by Natalie Wrye
I hop up suddenly, standing from the couch. I nearly tumble over the coffee table I’m moving so fast to get away. I hide my suddenly hot face. “Thanks, Car. I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now. The store. I’ve got to prepare for an early morning.” The backs of my eyes burn as I turn towards the door. The chill on my skin is back, more bitter than before. I grip my own elbows, holding myself. “Thank you, Carrie. For everything,” I manage to make out. “For taking Melanie for the night. For being a friend. God knows my daughter needs this. A night with her favorite friends.” I smile, my grin shaking. The expression struggles to stay on my lips. I hug her shoulders. “God knows how much I needed this, too.”
And then I flee, flying towards the door, my heart beating hard. I open the apartment door without saying goodbye, the night air hitting me hard, the tears hitting me even harder as sobs wrack my body. I head down the stairs, the cold inside me returning with a vengeance, and I can’t tell if it’s from the weather, the loneliness or the memories, the reminiscences of the last time I truly felt safe. A time fifteen years ago when I lived, breathed—loved inside a pair of tattooed arms. Ones I’m afraid I’ll find myself in again. Ones I’m afraid I’ll want to.
The atmosphere of The Sweet Shop is silent but I welcome it.
The store is empty, silent as a grave, and as I swallow tonight’s regrets and sour tastes, I turn back towards the bags and boxes I’ve pulled out, wincing as I read the labels. It’s not like I need to. I already know what each says.
The baking. It’s like a second nature to me now.
But I run through my routine, my sacred sequence. I grabble for the baking powder first and as I pour it into a large bowl, the pain in my neck starts to fade away. I reach for the butter. Next is the sugar. By the time the egg beater makes it into my hands, the aches of my wine-drunkenness have almost gone, the throbbing at my hairline lessening with every whip of my whisk, every turn of my semi-sore wrist. I turn on the stove.
The air comes to life, warming. I inhale the heat, reaching for the vanilla extract, and as I drip the liquid gently into the bowl, my own limbs come to life, the tension easing from the rest of my body.
Sweet Sanctuary. Home.
Cooking has been my peace for as long as I can remember, and as I whip the batter of my next batch of cupcakes, a calm enters into my body and mind, chasing last night’s demons away. Both physical and mental.
By the time I pour the mixture into the pans, the pain has almost gone away, the heat of the hot stove hitting my face as I slide the metal trays inside. And just like that, my nausea melts away like the butter. It’s a sensual act, really.
The art of making food.
The touch. The taste. The aromas.
There are only two places that make me feel these strong sensations… and neither one of them is in the arms of my husband. I think about Darren, about the phone conversation that drove me to my fourth glass of white wine when the pounding in my head returns, shattering my peace-filled veneer.
I turn towards the kitchen door. No, wait… The pounding is real.
The sun has already disappeared behind the horizon. I amble out of the back rooms and onto the main floor, listening even harder. The pounding grows louder.
Unable to see through the tightly drawn blinds blocking the street from view, I walk towards the front door of the shop, flour still on my hands, the smell of vanilla frosting still assaulting my senses.
I notice a man in the street and almost scream out in warning as he sinks to his knees in front of a parked car on the street, his hands gripping towards the back wheel…as he connects a tie to the back bumper to tow it. I let go of a shaky breath.
A tow truck. Nothing but a tow truck. I shrink back inside the store, slapping my powdered hands against my hips, shaking my head as I saunter back towards the stockroom. I pass through the closed curtain and into the kitchen when the barrel of a steel-colored gun comes pointing at me from the corner, the cock of its hammer clicking so loudly, it ignites a crack in the earth, a split that cuts my world into two.
Everything before this moment…and everything after.
I freeze to the spot, fear stealing my voice, and as I outstretch my hands, spreading my fingers, I raise them to my shoulders, catching sight of the hand attached to the gun’s black handle, noticing the long black sleeves, the dark hood…and the smile shining back at me, a menacing beacon peeking from the dark.
