by Grace, Hazel
Paige sits next to me on the couch, crunching on cheese puffs and bitching about how she can’t stand the Kardashians, but we watch it every week. I still haven’t calmed down from my mother’s phone call, it’s been crawling over my skin and piercing at my brain, giving me a day long headache. I’ve contemplated on changing my number several times in the last few years but never could bring myself to cut her off fully.
Stupid me.
“What’s up with you today?” Paige asks, looking over at me, her feet resting on the coffee table.
“My mother called me,” I blurt out.
Paige sits up. “What?”
“Wants us to come home from Cali. She sent me a birthday card and it got sent back.” I gave Mom a made-up address I googled in California. I was desperate, didn’t put too much thought into it when she threw me on the spot.
“Oh well,” Paige alludes. “She won’t find us here.”
I bite my lower lip. “How can you be so sure?”
Paige stretches her arms. “Do you see your mom or Jerry stepping foot in Hickville, Tennessee?”
“No.”
She shrugs. “Problem solved.”
“But Jerry...I don’t know.”
“Don’t start getting paranoid again,” Paige grips, throwing a cheese puff in her mouth. “Your mom has him busy with other shit.”
“How do you know?”
She turns her attention back to the Kardashians. “I keep tabs on him.”
My eyes narrow. “You what?”
“Tabs,” she repeats. “I keep an eye on your mother too.”
Now I sit up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why bother you about it?”
“Because it’s my fucking life.”
“Chill out, Nova,” Paige warns. “Someone has to do it. You focus on the bakery business, I got the rest.”
“I can’t have you do that.”
Paige eyes me. “Says who?”
“Me.”
“Stop.”
“No, you, stop. I appreciate it, Paige, I do. But this is all too much, I think we need to leave again.”
“Not with the money we are about to stack in with Katherine and her rich little housewife friends. Buy a gun, Nova. You can shoot him if he shows up at your doorstep. He’d piss his pants.”
I steeple my fingers. “He isn’t afraid of guns. I’ve seen him around them.”
“Did he hold one?” Paige raises an eyebrow, looking exasperated that I’m literally keeping her from the Kardashians.
“No, but—”
“Then he is a pussy like I’ve been saying.” She turns her body to face mine with a loud exhale. “Listen, we’re not going to run from this fucker for the rest of our lives. It’s been five years since we left. We met your mom in Cali to keep our front up, rented a condo for a weekend that killed our bank account, and went back to Chicago. Jerry is onto...whatever it is he’s doing.”
“Torturing another soul, I’m sure.”
“We should’ve chopped his dick off before we left,” Paige chortles. I roll my eyes with a smile, even though we probably should have. Maybe then I’d be able to sleep without fearing the night.
“So, where the fuck have you been?” I stand over Levin, who’s crouched down by the side of an old Buick. He didn’t show up at the races last night and hasn’t been answering his phone, sending my blood pressure sky high.
“Did you check your phone?” he asks, not bothering to turn around.
I scratch my chin. “Not lately.” I was so pissed last night that I smoked a blunt and fucked Marissa while I inhaled every hit.
“Does that mean not since last night, brother?” He rips off a piece of painting tape off the roll and carefully places it on the side of his car.
“I’m not playing Nancy-fucking-Drew with you, where were you?” I don’t like being on edge, but here I am. I have been since Beast found information on the Queen of the South.
My sister’s murderer.
Levin stands up, almost level with me as he turns around. Raking his matching dark hair through his fingers, he eyes me, challenging me to start an argument.
“I was out driving.”
I raise a brow. “Where? We had a race last night.”
Levin shrugs, his tongue pushing out his lower lip. “You didn’t need me.”
“You went, didn’t you?” I ask, my tone accusing. The little shit was riding around with no backup in the enemy’s backyard.
Levin drops his roll of tape on the garage floor. “Yeah.” Brushing my shoulder, he walks past me as I keep my gaze on him.
I cross my arms. “You think you’re fucking Superman or something?”
