Muffin Top

by Tabatha Kiss

  I guess that’s why I like baking. You just follow the recipe.

  As I wait, I set up the bakery. I take money from the safe in the office, count out one-hundred in fives, ones, and change, and stick it in the register up front. I pull the chairs off the tables and make sure the napkin holders are full. I check the back to make sure my assistant manager, Monica, took the trash out before she left the night before. She didn’t but she rarely does.

  I grab the bag and throw it over my shoulder on the way outside at 4AM.

  As I step into the alleyway, the back exit of the bar next door swings open and she steps outside carrying a full trash bag of her own.

  Evey Ryan.

  She glances up at me through strands of tattered, blonde hair hanging down in front of her face. It must have been a rough night at the bar. Exhausted, dark circles line her eyes and she seems about ready to snap under the pressure but she manages to give me a quick, friendly nod. I do the same, adding in a smile as she tosses her bag into the dumpster and silently walks away towards her car in the abandoned parking lot behind us.

  Almost every night for a year we’ve done this, and every time, I try to pick out one thing I’ve never noticed about her.

  On the first night, I noticed her brown eyes.

  On the twenty-fifth night, I noticed the freckle on her neck.

  On the one hundred and eighty-third night — the night after her father died — I noticed how her posture sagged when she was sad.

  On the two-hundredth night, I noticed the way her forehead wrinkled when she was angry and fifteen nights after that, I noticed how she chewed on her cheek when she was really pissed off.

  Tonight, I notice the fear in her eyes.

  It’s subtle and fleeting, but it’s obvious that I’m not the one she expected to run into in the alleyway tonight. I watch her walk away and she scans the lot as she reaches into her purse for her keys. She usually doesn’t. The Ryans grew up in this city, just like I did. Evey’s never been one to fear the shadows but something has her good and spooked tonight.

  I toss my trash bag into the dumpster and wait in the exit doorway until I see her drive off down the street.

  The timer buzzes on my oven and I step back inside to take the muffins out. Blueberry-scented air fills the warm space and I smile as I slide the pan out and see the perfect, indigo-spotted, golden brown tops.

  I open the case on the glass counter and line them side-by-side towards the front.

  Except one.

  I take one and hide it below the counter in its own container out of sight.

  That one’s for Evey.

  I glance at the clock. It’s 4:15. Time to frost some cupcakes.

  ***

  “Good morning, boss!”

  I glance up at Monica as she swings behind the counter and into the kitchen behind me. “You’re late.”

  She pulls her cherry-red hair back and secures it into a tight ponytail. “I like to think of it as fashionably on-time.”

  I look at my watch. Ten minutes past noon. I’ll let it slide.

  “Been a slow morning?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer, glancing over the empty tables towards the front windows.

  Monica throws on a perfect customer-serving smile as a man steps towards the counter. “Welcome to Muffin Top! How can I help you today?”

  I let her voice blend in with all the others as I scan the street once more. Not surprisingly, I haven’t been able to get Evey out of my head all morning. I keep picturing that fear on her face. She was looking for someone out there last night. But who?

  The front entrance opens and there she is.

  Evey slides her sunglasses off her button nose as she walks inside, keeping her head down as she navigates around the scattered tables.

  I reach below the counter and grab the muffin hidden beneath it.

  Evey raises her head at me and nods as I snatch a large to-go cup off the stack by the coffee maker. I can still see it today; that brush of fear behind her eyelids. Her eyes are puffy, meaning she slept less than she usually does last night. Whatever had her worried before still has her on edge today and I want nothing more than to find out what it is and banish it with my bare hands.

  My tongue twitches but I don’t say a word. I let the encounter play out as it always does. I grab her blueberry muffin, press a lid onto her coffee, and I set them down in front of her as she hands me her money. Her fingertips graze my palm as she drops the bill into my hand, shooting a sudden firework all the way to my shoulder blades.

  She offers me a quick smile before spinning around and leaving again. I stop and stare, admiring the wide curve of her hips as they sway beneath her skirt.

  Monica leans in closer to me. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’ll be upstairs. Call me if you get too busy.”

  She smirks. “Will do, boss.”

  I retreat into the kitchen, passing by the ovens and the wide, stainless steel refrigerators towards the door in the left corner. Taking the stairs two at a time, I head up to my apartment above the bakery. I usually change into my shorts to workout around this time but I can’t find the energy for it at the moment.

  Just the sight of Evey Ryan is enough to make me pause, but today feels different. She has her good days and her bad days, just like anyone else, but that look on her face today is hard for me to ignore.

  For the first time since I came back home, my senses spike with danger. I can’t say I ever wanted to feel that again and just an inkling of it in relation to Evey Ryan makes my skin crawl.

  I collapse onto my bed and close my eyes. Maybe I’ll take a nap instead.

  So much for a strict, daily routine.

  Chapter 3

  Evey

  Denial.

  It’s one of those concepts that’s great until it’s pointed at you. As a bar owner, I can deny service. I can deny you that one last drink if I think you’re going to do something stupid because of it. I can turn a deaf ear to the comments of those that don’t know me and feel they know more about my health than I do. I can pretend you don’t even exist. Denial is fucking great.