I squelch the scream that lingers in my throat.
“Don’t move,” the hooded mystery man nearly whispers. “You do, and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
I nod, my neck stiffening from the tension as I hold my body taught. I keep my hands in the air as he circles me. The gun slides across my temple, hitting my hairline. The man moves in front of me.
“Is there anyone else in the store?”
I shake my head.
“Are you expecting anyone tonight?”
Another shake.
“Well then,” I can see a glimpse of his sneer. “Guess it’s just me and you tonight. How lovely. Almost as lovely as your daughter…” His voice sinks deeper, its tone digging into my skin. “Melanie. She really does love dogs, doesn’t she? From what I hear,” he hisses, “the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.” My lips quiver as I process each sadistic syllable coming off his lips. A sour taste snakes its way into my mouth and I swallow, sucking in deep breaths, heavy and heaving, so I don’t vomit. My stomach feels absolutely sick. Hooded Man snaps at me. “First things first. I want your cellphone.” He leans in closer, clenching his teeth. “Now.”
I reach into my back pocket, pulling it out with shaky fingers. He snatches it from my grip.
“And I want your laptop,” he growls. “Your tablet,” he rattles off. “Anything with a goddamned keyboard, hand it over.”
I shake my head again, forgetting how to speak. My mind can’t form the words, and while we stand there in silence, I can feel the heat radiating off the hooded man, the anger that is slowly rolling off his body and onto mine. He presses the muzzle of the gun into my temple and swears. His tone is sharp.
“Can’t you fucking hear?” His voice rumbles like thunder through the air. “Tablets, e-readers. All of it.”
“I—” I swallow harshly, the gulp going down like sandpaper. “I—I don’t have anything else. Just my phone.”
And thirty-three years of bad luck.
It wasn’t enough that I married the most selfish man on Earth. My sister, Penelope, was gone…or missing; nobody really knows. Including me. There were three thousand miles between me and the Jersey home I’d known and loved, and in the past year, I’d been on the cusp of losing my sanity, my wedding vows and my hard-earned business, The Sweet Spot.
I’d never been lucky, never been good at gambling. But it seemed every chance I took only soured with time, and even my store—my own safehouse—had betrayed me, somehow opening its doors to the burglar right in front of me.
And my luck was only worsening.
Even with my answer, the bastard in front of me doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He looks at me with leery eyes too black to see into. Beneath a dark hood and dark hair, I can see the smirk growing on his thin, pink lips, and the smile seems to only widen with time.
I don’t know his plans for me. I don’t think I want to know.
But I decide to ask anyway. Bad luck decision number fifteen hundred. I lick my lips, clearing my throat.
“The cash register… It’s just outside—just outside the curtain behind me. There’s more money in a lockbox underneath the counter.” I keep my hands in the air, my fingers held high. “You can take it. Take it all. Take whatever you want. It’s yours.”
The hooded man laughs—actually laughs, his chuckles resonating soft and low. His shoulders shake with the small motion, but his fingers never move. They hover over the trigger to his pistol, still pointing in my direction, the edge of his gun still brushing across my skin.
I’m surprised
when he lowers it. Down to my shoulders, over my neck. He places the barrel of the weapon at the midpoint between my breasts and over my chest. He presses there lightly, and I nearly fear that my loudly beating heart will set the damned thing off. My skin is throbbing, my pulse working overtime to keep my body from going into shock.
The stranger sets the weapon at my cleavage and teases it there.
“I don’t want your money,” he stresses suddenly. “What I want is information…” he pauses, “and you.” He shifts the gun in his hand. “And since I have the information I need,” he places my phone in his back pocket. “All that’s left is to take the rest.”
He grabs me with the hand not holding the pistol and shoves his body into mine. There’s no mistaking his meaning. Not this time. And when he pushes me back towards the kitchen counters, a decade’s worth of bad luck boils over as I crash against granite and wood, caught between the hooded man’s unwanted hands. I need no words this time, my voice no longer at a loss. I scream.