“Fuck off.” Levin pulls out paint swatches between some catalogs off the tool bench.
“You need to take someone with you, Lev,” I tell him, lowering my voice as calmly as I can. “For my sanity, at least.”
“Well, if you would’ve started out like that, you wouldn’t have raised your blood pressure, old man.” He leans down, resting his elbows on the bench, comparing colors.
“Are you going to tell me what you did, or keep raising it more?”
“I just went to observe.” He hangs his head low, slamming the swatches against the bench, making things rattle. “Why can’t we just kill this fucker?”
I exhale a breath. “It’ll wage war, possibly costs lives. I don’t want Pops and Josie put in harm’s way. It’s bad enough we’re doing it behind their backs.”
And that guilt is eating me alive. Pops and Josie took Levin and Isla in when I went to prison. Two homeless kids at the diner and the rest is history. They own the garage that we work in and, with Levin’s artistic skills, we upped the ante and started painting cars as well as fixing them.
He glowers at me over his shoulder. “Since when do you get to make all the decisions?”
“Since I’m the only one thinking rationally right now, Lev.”
But barely.
I’m holding on by a thread, knowing that the fucker who raped and killed Isla walks around, eats, breathes, and does normal ass shit, makes my skin burn. The images of Isla's lifeless body floating in her apartment bathtub, her golden hair gracefully floating aimlessly in the water, keep me up at night to the point of insanity.
“How close is Beast?” Lev walks to me, his eyes bloodshot as I get a better look at him over the shop’s light. “When can we move on this?”
Levin used to be the level-headed brother, planned everything out before proceeding, and made sure it was worth it. So was Isla. Now, he has a short fuse ready to ignite at any moment. I make a mental note to myself, needing more eyes on him because he is going to get himself killed if he doesn't cool it.
“Was someone looking for some information?” Beast chimes, entering the front of the garage.
Glancing him over, I chuckle. “You look like a tool.”
Beast dawns a navy wife beater, silver chain with some stupid ass medallion. All he is missing is the diamond earring in his ear to be donned the title.
Beast raises a brow at me. “Because I am.” Throwing a manila folder in front of Lev, he leans against the tool bench. “Looks like the Queen of the South changed her name because she shows up out of nowhere twenty years ago. Whomever made her “exist” didn’t do too good a job with it because it wasn’t hard to figure out. Her real name is Sandra O’Fallon, but she goes by Lydia now. She was born to a middle-class family and has an older brother, Brady. Fast forward a few years, she was in a hospital pregnant and walked out with no baby. I’m doing some more digging.”
Levin is studying the contents of the folder like he is waiting for more clues to pop out of the pages.
“Get some information on the kid,” I reply. “Might be able to use them as leverage.”
“Like in kidnapping?”
“Hence the leverage, Sherlock.”
Beast furrows his brows. “You looking to do more time?”
I snicker. “I don’t plan on getting
caught.”
Beast sets a palm on the tool bench. “Listen, asshole, we’re already running pretty close to the line here. I’m illegally hacking into public records and shit with the county. If—”
“Good thing we live in a small town of idiots then,” I counter.
Beast eyes me, shaking his head. He loved Isla, just like the rest of us. He’d do anything to avenge her, no matter how hard he tried riding my ass.
“How would kidnapping a child she gave away do us any good?” Lev voices, not looking up from the folder.
I shrug. “You got any better ideas?”
Lev throws the folder on the bench. “Yeah, not following in my brother’s footsteps and getting arrested.”
I give him a mirthless laugh. “But you’ll go to jail for killing the Queen?”
“Better to go big or go home.”
“You both need to slow your shit,” Beast argues, holding a hand up. “We’ll get to that when we get more solid information.”
“She runs a prostitution ring,” Lev chimes. “All these goods that she receives for her business, the trucks arrive at night, from all over the place. But never from places in the U.S. They come from China, Mexico, Canada, even Japan. Those are huge for prostitution stops before they come to the U.S.”
