes darting from me to Connor, back to me and then back to Connor who’s smirking and shaking his head.
“Remember the Anderson thing?”
“That plum deal he refused to let us negotiate?” Peter asks, still sore about that one.
“The plum deal? Have you spoken to Harry Sacks lately?” I ask, laughing when Peter frowns.
“No. I hate that douchebag. Freaking slime.”
“Well, he invested with Anderson instead of buying him out, and they’re going into liquidation as we speak,” Connor says, confirming something we only just found out this morning.
Also confirming what my gut told me about the deal. And I was looking to buy too—something I can afford to do but Sacks couldn’t? I don’t know. I don’t specifically care either. My gut told me no, I knew to trust it, and the result is I’m not losing a shit ton of money over the plum deal my execs were so excited about.
“You’re shitting me,” Peter huffs, looking between us and then cursing. “Well, heck. How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just… know,” I sigh, my smile returning. “It’s a gift. That’s why we do Dare.”
“Fuck me—not this again,” Peter groans, swiping at his black hair where it’s just started to grow back in after the last Dare we participated in.
He works for me—okay? I pay him, and when my cousin Keenan’s requirements included Peter shaving his shoulder-length hair, I got it done. Because I’m a winner. That’s what I do—
“Don’t worry, man. You’re not invited to participate this time,” Connor laughs, his eyes twinkling.
“Like I would. The only reason I agreed last time was because you assholes didn’t tell me I was free game for your sadistic family,” he whines. “Chicks liked that hair.”
“Stop whining. I saw Linda down in legal eying your skull stubble,” I tease, my shoulders shaking when he shudders and gets a hunted look.
One thing I can say about Peter is that he’s a good-looking son of a bitch. I’m a very confident heterosexual man in my prime, and I don’t feel ashamed at all saying the man is good-looking. I have eyeballs. I see the way chicks practically fall at his feet.
“I’d rather cut my dick off, man. She just broke things off with Feldman,” he sniffs, making us all shudder because that piece of slime is disgusting.
The only reason we let him hang round is because my cousin Ava likes messing with him at work. Poor schmuck. I bet he never thought he’d have his ass handed to him by a girl like Ava. Pretty, cute, smart as a whip, but vicious to boot.
“Same.”
“I’m taken,” I say, laughing when they both sigh and groan.
“Please don’t make this a thing,” Connor groans, already knowing that I’m going all in and that means it’s all guns blazing and when I need help, they will be there.
“Relax. It’s gonna be fine. Anyway, how hard can it be to get a woman to like me?” I laugh, frowning when they both share a look and Peter tries not to smile.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Cam, but you’re kinda… vain. And really egotistical.”
“And you’re overly competitive with everyone, including women,” Connor finishes, wincing when I scoff.
“I am not!”
“Bro, Greta dumped you because you took her on a hike and ended up racing her all the way to the car.”
“She challenged me to a race. Is it my fault she wore those stupid boots and tripped? How the hell was I supposed to know that happened? I was already at the car,” I growl, offended beyond bearing because that’s not fair.
And I don’t appreciate Greta calling me a Neanderthal. She’s just sore that she lost.
“Bro, you don’t seriously race with a woman when she’s trying to flirt,” Connor laughs. “You’re supposed to get playful about it, not arm-block her and take off.”
“So you wanted me to lose?”
“Did you get laid?” Peter asks, grinning when I scowl. “Because that’s a loss. I saw Greta. She was…” he whispers and sighs, his smile growing dreamy.
“She was slow, she stopped to check her makeup and hair, on a hike, and she didn’t even make it all the way before we turned back,” I grunt, which to me isn’t what I want.
I want a woman who’ll shove me to win a race, who’ll cheat and fight and snarl her way to the finish line—and I think I just found her. Her and her demon cat.
“Ugh. What’s the plan?” Connor asks, groaning when I smile slowly and rub my hands together.
Oh, I got a plan.
Chapter 5
Louisiana
“That’s it!” I yell, carrying the last box of donuts and sliding it onto the shelf, my arms and legs aching but thankfully still holding me up as I turn to Gia and scowl.
I don’t know why she’s my partner in the bakery because she is useless to the max. She can’t bake, she can’t help with the frosting or decorating part, and the last time she tried to help me clean the kitchen, I nearly lost what was left of my sanity and stabbed her with a sculpting tool. She’s useless to me, her only true value being that she isn’t a complete troll and some blind guys often come in here to buy desserts and flirt with her, something I require to happen because hot guys in a bakery-slash-coffee-shop means hot girls—and, yeah, customers are always a good thing.
Today I don’t care, though. Today is Thursday and on Thursdays the doors don’t open until four in the afternoon because today is Bonus Box Day, a day once a week where I bake nothing but donuts, many varieties of donuts, and then box them for orders that are collected as soon as the doors open. It’s a quarter past three right now, and as I look at the windows and see the line out there, I want to smile. There are at least fifty people out there right now, all waiting for me to open up and give them their orders, a much anticipated weekly special that is limited, first order first served, and so popular that not one Thursday goes by without someone standing in that line, ready to try their luck to get a box they didn’t order.
