Bake or Die

by January Daphne

  “What for? I thought we’ve established you’d feel it if I died,” Willa drawled. “Or did you eat something spicy and mistake heartburn for the magical witch fire signaling my death?”

  “You’re just a bright ball of sunshine, aren’t you?” I mumbled.

  “Oh, sorry—am I not being cheerful enough for you? Let me try again. Hi Sammie!” Willa said in a sugary voice. “How the heck are you? I’m so glad you called me for no reason. There’s nothing I’d rather do right now than have a fun chat when I’ve only gotten six hours of sleep in the last three days.”

  “You didn’t have to answer the phone,” I pointed out.

  “I figured you’d be calling for an actual reason,” Willa said.

  “Do you think anyone will remember us up there?” I asked. I was prolonging the conversation, but I needed something to take my mind off the depressing thoughts I’d had on a constant loop.

  “Probably,” Willa said. “When mom shipped us away to boarding school twelve years ago, that town lost about five percent of their population.”

  “I talked to Rosie the other day. She’s still running the RV park behind the bakery. She sounds excited to see us,” I said.

  I knew Willa would be happy to see Rosie. The RV park owner was mom’s best friend, and she was the one who looked after us whenever my mom disappeared on “witch business.”

  We fell into another silence, and I figured that was my cue to hang up.

  So much for the sisterly bonding.

  I cleared my throat. “OK, then. I’ll let you know if I have any issues at the bakery. Be safe.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Sam. Hold on,” Willa said, sounding uncharacteristically concerned.

  “What?”

  She paused. “Do you remember the name of the sheriff who called you about Mom? He said McGregor, right? It didn’t sound like Tom McGregor though.”

  “It was Connor McGregor,” I said slowly. “I suppose that means his dad retired and his son took over.” Then I sat up as something clicked in my mind. “Oh… Connor McGregor. The Connor McGregor. He’s the guy you were obsessed with back in high school.”

  “I wasn’t obsessed with him,” Willa snapped. “We went to one dance together.”

  “I don’t think he saw it that way,” I said. “He was really into you for awhile.”

  My sister’s fleeting relationship with the captain of the basketball team was one of the unsolved mysteries of my preteen years. I’d frequently catch her doodling “Willa McGregor” surrounded with hearts all over her school notebooks.

  Then the moment Connor started showing interest in her, she backed off and got really cagey whenever anyone mentioned his name. I spent countless nights pretending not to hear her crying into her pillow.

  No one pulled off that tough-girl persona better than Willa, but I saw right through it.

  That girl was all heart.

  Sure, she was flaky. She was a guaranteed no-show at birthdays, holidays, and weddings—all those big milestone events people celebrated with their loved ones.

  But Willa came through on the important things.

  Willa went on. “I was only asking about the sheriff for the sake of logistics. He was probably Mom’s contact guy for paranormal crimes in the area. We’ll need to talk to him to get more info on Mom’s death. There’s no way what happened to mom was an accident. She was only fifty. How much do you want to bet she was working on a case?”

  I gazed out the window at the travelers milling along the sidewalk with their jacket collars pulled up to keep out the chill. “We can talk about that later,” I said. “I’m not in the right headspace to speculate about our estranged mother’s possible murder right now.”

  “Whatever,” Willa said. “I’m just saying you need to watch yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised if whatever got Mom is probably going after us next.”

  Willa almost sounded excited by that grim prospect. She’d always been a lot more into the paranormal than I ever was.

  We said our goodbyes and I checked the time on my phone. It was 4PM on the dot, and thankfully, I still didn’t have a seat mate.

  I can do this, I thought with a smile. I am doing this.

  Just before the bus driver slid the door shut, I spotted a man sprinting out of the airport doors. He was moving like an Olympic track star—arms pumping, long muscular legs taking huge strides, backpack half on so it banged against his angular shoulder blades.

  He’s handsome, I thought absently. Late, but handsome.