“Where did you learn that?” Beast asks.
“Some documentary I was watching, and I think an episode of SVU.”
Beast laughs, grabbing the folder and slams Lev in the chest with it. “I’ll look into it. Good eye, Lev.” He nods toward the Stage 1 Buick Levin was working on. “You paintin’ that?”
Levin nods. “Yeah, it’s Mr. Jens. He wants white pin stripes down the sides.”
“Charge him a little extra,” I tell him.
“Why?”
I hand him a piece of paper from the front pocket of my T-shirt. “Foreclosure notice on the garage, second notice. Pops hasn’t said anything to me about it.”
Lev quickly scans it. “Hasn’t mentioned it to me either.”
“I need you in that race tomorrow,” I tell him. “We need to get more bets placed.”
He nods. “I’ll be there.”
After everything they’ve done for us, we’ll do anything in our power to keep Pops and Josie from losing the garage. And when I say anything, that’s what I mean.
It’s Saturday.
Doomsday.
Aka Katherine Tunner’s wedding.
Paige and I have spent the last three days fixing and prodding over this wedding cake and, I swear, I never want to make another one again. It was wishful thinking because Katherine’s friend, Meghan, just got proposed to last night and we are potentially making her cake.
Correction.
According to Katherine, we'll make it if we don't fuck hers up.
Last night, we made her last-minute revision; white roses instead of pearls because they remind her of a grandma and not Elizabeth Taylor anymore. I tell her I can’t accept any more changes after this one because this shit is getting old. But, of course, I say it in a professional and respectful manner. I can’t have her bad mouthing our customer service even though I’ve wanted to cuss her out on several occasions.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I’m wiping my hands on my apron. Pulling it out, I smile to see a text from Noah.
Noah: Hey gorgeous. How stressed are you right now?
Me: Stressed is an understatement.
Noah: I’m sure it looks great. Send me a picture.
Clicking on my camera option, I lean forward to take a snapshot and send it over.
Noah: Damn. Are you sure you said this was the devil’s cake? Looks like it was meant for an angel with all the white.
Me: Wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Noah: It looks great. I got off early today. Need some help transporting?
Me: That’d be great. It’s heavy as shit.
Noah: You’re lucky because I ate my Wheaties for breakfast.
Me: Wow. You weren’t this lame when I first met you on Tinder.
Noah: LOL. See you in a little bit jerk.
A smile tugs at my lips. Noah was a pleasant surprise, thanks to Paige. After many shots of tequila, we made an account on several dating sites as a joke to see how many hillbillies I could snag up. Immature as hell, I know, blame the tequila. Few days into my drunk decision, Noah showed up, and after hesitantly wanting to meet him, I grew a pair of balls and met up with him.
Noah is perfect for the moment. He gives me my space, doesn’t blow my phone up, and checks in from time to time. We’ve gone on two dates, in which he hasn’t kissed me yet, may I add. I guess the men in the south are more gentlemanly than I imagined, and I appreciate all the time he’s given me to handle what I need.
I’m just hoping I can give my future an honest chance.
___
Helping two women at the counter of our bakery, I try not to roll my eyes to the back of my head. They’ve spent the last fifteen minutes bantering over what flavor of cupcakes they want for one of their husband’s birthday, and I have shit to do. Looking over their heads at the clock on the wall, I have two hours to pack up Katherine’s wedding cake and carefully drive it over to the wedding venue.
The bell at our front door rings, bringing both women’s attention to it. In walks Noah, in all his lumberjack, Instagram-reposting glory, wearing a red plaid shirt, jeans, and blond stubble on his face.
“Holy shit,” the brunette mumbles to her friend, fanning herself with her hand.
Holy shit is right.
“Hey beautiful,” Noah greets me, his chocolate eyes gleaming.
“Hey.” Both women stare wide eyed at me, jealousy etched in each wrinkle of their faces. “Ladies, have you made your decision?”