“Those vultures have been baying at the doors, babe. Wanna open them early, get this haul out and close up early for once?” Gia asks, popping her gum and grinning when I roll my eyes and look at her.
Today she’s wearing a high-waisted pinstripe trouser suit that’s floaty and chic-looking, a short tank that leaves a strip of skin open, and her blonde hair is up in two buns, which should look ridiculous but doesn’t because it’s messy and pretty and proves that she can pull off anything. I, on the other hand, am decked out in a pair of old skinny jeans, a white T-shirt stained with raspberry coulee and chocolate, and my hair is flat thanks to hours under the hygiene cap I always wear when I’m baking. I look like hell, I’m pooped because I‘ve been here since five, and I’m dying for a cup of coffee, the second one today because I skipped lunch entirely to get this done.
“We’re not leaving early. We still have to box these and label them. Grab the list I printed and the labels, please,” I murmur, leaning down under the counter and grabbing a few bonus boxes that are printed with the name of my bakery and a happy face with a kiss, which I think is sort of apt considering this is a labor of love and so
metimes, when I’m not beat, true happiness.
“Okay, so let’s get an update while we work, shall we?” Gia hums, helping me fold boxes and write labels before we set out on the filling. “He called again?”
“Nope,” I mutter, a little let down by the fact that Cameron O’Dare hasn’t so much as texted me in a full day.
Yesterday was a blast as I read text after text, looked at picture after picture of kittens and then at some point realized the kitten he was sending me pictures of wasn’t Jaja. That was weird as hell, and I wanted so badly to ask him why—but then I’d have to quit my code of self-imposed silence, and I am so not ready for that yet. Mostly because I don’t know what the heck his game is and I never, ever go into a game without knowing the outcome and the rules. That’s how you lose—and I don’t lose, suckers. Ever. Okay, maybe I have lost a few times, like when Mom threw a spider at me on the last hunt and then cackled her way to victory while I screamed like a lunatic and slapped myself nearly unconscious. I should have remembered Mom is deathly afraid of spiders and saved myself the trauma, because the damn thing wasn’t even real.
But besides those few losses to my unholy, cheating family, I win everything. Like third-grade track when I knew Antonia Becket was going to kick my ass at the sprint. I mean, it wasn’t my fault she saw my lunch and ate it like the pig she is. Did I plan for her to eat it? Not precisely. I just knew she would. She did it to herself, so technically when her face and tongue swelled thanks to a nut allergy I didn’t “technically” know about, it wasn’t me trying to kill her. It was her own greed.
And I won that freaking track meet. I won. Okay, I did feel a little guilty when she came back to school the next week and she had some sort of speech problem because she bit a hole into her tongue—but that wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t even there. Didn’t lay a hand on her—
“Are you still doing that?” Gia sighs, snatching my phone from me and laughing.
“Hey, Doc, she’s nuts. You should medicate and institutionalize instead of trying to help her work through her problems,” Gia says into my audio recorder, laughing like a lunatic when I lunge for it and end up in a fight for the phone while customers who are glued to the windows watch in fascination.
“Give that back!” I scream, yanking on the phone so hard that when Gia keeps hold of it, we both topple to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.
“No! I’m talking to your shrink. She’s crazy, Doc! Nutso. Out-of-her-head loony,” Gia yells, her face turning a deep red when I latch my teeth onto her hand and try to force her to let go. “Stop it. Stop biting me, you freak.”
“Let go,” I growl, the words garbled because I’m still biting and she should know I won’t let go until she does.
Plus, my mouth is starting to water, I think, a spiteful snicker leaving me before Gia gasps, lets go and scrambles away, frantically wiping her gobbed hand on her pants.
“Gross, Lu! That’s just gross. When’s the last time you brushed your snaggleteeth?” she screeches, flipping off a guy by the window who’s grinning at her like a perv and yelling “fight” at us.
“I brushed them this morning, you hag. Stupid asshole.”
“Lunatic. I can’t believe you’re still seeing that quack,” she huffs, coming back over to help me box donuts while I snort.
“She’s helping me win the bet with Mom. I’m just grateful she isn’t charging me,” I grumble, although truth be told when you’re going to a shrink who used to be a nun but discovered her vagina still works, it isn’t all that great.
She does stuff like point out what a loser I am, tells me I belong in hell, like all the time, and she says stuff like, “Feel your truth, Lu; feel your truth.” As if I should know my freaking truth. Like I care. You wanna know what my truth is? I like winning, owning my own bakery, and tormenting my mother with stories of all my sex partners and the fact that I’m going to burn in hell for sleeping around.
I do none of that, of course, because, one, I haven’t yet met a dick I liked enough to break my self-imposed celibacy rule, a stupid drunken promise I made one night after Gia, Kat, and I got hammered and spray-painted a huge cock and balls on Brody’s car. A promise to myself is a promise to myself, though, and so I haven’t had a boyfriend in over a year—something that isn’t easy to handle because how am I supposed to give my Catholic mother a conniption about my whore ways when they don’t exist? I’m a trier, though, people, so basically I lie through my teeth and it works.