  It’s not so great when you’re in need of money now and a bank says nope for the third time. It’s not so great when an Irish mobster says he won’t give you more time to pay up.

  It’s downright fucking horrible when that mobster wants you in his bed and you don’t have the power to say no unless you want to spend the night cleaning your big brother’s blood up off the floor.

  The bathroom door slams a little too hard across the room and I flinch in my shoes. Every sound, every sudden movement. I can’t sit still. I can barely blink. Any second now the entrance will open and he’ll walk in here with his trained dogs and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

  Aiden Shank is coming back and when he does, he’s taking me with him.

  I keep one eye on the door all night long. The wait is the worst part. I just want Aiden to get it over with already. Why hasn’t he shown up yet? Why hasn’t he come around to gloat and sneer at Tommy while he drags me out by my hair like a damn caveman? Is this a game to him? Is it supposed to be funny? I guess a man like him finds lots of amusement in torturing somebody — now that I think about it — but that thought lends very little comfort.

  When closing time comes around, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief as I bolt the front doors closed.

  Tommy hasn’t spoken to me all night. I’m not sure what I’d say to him if he did. He’s doing his best to stop the inevitable by calling up his friends, old bosses, anyone that might be able to spare the smallest bit of cash but you drop Aiden Shank’s name and nobody gets involved.

  He won’t let Aiden take me without a fight, that much is certain, but I can’t stomach the idea of watching my big brother take another beating for me.

  I look both ways before walking out into the empty alleyway with the trash bag.

  Just because Aiden hasn’t made an appearance yet tonight do
esn’t mean he won’t. There’s a good thirty feet between this exit and my car and there’s plenty of shadows I have to pass through before I get there.

  I look to the bakery. Vincent usually comes out around this time, too. I pause for a second, thinking that maybe I’ll knock on his door and ask him to walk me to my car but I push the thought away. I’m a big girl. I can do this by myself. It’s just thirty feet.

  I raise the lid on the dumpster and toss the trash bag inside before letting it slam down again out of habit. I cringe at the noise and look around, listening to the quiet city sounds as they echo down the alley at me.

  It’s just thirty feet.

  I rush towards my car, keeping my eyes on the shadows and reaching into my purse for my keys with trembling hands. Every subtle vibration around me is magnified, encircling me in a dome of fear and I can’t move my feet fast enough.

  I reach my car and I freeze.

  A white card sits beneath the windshield wiper with dark red print. The letters are scrawled on it like a damn serial killer’s handwriting. Hairs rise on my neck and I take a panicked look around, feeling eyes on me from every direction as I slide the card free.

  Pay up or the next thing I slash is Tommy’s throat.

  It slips from my fingers and drops to the ground as my eyes fall to my tires.

  “Oh, goddammit…”

  I circle around my car, growing more depressed with every step I take. All four tires. Not a single molecule of air left inside any of them. Slashed wide open with rugged, toothless smiles.

  I growl with frustration and roll my hands into fists. “Come on!” I slam them down onto the hood and kick the nearest tire, sending a dull pain up my ankle but I ignore it. I kick it again.

  Aiden obviously isn’t interested in settling this debt at all. He knows we can’t pay him and he wants to keep it that way.

  How am I supposed to pay for this, too? How am I going to get home tonight?

  What the hell do I do now?

  I keep kicking. I pound my fists even harder against the roof. Whatever it takes to rid myself of Aiden’s fucking laughter echoing in my head.

  “Hey.”

  I jump around, gasping loud as I prepare for yet another suckerpunch to my gut, and my heart stops when I see him standing behind me.

  Vincent the bakery man.

  “Hey,” I say, clenching my chest as I force in a breath.

  He steps forward with a furrowed brow, his eyes constantly shifting as he studies the absolute meltdown unfolding in front of him. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I swallow the lump down my throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  His eyes fall to the pavement between us and he bends down to pick up the white card.

  I reach for it as he stands, hoping to divert his attention away from it. “Oh, that’s nothing…”

  He reads it anyway and glances up before taking a wide step around me.

  I watch him circle the car as I did, noting the gashes in each tire as he passes them by. He’s wearing blue jeans and a tight, white tank top, showing off his perfectly sculpted arms. My eyes land on the tattoo on his right shoulder but it’s far too dark to make out any real details.

  He pauses beside me, once again looking me in the eyes and I catch the speckles of green staring back down at me.

  “Evey, are you okay?” he asks again, this time expecting a more truthful response from me.

  Oh, god. He knows my name.

  “Uh…” I try to shake off the sound of it; the way the second syllable lingered on his tongue for a split second longer than necessary. “Not really.”

  “Come inside,” he says. “I’ll call you a cab.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can walk.”

  Sure, Evey. It’s only ten miles. No problem.

  “Come on…” he says again, extending his hand. “Please.”

  I cave. It’s what I want to do anyway. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to walk across this damn city by myself. I don’t want Aiden Shank’s filthy mitts all over me. I don’t want any of this at all.