Broken Clocks
JAVI
The sounds of a struggle reach me before the scream does. The parking lot behind The Sweet Spot is empty, the open air pitch black. A cool Bay breeze washes over me as I wait just outside the stockroom walls for Delilah to exit, as I’ve done every night since I came back into her life, showing up suddenly in San Francisco.
But this windy San Francisco night is different. The cries of fear tell me so.
I run to the back door, gripping its handle—pulling, but it won’t budge. The back lock taunts me, and I kick at the big, brass bolts, stomping the heel of my black boot against them, smashing them to fucking Hell as the screams grow louder behind the door, the quiet broken by the noise emanating from the other side.
Strength I didn’t know I had takes hold of my limbs and I crush the rest of the locks with my foot, busting the deadbolts to pieces as I barrel through the back parking lot entrance, my body nearly falling through the doorway as I burst through.
I stumble into the bakery’s enormous kitchen. And the sight in front of me takes every ounce of breath from my body, replacing it with hot anger—one that burns inside my chest, exploding out of my throat.
I see Delilah. I see a man. I see a man on top of Delilah trying to hold her in place.
I’m at his side before I can think, ripping him from her with my hands. My fingers sink into the soft cotton of his hooded shirt, my grip tight enough to break bone. I slam him onto the ground.
“Get the fuck off of her!” I yell. The man’s body hits the tiled floor with a sickening crunch and he crumbles to the ground, the sound of metal scrapping linoleum echoing as a pistol goes scattering across the room. I swing at his head, connecting. His jaw jerks back.
I pounce, towering on top of him, my fists transformed into battering rams that beat him to a pulp, my hands wreaking havoc, sending blood gushing out of the man’s nose and down his clothes. His head teeters on the edge of his neck like a bobblehead, and still my hits don’t stop.
The rage inside me explodes with each punch, and my wrists ache from the exertion, my anger knowing no end until I feel a soft touch at my back, a tender trickling of fingers along my spine that make me stop.
Delilah. Right behind me. Her touch bringing me back to Earth.
I emerge from my battered Hell, standing as she gapes at me, her pretty blue eyes wide. I turn, facing her, my chest heaving. Delilah blinks, her hand drifting to her throat. I notice the red marks there.
“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice small, her gaze darting to my bloody fingers as she stares at me, her t-shirt covered with a fine white powder.
I shrug. “It’s just a scratch.” I look down at the red mess on my hands. “Actually, I think it’s more his blood than mine. Nothing to worry about.”
The beautiful brunette winces. In that instant, she looks young and pale, more like the girl I once knew. Her shoulders are small, and she hunches them together, holding herself in a tiny hug that makes me want to put my arms around her. I can’t imagine what she’s been through…but I know I’ve just given our friend a huge taste of it.
I walk to Delilah, making sure not to touch her, watching her as her eyes go wide with fear. She’s not ready for comfort. Not yet. She draws back.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “You alright?”
She nods. “Yes.” She hesitates. “I am.” She looks at the man on the floor. “Surprisingly so. He didn’t hurt me…” She lowers her head. “Not much, anyway.” She sighs, her eyes growing watery. I want to kill him…if he isn’t dead already. I clench a fist, and she continues. “But he wanted to. He was going to. Until you…” She doesn’t finish the sentence and her head hangs even lower. I reach out to touch her, my fingertips reaching for her chin, when a groan from the floor catches my attention. I cross the room in seconds, reaching for the hooded man. I cold-cock him, laying him out flat again, and his arms fall limp to the floor, a peek of black stretches from the edge of his sweater. I snatch the wrist, showing the intricate black symbol and I hold it to reveal the bold, dark strokes to Delilah. To show the man’s tattoo.
A Gafanelli tattoo.
I watch recognition dawn on her face, and with one look, I find everything I need to know about the girl I once knew. She’s still as strong as ever, stubborn as all hell, and the anger in her features matches the fury in mine. I drop the strange man’s wrist, straightening up to stand. I glare at Delilah.
