Muffin Top

by Tabatha Kiss

  Especially since tonight just might be the best night of my life.

  Chapter 8

  Evey

  I can’t remember the last time I had a man in my apartment. Or any other person, for that matter. Tommy doesn’t count.

  I move from room-to-room, focusing on picking up every piece of loose clothing I can find. How many socks do I even own anyway? And how the hell did I manage to lose so many of them between the sofa cushions?

  I throw myself into this little clean-up project because it’s way better than focusing on the fact that in a few short hours there will be a man in my apartment. A real man. One who cooks and smells nice and looks like a damn bodybuilder, and — oh yeah — wants to have sex with me.

  I pause in the middle of the room and lay a quick smack across my own face. Pain splits my cheek, firing all the way back to my earlobes.

  Nope. Still awake. Not dreaming.

  This is really happening.

  Once I get the apartment cleaned up and smelling like a goddamn spring meadow, I look at myself in the mirror. The layer of sweat caking my face isn’t doing me any favors; neither is odor wafting out from my armpits. Christ, it’s going to take just as long, if not longer, to clean myself up as it did to tidy up this apartment.

  No woman has ever made me this hard before. Who knew that Vincent the bakery man had such a dirty mouth?

  I hop into the shower to clean up and cool off. There’s just over an hour left before seven. There’s still so much work to be done…

  What if he’s lying?

  I pause, feeling the shower water pelt my face. My stomach sinks and an icy dread takes me over. I know full well that this isn’t high school but I can’t shake the suspicion that Vincent is straight-up Carrie-ing me. Am I about to be elected prom queen only to find myself covered in pig’s blood in front of the entire school?

  Well, shit.

  I think of Vincent and his perfect body and his sexy tattoo and I can’t help but wonder. Then again, if he were playing me, he’s gone through a lot of trouble to do it. Thirty thousand dollars seems like a crazy investment in humiliating the boring barmaid next door — not to mention however much it cost to fix my car.

  I glance around my apartment with my hair turbaned on my head and a towel around me. Did I just clean this place for nothing? Is that really the part I’m most pissed off about?

  I ignore my instincts and head for the bedroom to pick out an outfit. Black is my best friend, so I pull out a dark skirt and low-cut top to match — something to show off my cleavage.

  A knock hits my door and I jolt to look at the clock.

  It’s six-thirty. It’s six-thirty.

  Why is he a half-hour early?

  I glance at the mirror. My blonde hair is still wet, spidering down my shoulders, and I haven’t put on an ounce of make-up yet.

  He knocks again.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  I leave the bedroom and head for the door, sinking even deeper into annoying despair. Well, he might as well see me like this sooner rather than later.

  I slide the chain free and open the door with a deep smile.

  “Hey—”

  I freeze, staring into the eyes of someone that is definitely not Vincent the bakery man.

  It’s Clive, Aiden’s bald brute, and two others that don’t look quite as menacing but I’m not about to tempt them, either.

  “Ms. Ryan,” Clive says, his voice stretching with that Boston Irish drawl. “We need you to come with us.”

  My blood runs cold. “Why?”

  He smirks, deepening the wrinkles along his chin. “Mr. Shank requests the pleasure of your company for the evening.”

  I shorten the gap in the door. “Sorry, I already have plans…”

  He lays his hands on the door frame, blocking me from closing it. “I’m afraid that isn’t an option.”

  “I paid my family’s debt,” I argue, my voice shaking. “I got no business with Aiden Shank anymore.”

  He leans forward and I smell the harsh tobacco on his breath. “Either you come with us willingly or we carry you out of here by your mangy hair. Your choice.”

  I scoff. “Mangy?”

  He gives the door a hard shove. I try to close it but the three of them reach out and push, easily sending me backward into the living room.

  “Please,” I beg, moving away as they step inside. “Don’t—”

  They lunge at me, grabbing me by both arms. Their claws dig into me and I take a deep breath, prepared to scream bloody murder to anyone that will help.

  “HEL—”

  Clive flicks open a switchblade and lays it against my face. “Bad kitty,” he scolds. “Finish that word and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

  I bite down, too scared to challenge him. They push me towards the hallway and I give up all resistance as they force me down the stairs and outside into the alleyway. He digs the knife into my side, a simple warning not to cry out and draw attention to them.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  I think to ask them what Aiden wants but that answer is pretty clear. He’s had his eye on me for months now; staring at me every time he came to the bar to collect. It made me sick from the start. I should never have assumed paying off our debt would get him to stop for good.

  They drag me into the alleyway and we stop near an old, rusty car.

  Clive yanks open the back door and points inside with his knife. “Get in.”

  Well, at least they aren’t throwing me in the trunk. I take one final breath of hesitant fear before doing as he says.

  “Am I interrupting something here?”

  I twist around, following the familiar voice as Aiden’s thugs do the same.

  Vincent stands in the alley. He’s dressed to impress with an ironed shirt tucked into his black pants and a clean-shaven face. My guts swoon and churn at the same time.

  No no no. Don’t get involved, Vincent…

  “No,” Clive spits. “Piss off.”

  Vincent takes a step forward and looks at me. I shake my head at him, urging him to do as the man says and back off. If these guys were willing to cut out my tongue, I can only imagine what they’d do to Vincent.

  The other two move forward to stand between us.

  Oh, god, please. Just go.

  I beg Vincent with my eyes, throwing every bit of emotion I have into them but he looks back at me with that same hard, unmoving stare.