“Red Velvet,” the blonde replies, peering over her friend at Noah. “Your vanilla tastes like Betty Crocker cake mix.”
I clench my mouth shut, feeling the heat rise to my face as I step over to the display case. “How many?” The blonde is still staring shamelessly at Noah. “Ma’am?”
“What?” she snaps, bringing her attention back to me as though her eye-fucking Noah is the most important thing right now.
“The woman just asked you how many you wanted,” Noah fills her in, his face calm and collected.
“Oh,” the blonde softens. “Two dozen.”
Quickly, I fill two white boxes with cupcakes and slide them over the counter, overcharging them a little for their rudeness. Noah salutes them as they stumble out the door and looks back at me.
He clenches his eyes. “That was sexy as hell.”
I raise a brow. “What was?”
“That voice. Fuck.” I feel my cheeks heat. Noah normally doesn’t swear, but when he does, it’s actually a little bit hot.
I let out a forced chuckle. “I said ‘hey’.”
He leans his forearms on the counter. “I heard what you said, it was the way you said it.”
“Stop. Come look at the cake.” I tug a piece of my hair behind my ear and can feel his eyes on me as he rounds the counter. Following me the short distance to the kitchen door, he lines in step next to me.
“Hey.” My hand is in mid-air to push the door open, but I turn to look at him. He takes a step closer, he’sƒ tall, at least a full foot. “You have flour on your cheek.”
He brushes his long thumb across my cheek, brushing off my worst enemy for the last few days. A shiver runs up my spine at his touch, and I groan inwardly that I react so easily to attractive men these days. A simple touch shouldn’t affect me like this twice in one week from two separate guys.
“Alright, Flour Princess, you’re all set.” Disappointment sets in when it shouldn’t.
Noah was doing exactly what I wanted, allowing me space, time to focus on my new life and business. But lately loneliness started to rise within me, and maybe it was because I’ve been fleeing for years and never got the chance to know people’s names.
Noah pushes the kitchen door open for me to enter first, an
d if the non-existent kiss was a disappointment, the soft tap on my ass certainly wasn’t.
___
We've dropped the cake off, thanks to Noah's muscles, because Paige and I were never going to get this in alone. Katherine's mother adored it, cooing and aweing, as we brought it through the front door of the expensive golf course venue.
"I thought we were doing more flowers," Katherine retorts through her mother's complimenting. I clench my hands into fists, seconds away from ripping her veil off her perfectly curled hair.
Noah's hand finds the middle of my back. “I think it looks great,” Noah says. “Men don’t want a girly cake for our wedding.” He looks at Katherine dead on. “We’re thinking about other things on that special day.”
Katherine’s face turns bright red as she tugs her chin into her chest.
“Thank you so much, girls.” Katherine’s mom beams again. “You both did such a beautiful job. My Women of the National Society of Heroines are throwing a huge event in August. I’d love for you to make a cake.”
Before I can commit to it, Paige cuts in. “That sounds so interesting. We’ll have to check our schedule in August. Here’s a business card. Can you give us a ring on Monday?” She takes it and says her goodbyes, taking Katherine with her.
“Oh,” she calls by the doorframe. “Stay for some food, we have plenty.”
“We’re in,” Paige calls back.
I narrow my eyes at her. “No, we're not. I don't want to spend my Saturday night with the Princess of Hell."
“It’s free food.”
“I don’t give a shit if they are giving out golden eggs, I’m out of here.”
Paige fixes me with a look of ‘your-being-overdramatic’. “I’ll go have it doggy bagged then, Princess of Whining. I’ve barely eaten in three days.” She makes her way to the kitchen, flicking off a guy who approaches her and disappears.
“She’s a badass,” Noah jeers.
“More of a pain in the ass, but I love her. We’ve been friends a long time.”
“High school?”
I nod. "Yeah. Her dad was an abusive prick. Spent all his money on drugs and women, with no food in the house. She used to stay with my mom and I a lot.”