“Now are you ready to talk about the Gafanellis?”
I wipe the blood from my hands.
If You Let Me
DELILAH
Three hours in an interrogation room will drive any sane person crazy. In fact, I’m sure that’s what they’re meant to do.
The walls are non-descript—gray and dull. The chipped metal chairs are uncomfortable, made even more so by the squiggling toddler still in my arms, begging to be put down. Melanie whines. I sigh.
“I’m sorry.” I look down at her blonde curls, petting them. “I know you said they have a room for her, but I just…can’t right now. I can’t afford to let her out of my sight another second.” I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
Javi smiles, wide and slow. “You said that already.”
“Then I’m doubly sorry. For not trusting you the first time. For putting you in danger. For putting me in danger.” Melanie whimpers, trying to slide to the floor. “And for being so distracted that I can’t talk about the danger.” I hold her tighter, trying to soothe her cries.
Javi comes closer, standing from his chair. “Let me try,” he says. He crouches beside my seat. Placing his hand inside his jacket, he pulls out an enormous silver dollar. He holds it up to Melanie’s face, waving the shiny object back and forth. She stops whimpering, rubbing at her little eyes so she can watch him, her blue eyes blinking slow, a sudden calm coming over her face. He tosses the dollar in the air and she smiles. When he catches, pretending to fumble it, she laughs, a small giggle that makes me join her. I watch them both, curiosity making me focus.
Javi tosses the silver dollar again. This time, he catches it on his shoulder, rolls it down his arm, and Melanie’s no longer the only one mesmerized by the dark-haired man with the coin. I can’t take my eyes off him either.
He’s lighter, more at ease than he was just a few hours ago. A smile plays on his full lips, and a glint grows in his eyes, lighting up the darkness that was just there. The darkness that I know is all around him.
Javi was never a simple man—even when he wasn’t a man yet. A gorgeous loner with long hair and deep serious eyes, he was every bit of the boy described by the rumors. Severe. Sullen. Broody, in the best of ways, and when I had laid eyes on him, my blue eyes locking with his green ones, my heart beat ten times harder, pumping with a barely-contained passion.
Truthfully? It’s that way for me now. Fifteen years has done nothing to dull the frenzy that Javi puts into my blood every time he comes near. His dark leather jacket no longer smells of smoke and sex as it had
back then…or maybe it just lost that cigarette scent. He’s still dripping in that same subdued seduction, and a decade and a half have done nothing to dull his dark appeal.
I swallow thickly as he grins at my daughter, growing her trust in him…the way he’s grown mine. I place a hand on his arm, feeling the muscle beneath.
“Javi,” I say quietly, catching his attention. “If you think she’ll be okay in the other room, then I believe you. I trust you,” I say finally. I want to trust him, I realize, and I don’t know how much of what I just said is true, but I’m willing to take a chance. If anybody’s worth it, it’s him—the man who saved me when all hope was lost.
I stand, holding onto Melanie’s hand and together we walk her outside, into the safekeeping of a federal female agent, waiting with toys. I coax Melanie into her custody, and ten minutes later, Javi and I are back in the boringly-painted interrogation room, silent and alone.
I try to dust swathes of flour powder off my t-shirt as I wait for the tall, dark-haired man in front of me to take a seat, my legs crossed, my eyes following his every movement. He sits slowly, and I fight the urge to squirm, marveling at the beauty that is his face.
He leans closer to me, placing his hands on the table between us.
“So,” he starts, “Delilah Castalano…”
I stop him. “Delilah Castalano-Cook,” I correct. “For the past ten years or so.”
“Yeah,” Javi looks at the surface of the table. “I’d heard you’d gotten married. Finally tied the knot with St. Mary’s quarterback, Darren Cook.” He stops, raising one eyebrow. “I never liked that guy. I like him even less now that he’s married to you.” He meets my eyes with a knowing stare and I scoff, crossing my arms over my dirty t-shirt, my back going immediately straight with Javi’s honesty. My heart pumps harder. My pulse pounds.
