by Alexis Angel
I stumble out into the street and look around. Why are there no cabs when you need them? I’ll walk. I push my hands deep into my jean pockets and head down the street. The Standard is only a block or so away from Flour Girl, Skylar’s bakery. I helped her start it when Paul, her husband, my brother, wouldn’t give her the money. What a dick.
I walk down Hope Street, and the irony is not lost on me. I stand in front of the bakery, looking up at the sign above the door. The shop is closed, and the front lights are off, but the smell of freshly baked bread hangs in the air. Through the dark storefront, I can tell the kitchen lights are still on.
She’s in there, baking.
A car comes toward me, and the lights are blinding. I’m in the middle of the road, and the car must stop. The horn honks twice, but I ignore it. I’m staring at the window, wondering what’s bothering Skylar that she’s baking so late at night. It’s after midnight, and her days start early, rather than running late. We’re still at the wrong end of the night.
“Hey, asshole,” a man says, and I turn my head toward the car. The car door is open and someone leans on the car door with his elbow, but I can’t make out his face past the blinding light. “Get the hell out of the road.”
I ignore him. I’m not done here.
“Did you hear me?” the guy asks and slams his car door shut, walking toward me. The lights are like two spotlights, and all I see is his silhouette against the glaring headlights.
“I said, move,” he says.
I look at him and shake my head. “I’m not done here,” I say. Somewhere at the back of my mind, a little voice tells me I’m being unreasonable. The alcohol throws a question at me: what is reason?
“Move or else,” the man threatens.
I turn toward him and take a good look at what’s in front of me. He’s not very well-built, and he’s not very young. In fact, he’s not very much of anything. I know I can take him. I work out most days of the week. I probably bench-press more than this guy can count to, and I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be allowed to stand in the middle of the road.
“Or else, what?” I ask. I want to fight. My skin tingles, and irritation lodges itself in my chest like an itch I can’t scratch.
He doesn’t have an answer to that.
“Or else, what, huh?” I ask, getting up in this guy’s face.
“I don’t need your cocky attitude, son,” he says.
It grates me when people call me “son.” He’s up in my face, standing so close we’re almost touching. I also don’t like people in my personal space, and I shove him away.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say.
He shoves me back. When his hands press against my muscles, I can see him think about it again, but he’s not going to back down, and there’s no way I’m letting an old guy with no muscles on him tell me what to do. I’m thirty, I have my own company, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.
“Just get the fuck out of the road,” he says.
I grab him by the shirt. I want to scare him off, but he’s one of those blind-with-rage guys, and the moment I really lay my hands on him, he loses his shit completely. He swings at me, and I jerk back, but the fucking alcohol makes me slower and he clips my jaw. I see stars for just a moment, but I’m back to my senses in no time, swinging at the guy. I’m better at it than he is, and even with the alcohol in my system, I manage to land a punch. I’m all proud of myself when, out of nowhere, his knuckles connect with my nose, and I hear a crack, accompanied by a burst of pain. I fall to the ground.
“Motherfucker!” I shout, the anger taking over. I jump up, throwing myself on the other guy. We both go down, and my elbow hits the pavement which hurts like a bitch, but this guy is going to pay for hitting me square in the face. I straddle his chest, and I’m ready to climb into him.
“Parker!” Her voice slices through my rage, and I freeze.
No matter where I am or what I’m doing, the moment I hear her voice, I listen. I turn and look over my shoulder. The guy I’m pinning down uses the moment to throw his weight to side to get me off, but it’s not enough. I turn back to him, but I don’t even have time to think about hitting him again before her hand lands on my shoulder.
The moment she touches me, my aggression evaporates. I can hear my blood rushing in my ears, air rasping in and out of my throat.
“Get off him,” Skylar says, and she sounds pissed off. I do as she says.
“I’m so sorry about my brother,” she says to him. “Are you okay?”
I want to punch him again just for having her attention, but she’ll get angrier with me so I don’t.
“I’m fine,” the guy grumbles. “You just keep him off the streets. You’re lucky I won’t press charges.” He turns and walks back to his car.
I press my hand against my nose, and it comes away red with my blood.
“Fucking dick,” I say and spit some blood out onto the asphalt.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Skylar asks, and she stands in front of me, her hands on her hips. I look up and feel like an idiot.
“Sorry,” I say. I can’t take my eyes off her. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, flyaway hairs framing her face so that in the lamplight, it surrounds her head like a halo of fire. She has flour on her cheek, and her eyes are dark like the ocean in the dim light of the evening.
“God, you’re drunk, aren’t you?” she asks.
“Why did you tell him I’m your brother?” I ask.
Skylar shakes her head. “Because you are. Brother? Brother-in-law? What does it matter?”
“You could have told him I’m your boyfriend.”
“And make him think I chose to be with a raging lunatic? No thank you.”
Her words are sharp, and I sigh. The alcohol still buzzes through my system, coming back with renewed force now that the adrenaline drains out of me like a puddle at my feet.