  Vincent lays a comforting arm around my shoulder and my head spins even more as he leads me through the alley to the back entrance. He opens the door for me and I step inside to find myself in the middle of the bakery’s kitchen.

  I take one breath and my senses explode. I thought this place smelled wonderful during the mid-day rush but that just doesn’t compare to how it is in the middle of the night. My nose twitches with all the delightful scents of ovens running and cupcake batter and fresh-cut fruit stacked in bowls on the counters for breakfast pastries.

  “Whoa…” I say, my stomach growling.

  Vincent locks the door behind us. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Sure,” I say, peeling my eyes away from all the temptation. “I probably wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway…”

  He nods and I follow him towards the main floor.

  I pause, briefly overwhelmed, as I stand behind the counter in front of the cash register. “It’s weird seeing it from this side.”

  Vincent swings around to stand where I usually do and he cocks his head to the side. “You’re right. This is weird.”

  “Right?” I laugh and he flashes a quick smile before returning behind the counter and grabbing a to-go cup from a cabinet.

  I quickly drop the ludicrous grin off my face, feeling awkward as all hell. I sit down at the nearest table, staring forward through the windows at the street outside. It’s so dark and quiet at 4AM, but every shadow tonight has a face with black hair and a scar on its chin.

  “I need a cab, please.”

  I turn to see Vincent on the phone behind the counter, calling a taxi for me just like he said he would.

  “Muffin Top bakery,” he says. “Yeah, the one with the cherry cupcakes.” His lips twitch. “Thanks, sir. That’s nice to hear. … Okay, thanks.” He hangs up and walks over to the table with two coffees in his hands. “They said it’ll take about twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you.” I take a sip of coffee and lick my lips. Somehow, even the coffee tastes better in the middle of the night. “You don’t have to sit with me. I’m sure you have work to do…”

  He shakes his head. “Just waiting on ovens at the moment.”

  I take another breath of that sugar-scented air. “So, you make all of this stuff yourself?”

  “Yeah. Most of it.”

  “Every morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  I scoff. “I can’t even make microwave mac and cheese without setting off the smoke detector.”

  He laughs. “It’s not that hard. You just follow the recipe.”

  “Oh, see…” I point a finger. “That’s the problem. Instructions aren’t really my thing.”

  “I can walk you through it sometime, if you want.”

  I pause. “Baked goods or mac and cheese?”

  “Both.”

  Holy shit.

  He’s not even blinking. I’m no professional here, but I’m pretty sure he’s flirting with me. With me.

  Or I’m just an even dumber bitch than I thought. Probably that.

  I turn away, hoping to conceal the blush in my cheeks, as I stare out the windows again.

  “Evey, who did that to your car?”

  And the blush fades.

  I keep my eyes on the street outside. “Don’t worry about it. Really, it’s nothing.”

  “Didn’t seem like nothing.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “Who are you watching for right now?”

  I look at him again, drawn back into his eyes. I know so little about Vincent but he looks at me now like we’ve been friends for years.

  “He’s just…” I chew on my lip. “My dad owed some people money. My brother and I didn’t know and when he died…”

  “The debt fell onto you.”

  I nod. “We haven’t been able to pay him very much recently.”

  “Pay who?”

  I hesitate like a
child that’s way too scared to speak the boogeyman’s name. “Aiden Shank,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “He’s… Irish mob.”

  Vincent nods.

  Well, I can forget about ever having a chance with this guy — not that I did to begin with. Ain’t nobody gonna bother with a woman in debt to the Shank family. No way.

  “I’ll make a few calls in the morning about your car.”

  I blink. “No. I’ll take care of it… sometime.”

  “If you leave it there for too long, it’ll get picked clean,” he argues. “I know a guy that can fix it quickly.”

  “No, really. It’s not your problem.”

  “It’s no problem. Let me help you.”

  The weight of the words tickles between my shoulder blades. Not just the meaning but the sheer sincerity in his tone. He really does want to help me. My detection for bullshit is rarely wrong and I don’t sense a single bit of it coming from him.

  “Okay,” I say.

  He shows a half smile and looks around. “You know what I like to do when I’m having a really shitty day?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Come with me.”

  We stand up from the table and I follow him back into the kitchen. He rolls a tower of trays closer to the counter and slides one free full of at least a dozen cupcake bottoms. They’re pink with spots of real cherries poking out and I instantly salivate.

  “I like to frost cupcakes,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he smiles. He turns to the fridge and opens it, reaching inside for a bowl of stemless maraschino cherries. “These are my cherry-cherry cupcakes.”

  I nod. “I see...”

  He sets the bowl down and points at the tray. “Along with the cherries mashed up in the cupcake batter, I hide one in the frosting on top.”

  “Hence the second cherry in the name.”

  “Exactly.” He turns and flicks on the sink to wash his hands.

  I do the same and stand beside him, trying very hard not to make it too obvious how much I’m staring at his forearms. They’re so tight and defined with that vein traveling up to his elbow. It just makes me wanna touch him…