  He stepped into the bus, chest heaving. “Is this the bus for Denali?”

  3

  The bus driver took off her hat and craned her neck to give the man a hard stare. “It’s your lucky day. I was just about to leave.” She nodded to his backpack. “Is that all you’ve got? Because I’ve already closed up the luggage storage.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, surveying the rest of the bus, probably checking for open seats.

  Before he could head down the aisle, the bus driver held out her hand. “Hold on there, sweetie. I’ll need to see your ticket.”

  The sweaty man ran a hand through his black hair, throwing a dazzling grin at the bus driver. “Oh right—ticket.” He then began the long and awkward process of searching for the ticket.

  First, he turned out the pockets of his jeans. Next, he swung his backpack off his shoulder and yanked the zipper open. As he rummaged through the waded up clothing and crumpled papers inside, an electric razor clattered to the floor along with his toothbrush.

  The fifty or so people on the bus silently watched this trainwreck of a man. I felt embarrassed for him. Public humiliation was something I personally tried to avoid at all costs. Maybe that was why I’d chosen a career helping other people avoid it, too.

  I also found myself wondering how someone so disorganized could maintain such gym-perfect biceps. This man’s beefcake build was obvious even underneath his ratty green hoodie. I was at least ten rows back, and I could clearly see the way that faded cotton fabric stretched across his thick upper arms and broad chest.

  Snap out of it, Sam, I told myself. The fate of the world is at stake and you’re drooling over some overgrown skater boy. Where are your priorities?

  The handsome man upped the wattage of his smile. He squinted at the bus driver’s name tag pinned to her shirt. “Debra, I’m so sorry. This is embarrassing. My ticket must have fallen out of my pocket,” he explained. “Here—I have the receipt for it.” The man snatched a bit of paper from the front pocket of his backpack. “One way to Denali.”

  The bus driver used the steering wheel to flatten out the scrap of paper. “This receipt is for a ticket assigned to someone named Samantha Craven.”

  I perked up. What had she just said?

  “Yes, good old Sammie, my kid sister.” The man zipped up his backpack, giving the bus driver a boyish shrug. “She bought the ticket for me.”

  The bus driver’s lips curved up in amusement. “I could’ve sworn I let a Samantha Craven on this bus already.”

  I frowned, checking the pocket of my tote bag. My ticket stub was in there, but no receipt. I’d thrown that out along with my Starbucks cup. Had this guy dug through the trash for my receipt so he could use it to con this bus driver into a free ride?

  That was disgusting.

  The man waved his hand dismissively. “It’s a common enough name, isn’t it?”

  The bus driver handed the receipt back. “But receipts aren’t tickets.”

  Then, and only then, did the man’s smile falter. He hunched his tall frame over, bringing his head close to the bus driver’s level. “I know, but listen. I’ve got a job interview in Denali and I really need to be there for it. Please.”

  The bus driver hesitated as her eyes flicked up and down his body. She was totally checking him out.

  Not like I could blame her.

  “Please,” the man said, his voice so velvety smooth.

  Abruptly, she yanked a lever, dragging the bus door sh
ut—with the man still inside. “Sweetie, you had better get that fine behind of yours in a seat before I change my mind.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you. Seriously.” He made his way down the aisle looking rather proud of himself.

  To my horror, the man dropped down into the seat right next to me.

  Irritation prickled all over my skin. I’d had my bag there the whole time. I’d only taken it off when I’d checked for my receipt.

  Now I was condemned to spend the next four hours sitting next to this random degenerate who told a bus full of people that I was his imaginary sister.

  The man slid his backpack under the seat in front of him. He heaved an epic sigh of relief as the bus lurched forward.

  Five minutes late, I noted. We’re now five minutes closer to the end of the world, you fast-talking con man. I hope you’re happy.

  The man turned to look at me after reclining his seat as far back as it would go.

  He blinked, surprise appearing on his angular face.

  And it was quite a face. He had round brown eyes, pouty lips, and a chin that hadn’t seen a razor in a day or two.