“You shouldn’t be lying around in the streets like this, Parker,” she says. “You’re acting like a juvenile.”
I roll my eyes at her in a very juvenile way. She shakes her head, but a smile creeps through, and I know that she will forgive me again. When she smiles at me, everything is all right with the world. It lights up her face with some inner glow that only Skylar has, and it makes her blue eyes sparkle.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
I touch my nose again. I realize the bleeding hasn’t stopped. When I look down at my shirt, I see my blood has pooled on my chest in a beautiful stain that shouts “irresponsible.”
Skylar sighs again. “Come into the bakery. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I nod and follow her into the bakery. She closes and locks the glass door behind us. The front room is dark, with its display counter and four tables across the floor, a ghost of what it usually is in the day. I follow her from the front room through the kitchen and to her office. She kneels in front of a cabinet in the corner and retrieves a first aid kit.
In the light, her eyes are drowning deep when she looks at me. She sits down on the couch that faces her desk and pats the seat next to her for me to sit down as well. I walk to her and do as she asks. When she’s this close, I can’t think straight. She smells like cinnamon. Her fingers are gentle when she helps to clean me up. My eyes slide down her face to her neckline where her shirt scoops a little. The swells of her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. I shift in my seat a bit because I’m getting hard.
When I finally look up at her, her lips are curled into a smile.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. When she’s done, she sits back, and I can’t see down her shirt anymore.
“You always get into trouble when you drink,” Skylar says.
I shrug. She’s right. I always end up fighting when I’m drunk. I can’t even remember why I didn’t just step out of the road now.
“Sorry,” I say again. My head is suddenly very heavy, and I tip it back. I close my eyes and sigh.<
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“Parker, you should go home,” Skylar says.
“I will. Let me just sit down a moment.”
“Parker,” she says again.
I can listen to the lilt of her voice all day. The way my name rolls off her tongue and the way her voice is a little husky, as if she’s always excited. I take a deep breath and feel myself sinking into blackness.
“Parker?” she asks, but I don’t remember answering her.
Skylar
I’m exhausted. When Parker passed out on the couch in my office, I went back to baking instead of going home. I couldn’t very well leave him in my shop. Who knows what he’ll do when he wakes up and he’s hungover? Of course, it’s not just that. I don’t want to leave him alone. But that’s just because I care for him.
As family. Obviously.
I was busy baking when I heard shouting outside. I’m not usually in the bakery this late, but baking helps me think. There’s something about baking that’s stable, predictable, and it grounds me. I know that I must leave yeast to ferment for a set amount of time, and it never changes. I know I must knead the dough so it releases gluten so that the dough rises in the oven when it’s time to put it in the oven. I know that I need to let the dough rest for long enough before baking it so that the rolls come out perfectly.
All of this is a given. I know what I must do, and every time, it works out the way it should.
My life with Paul isn’t as predictable or as straightforward. He’s a good man in his own way, but he has his mood swings, and there are times that I don’t like going home. We’ve been married just over two years now, and I can’t say it’s getting any easier. Maybe relationships like mine just aren’t supposed to be easy. Paul is gay. I am his cover story.
And then there’s Parker. Parker and Paul have never really gotten along very well. They’re so different. I can’t blame them. I met Parker before I met Paul. I know he’s easier to get along with, and he understands me better. If Paul didn’t come along, who knows where Parker and I would be? But life consists of a series of choices, and sometimes it takes you in a direction you weren’t expecting. Why do I subject myself to a life with a man that won’t ever be in love with me? He helps me hide what I’ve done.
I lean backward from where I’m kneading the dough and glance into my office. Parker is still asleep on the couch. I don’t know how much he’s had to drink, but I know it was more than he can handle.
He’s attractive when he’s like that, raw and rugged. It pisses me off when he can’t control himself, but there’s something about a man that embraces his primal side, and Parker is about as primal as they come. Not always. He grew up in a home where manners were important, and he falls back onto them from time to time, but the veneer of civilization is thin. And Parker is handsome, anyway. Even when he’s not fighting.
Dark hair, icy blue eyes, pale skin. He’s built like a quarterback, tall and broad, and he makes me feel small and delicate when I stand next to him. Last night in the office, he was staring at me, and his eyes were filled with lust. It was inappropriate. And a compliment.
I push the thoughts away. I shouldn’t think about him like that. I’m married.
The thought of Paul has me reaching for my phone. He will be awake now.
“Where are you?” he asks without saying hello.
“At the bakery.” I glance at Parker again and decide not to tell him why. “I’m preparing for the Sunday rush. You know how it goes.”
Paul mumbles something about my work interfering with our personal time. I don’t comment because we don’t exactly have personal time. When I don’t argue with him, he hangs up. I slip my phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath.
My bakery is my life. I go to the store at five in the morning to start fermenting the yeast. I roll out the dough and knead it. The rhythm makes me feel stable and grounded. When the dough is ready, I do what is necessary–braid it or knot it, roll it or flatten it–before it goes into the oven. By the time I open the shop for the breakfast rush at seven-thirty, the first batch is ready to be put in the display case.