Two, I don’t exactly own the bakery. It’s in my name buuut it technically belongs to Dad since he’s the one who gave me the seed money to start this place. I’m going to be working until I’m seventy to pay him back, God help me.
Three, I can only win if I get Cameron O’Dare to give me my pussy back—
“Oh, Jesus—honestly?” Gia snorts, laughing so hard she ends up bent at the waist before she slaps my phone out of my hand. “That man isn’t giving you that cat back until you give him yours.”
“What?” I mutter, realizing I must have spoken that out loud, as I carry on filling boxes at rapid speed because a glance at the clock reveals that a lot of time has passed and the hoard outside are starting to get antsy.
“Oh, come on, Lu. He liked you,” Gia says, laughing when I gape and shake my head. “He did! That’s why he took Jaja.”
“Nu-huh,” I grumble, my brow furrowing when she smiles and shakes her head at me.
“You’re such a loser. I can’t believe you didn’t see it,” she laughs, still filling boxes but looking over at me while I frown harder.
No. No way. I saw Cameron O’Dare and he’s… we’re not suited. Look, I’m not one of those rich chicks who wax and moisturize and do stuff like face masks and hair styling. My normal day is me showering, running a tangle teaser through my hair, throwing on jeans that aren’t dirty, or sometimes jeans that are but still smell okay enough that some body spray masks the slight laundry smell. I don’t wear makeup, because it’s useless—the stuff just melts off with the heat from the ovens anyway—and the last time I shaved my legs above the knee was when Mom had a soul, so basically I haven’t ever done that and I probably never will. Cameron O’Dare seems like the kind of guy who expects his girlfriend to shave above the knees and do more than a once-a-month glance-over of her crotch with a razor.
That isn’t me—and you know what? I’m good with that. I’m totally okay with being the girl who falls in love with a normal guy, has a normal life, and produces one normal kid. That’s not a bad thing. In fact that’s a good—
“Ouch!” I scream, grabbing at my cheek where Gia slaps me, my eyes narrowing on her when she snarls at me.
“I’m not saying it again, bish, because if I have to, they’re going to find your guts in the freezer. You’re smart, pretty, and you deserve better than normal. Don’t let that asshat Brody make this a thing for you, Lu. He was a dick and an idiot, and the things he said to you weren’t about you; they were about him. You’re hot… Okay, so to me you’re basically sickening to look at, but Cameron O’Dare liked what he saw the other day, and that’s enough for me. He’s going to ask you out, honey. Just say yes. Come on. What harm could it do?” she asks, giving me her patented Gia look, which consists of pursed lips, one squinty eye and a hook nose that outs her hag ancestry.
“Uh, I could get my ass humiliated all over again,” I huff, finishing up the last box and looking towards the door where people are foaming at the mouth.
Freaking savages.
“Or, you could go on a few great dates, have yourself some great sex and get your last prize,” she wheedles, grinning when I roll my eyes because if she thinks that I believe she’s rooting for me to win she must think I’m brain-dead.
This is the same woman who ran me over with her car so I couldn’t keep playing in the hunt three years ago. Note to self: when the nice officer asks you if your sister knocked you over on purpose, say yes next time. Familial loyalty is so last year.
“You’re not convincin
g me you want me to win,” I growl, my eyebrows furrowed all the way down.
“Well, I don’t, but I think it’d be cool to see you screw up another relationship—and besides, this could be fun, Lu. Can you imagine Mom if you bring a rich guy home?” Gia asks, trilling out a laugh when I snort and grin manically.
“That would be funny,” I concede, but only because torturing my mother is my mission in life and I feel like it’s a God-given one, ya know?
It’s what she deserves for taking me to school in the sixth grade and telling all the boys I had mono. She also told them I had a yeast infection in eighth grade, which I couldn’t disprove because she dunked all my underwear in detergent, dried them, and the ensuing itch was so virulent I ended up having to go to the doctor for an examination and a cream that I had to apply for a week. It was horrible and the start of a feud that’s lasted for so long it’d be a damn shame if it ever ended.
I think Mom relies on my antics to keep her life interesting. Really. I’m doing her a service.
“You know what would be funnier? Sneaking into their bedroom again, hiding in the closet and playing that recording from The Exorcist that scares her so much.”
“Dad said we aren’t allowed to do that anymore,” I huff, pouting sadly. “Mom’s still not recovered from the broken ankle she got while trying to throw herself out of her bedroom window to escape the demons.”
Now we both cackle—but in our defense, that shit was funny as hell. Of course, it was gross too because we never once considered that Mom sleeps naked now that everyone’s out of the house, so really, we all suffered that time. Note to self: childbirth gives you piles—I saw that for myself when Mom’s bare ass was in the air, her front out of the window and her asshole on full display.
“I couldn’t eat right for a week after that. I’m still on a soft-food diet to make sure that never happens to my asshole,” Gia whispers, her tone haunted while she stares into thin air and her lip trembles.
“I drink a laxative once a month,” I confide, nodding when she blinks and looks at me askance.