  The corners of his mouth twitched as his eyes moved across my face and down my body, lingering on my stiletto boots. “Nice boots,” he commented. “Very sexy.”

  Was this man flirting with me after the spectacle he’d made of himself? Had he no shame?

  “Thanks,” I said stiffly.

  “I figured I’d be sitting next to some big hairy fisherman.” He stretched his arms out over his head, interlacing his fingers. “Now I kind of wish I’d put on deodorant this morning.”

  I offered a tight-lipped smile. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’d prefer it if we didn’t talk. It’s been a long day.” Then, just to make sure I shut this conversation down before it went too far, I pulled my noise-canceling headphones out of my bag.

  “Totally get it. Say no more.” Unperturbed, the man pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, revealing a tangle of colorful tattoos on his toned forearms. “I’m Wes, by the way. What’s your name?”

  I thought about ignoring him, but he’d just given me an opening to call him out for the bus ticket thing. “Samantha,” I said. “Samantha Craven. As in, not your sister.”

  Rather than looking embarrassed, Wes snickered, his brown eyes crinkling. “Samantha Craven. What are the chances? You have the same name as my sister.”

  “Small world,” I said dryly.

  Wes took over both armrests as he leaned into his seat. “You know, if we got married, my name could be Wes Craven.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” I scrolled through my phone looking for my favorite Taylor Swift playlist—and avoiding looking at this stranger’s gorgeous face.

  “It could,” Wes insisted. “I’m a feminist. I’d take my girl’s last name if she wanted me to. I’m a highly evolved human.”

  “Highly evolved?” I couldn’t let that remark slide. I pulled my headphones off so they rested around my neck. “You fished my receipt out of an airport trashcan and tried to use it as a ticket.”

  He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “OK—yeah. It sounds bad when you say it like that. I choose to see it differently.” He shook his head in mock disapproval. “By the way, Samantha, you should really be more careful with your receipts. You will not believe how common identity theft is these days.”

  “Funny.” I said flatly, turning away from him and closing my eyes. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Nice meeting you, Wes.” I paused as a new worry crossed my mind. I had all my electronics in my tote bag. Did I really want to leave them under the seat next to this sketchy guy?

  I pulled my tote bag into my lap and hugged my arms over it. Then I closed my eyes.

  “That doesn’t look comfortable,” Wes said after a beat. “Are you going to hold your bag like that for four hours?”

  This time, I ignored him.

  “Suit yourself.” Wes scooted down, pulling his hood up over his black hair. “I’m pretty tired, too. Hope you don’t mind if I sleep with you.” He lowered his voice. “You know, since we’ve established you're not my sister.”

  Oh, he did not just say that.

  I glared at him over my shoulder. “Quit it with the innuendo, or else…” I let my voice trail off, not really sure what I could threaten this guy with.

  “Or else what?” Wes asked playfully.

  Or else I’ll smite you with witch fire, I thought.

  Mischief danced in Wes’ eyes. “Come on, don’t tease me. Please, Samantha Craven, tell me what you’d do to me. I hope it involves you wearing those dominatrix boots.”

  “These aren’t dominatrix boots. They’re Gucci,” I shot back, my voice coming out a lot louder than I’d intended.

  “They’re a very interesting choice for Alaska.”

  “Not really,” I hissed. “They’re warm.”

  “They’re hot,” Wes agreed.

  “That’s not what I—” I gritted my teeth, willing my blood pressure to go down to a normal level. “You are the worse feminist I’ve ever met.”

  Wes pulled out a pack of gum and popped a square into his mouth. Then he held the package out to me. “Want one?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?” Wes’ eyes studied my face. “I think you want one.”

  I pursed my lips. I did want one. I just didn’t want to take it from him. “Yes, OK. Thanks.”

  His eyes sparkled at his small victory. “You know, you’re a tough one to read. I can’t figure out if I’m annoying you or if you find me charming.”

  Maybe a little of both, I thought.