I put on the coffee machine. I sell coffee and tea as well, and it’s the smell of coffee and croissants, and tea and muffins, that does my advertising for me and brings in the customers.
Usually, Lizzie and Jack come in around seven. Lizzie works as my shop assistant, manning the register when I’m baking or engaging with customers. Jack deals with my marketing and designs.
On Sundays, it’s just me in the shop, and I like the peace and quiet.
I’ve been baking since I can remember. I spent a lot of time with my grandmother as a child, and she baked all her own breads and cakes. I went to business school to get a degree. Opening my own bakery had been my dream since I was fourteen.
When I married Paul, I had my degree, but not enough money to open my bakery. He wouldn’t give me the money. A woman belonged in a kitchen, he would say. It was ironic. Parker was the one that ended up helping me out with money for the bakery.
It’s because of him that I can do this at all. It’s one of the reason I don’t want to turn him out on the streets when he drinks, it’s why I let him flirt with me, even though he shouldn’t, and why I sacrifice sleep for him.
His generosity isn’t the only reason I put up with him, but it’s one of them.
The other reasons, I try not to think about too much. I’m married, and I can’t think such things about my husband’s brother, no matter how disappointing my relationship might be. I may regret my choices sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I can do whatever I want.
Of course, thoughts slip through sometimes. There was a time when Parker was the man I pursued, but things in my life have changed, and I have to forget about that. The mind forgets easier than the heart does, though.
Still, that doesn’t make it right.
“Is that coffee I smell?” Parker asks behind me, and I turn around. He looks like death warmed up, with dark circles beneath swollen eyes and the blood on his shirt.
“It is,” I say. “The machine is on in the front. If you go grab a cup now, you can get back here before I open the shop.”
He nods and shuffles away. The heel of his hand presses against his forehead. I smile and shake my head.
He comes back a short while later with a cup of steaming coffee. Black and bitter. He hates it that way but apparently, it’s a hangover cure that works for him.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Parker says.
“Can you even remember it?” I ask.
He pauses, shakes his head, and looks like he regrets it immediately.
“I can’t remember much after leaving the bar. I remember a fight, vaguely.” He pulls his shirt away from his body and looks at the blood. “Which apparently was real.”
I chuckle and nod. “Yeah, you were being a dick,” I say.
He pulls a face. “So, standard drunk Parker then,” he says.
“Yep.” I nod. I put the last of the loaves into the large industrial oven. “It took me a while to get your attention, but once you actually heard me, you stopped. You didn’t do much damage. You’re worse off than he is.”
“Which isn’t bad at all,” Parker says, and he looks relieved. He may be an idiot when he drinks, but when he’s sober, he has standards, and he’s not mean for no reason at all. When he drinks, he becomes aggressive, but we all have flaws.
“I’m guessing you’re the reason I woke up in your office,” he says.
I nod and take off my apron, running it over my face to get rid of flour that always ends up on my skin. “I cleaned you up. You repaid me by passing out.”
Parker closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Sorry about that,” he says when he opens his eyes again. “As always, you come to my rescue. It should be the other way around, you know. I should be the knight in shining armor here.”
I chuckle again and head toward the front of the shop to set out cups for the customers that will arrive soon.
“
You’ve done that already, remember?” I ask. “This place is possible because of the loan you gave me.”
Parker followed me, and he’s right behind me when I turn around so that I bump into him. He holds onto my elbow to steady me, but he’s close enough that my breath catches in my throat. He smells like cologne and alcohol. The combination is strangely intoxicating. I shake it off and step away.
“It’s not a loan,” he says. His eyes are a light blue, piercing, and from his six-foot height, he towers over me. I swallow. Parker and Paul look alike. Both have dark hair, but Paul’s eyes aren’t as vivid as Parker’s, and he tends to slouch, which makes him look shorter. Parker is also more muscular than Paul, although it shouldn’t matter.
“We’re not back to that, are we?” I ask. I try to ignore the atmosphere that charges around us. There’s not a lot of space behind the counter, and he’s so close to me I can’t think straight. “I’m paying you back.”
Parker shakes his head. “It was a gift. Seeing how successful you are and you giving me free coffee from time to time is more than enough payback.”
He leans against the coffee counter with his ass, his hands braced on the edge, and I can’t help but notice how his shirt strains around his bulging muscles. God, I shouldn’t be staring.
I look back at his face, and it doesn’t help. His eyes are on mine, and he has a look on his face that I don’t want to interpret.
“It’s a loan, Parker. I want to pay you back. I’m not accepting that much money as a gift.”
Parker shrugs. “You don’t have a choice. I’m not going to take anything from you. At least, not money.”
His last words dance over my skin, and my stomach turns involuntarily. It’s loaded with meaning, and I feel out of breath. God, it’s all butterflies and sexual attraction with Parker. I’ve forgotten how bad it can get with him. It’s what it used to be like when we met, when we spent time together.