  Wes pressed on. “Sorry about the receipt thing. I’m kind of strapped for cash at the moment.”

  “I gathered that,” I said.

  “I’m pretty psyched about my interview though. It’s at one of the hotel restaurants in Denali. They’re bringing on a new sous-chef. I did a phone interview last week. It’s looking really good.”

  I wadded up my wrapper. “I hope you get it.”

  Wes leaned over and shoved the pack of gum back into his pocket. “What brings you up to Denali?”

  I decided to indulge him with an answer. He had given me gum. “A family obligation.”

  “That sounds ominous,” Wes observed. “Let me guess—funeral?”

  This guy was pretty good. And... pretty.

  “Something like that,” I said. “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  “Fine by me. I’m not trying to pry. It’s just,” he paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “You looked like you wanted someone to talk to.”

  I shot him a sidelong glance. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

  “And yet,” Wes leaned back. “You’re still talking to me.”

  “You’re talking to me,” I protested.

  “Because you clearly want someone to talk to.”

  “Why would you even think that?”

  “A hunch,” he said.

  I swallowed the lump of emotion rising in my throat. He’d hit on the truth. I did want to talk to someone—anyone to make me feel a little less alone. Willa wasn’t much help in that department.

  Wes smiled. “We can talk about whatever you want. You’ll never see me again. I'm a decent listener.”

  This man’s thoughtful words were pushing me dangerously close to breaking down into an ugly-cry.

  “It’s just been a really difficult couple of days,” I said quietly.

  Keep it together, Sam.

  Wes’ eyes softened. “I can see that.”

  “And now I have to live with my sister, and she takes the longest showers. She uses all the hot water,” I blurted out.

  Another nod from Wes. “That sounds pretty rough.”

  “And I was supposed to have tapas with Benedict Cumberbatch tomorrow.” I chewed my lip. “I rewatched all the Sherlock episodes last week because I was so excited.”

  “Benedict Cumberbatch,” Wes mused. “Why are women so into that g
uy?”

  I pressed my knuckles into my temples. “I feel like everything’s so out of control. I went off my keto diet because I had a layover, and I just had to eat an entire pint of Häagen-Dazs with a plastic spork.”

  “I’m a Ben and Jerry’s man myself,” Wes remarked.

  “I’m just… I feel… I can’t do this. No one should have to do this.” I blinked furiously trying to regain my composure.

  “Hey, Samantha?” Wes glanced over his shoulder before leaning in and whispering, “You’re, like, five seconds from crying, aren’t you?”

  “Me? What? No.” I laughed, somewhat hysterically. “No. I’m fine. I’m just... tired. I should sleep. I don’t know why I said all that.”

  “Because you wanted someone to talk to.” Wes’ eyebrows traveled up his forehead. “Pretty badly, apparently.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “Sorry, that was a lot.”

  “Nah, I’ve heard worse,” Wes admitted. “And you get a pass because you wore those sexy boots.” He pulled a knot of headphone wires out of his hoodie pocket and shoved one of the earbuds into his ear. He plugged the other end into what looked like a burner phone.

  Did those phones even play music? I wondered.

  “I’ll let you be,” Wes said. “But if you need a shoulder to cry on, I’ve got two of them.” He gave me a friendly nudge. “And I don’t get freaked when girls cry. You know, because of that sister I have.”

  4

  The air was chilly—fifties with the sun out—but I decided to put the top down on the Miata anyway.

  The peak of Denali was visible from the road—something that didn’t happen often with the weather systems created by the Alaskan range. I wasn’t one for nature, but that mountain was beautiful.

  It was so impossibly white, like tennis shoes right out of the box. The craggy slopes criss-crossed down the mountain, creating the appearance of pale blue lines the color of shimmery blue toothpaste.

  Denali was treacherous. Many mountaineers had died trying to summit that mountain. Planes had gone down throughout the range, but somehow, all I saw when I looked at that big magnificent hunk of ice was comfort and stability.