  “It looks like the lady doesn’t want to go with you,” he says. “You should let her go.”

  The trio laughs.

  “You know, I wasn’t planning on putting down any dogs tonight,” Clive sneers, “but I’ll make an exception for you.”

  “You could try,” Vincent says.

  I bite my lip, holding back tears. What the hell is he doing? Why is he baiting the mobsters? You don’t bait the mobsters. That’s like Boston 101.

  Clive releases my arm and takes a wide step towards Vincent. “What was that?”

  Vincent doesn’t blink. “Let her go, get in your car, and leave. I won’t tell you again.”

  They all laugh at him. The sound echoes down the alleyway, bouncing back at me to drive me mad.

  “Vincent, don’t—”

  Clive fires a look at me, forcing me into silence. “Vincent, eh?” he says, twisting the name on his tongue. “Well, Vincent, I’m afraid my patience for you has come to an end.”

  He rushes forward with a closed fist and I can do nothing but watch as he slams it against Vincent’s stomach.

  I gasp, feeling the pain for myself, dreading the moment when Vincent tumbles to the concrete in pain, but he stands upright and takes the punch with barely even a flinch.

  Clive pauses for a brief second before drawing back his arm again, this time with his knife pointed to kill. Vincent snatches his wrist in mid-air, halting the blow before it even comes close.

  “What the fuck—”

  Vincent lunges forward and slams his forehead against Clive’s face a
nd I hear the cruel snap of broken cartilage. A burst of red blood covers Clive’s jaw as he falls onto his back.

  The others rush to assist him off the ground but Vincent never lets them get close. He grabs one by the neck, his large fingers locked around it like a vise, as he swoops his legs, forcing him to the hard ground.

  “You motherfucker!”

  The third man leaps towards him but Vincent is ready for him, easily blocking his punches and tossing him against a dumpster. I cringe as Vincent guides the man’s head into the hard metal and he crumbles into an unmoving heap on the ground.

  Oh, god...

  I ease backward, too scared to scream but too stunned to run.

  Clive jumps to his feet again with his knife in hand, this time far more determined to use it. He raises it high but Vincent launches upward and kicks Clive’s wrist, forcing him to drop the knife to the ground. Clive throws another jab but Vincent curves around it and grabs his shoulders. With one smooth motion, he forces Clive forward and collides his knee his already busted nose.

  Clive slips to the ground, silent and twitching.

  The second man whimpers with fear and stumbles up, ready to run down the alley but Vincent snatches him by the collar. With a quick tug, he wraps his arm around his throat, cutting him off from air and his face turns blue in seconds.

  I turn away and cover my face, too horrified to watch, but I can clearly hear his body slump to the ground behind me.

  “Evey…”

  I look at the blood on his hands and I slink further away. “Get away from me…”

  “I can explain this.”

  Vincent obviously isn’t who I thought he was. He’s no baker. He’s just another Boston bad guy but I was just too blind to see it.

  I take off on shaking ankles towards the street.

  “Evey, stop!”

  Vincent catches up to me and grabs my arm but I easily tug free from his light grip.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  My voice echoes down the alley, drawing the attention of a few pedestrians nearby and they pause to watch.

  Vincent grabs me again, this time tighter and he forces me against the brick wall. “Evey, wait. Please—”

  I ball my fists and slam them against his chest. I don’t care what he has to say. I just want to get as far away from him as possible.

  He grabs my wrists and holds them down. “Don’t run.”

  Blood smears from his fingers onto mine. I can smell it on him; that bland, metallic odor.

  My eyes sting with tears. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  “I know what this looks like,” he says, calm and steady, “but I would never hurt you. Okay? You know me.”

  “No, I don’t!” I shout. “I obviously don’t know anything about you!”

  He looks to the street. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Let me go or I’ll scream.”

  He loosens his grip on me but his hands don’t fall. “Come with me and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

  “Evey, please.”

  I take in a sharp inhale, filling my lungs to scream, but Vincent clamps his hand over my mouth to silence me.

  “I was a Navy SEAL.”

  I pause, staring into his soft, honest eyes. He slowly lowers his hand, putting his trust in me and my jaw drops along with it.

  “A Navy SEAL?” I repeat.

  He nods. “Yes.”

  “You mean…” I whisper, “like the Navy SEALs?”

  “There’s really only one…”

  “Like counter-terrorism Navy SEALs?”

  “That’s them,” he nods.

  “Holy shit.” I try to catch my breath but I stumble even more over my words. “What? … Why? … How?”

  Vincent takes my hands, cautiously eying the small crowd gathering down the alleyway. Sirens blaze in the distance, drawing closer every second. “I will answer all of those questions and more, Evey, but we need to go. Now.”

  My fingers quiver in his grasp. “Okay…”

  He pulls me away from the wall and we move with fast feet, walking over the bodies of the trio of Aiden’s thugs.

  “Are they…?” I can’t bring myself to finish the question.

  “No,” he answers. “Just knocked out.”

  I sigh with relief, happy that I didn’t just witness a bunch of damn murders, even if they were asshole mob thugs.

  Vincent leads me around the building to his truck and we take off as the police car slips into the alley behind us.

  Chapter 9

  Vincent

  This isn’t exactly how I’d planned to tell her about this. Honestly, I hadn’t given much thought to how I would to begin with. My military career isn’t something I like to advertise and other than my sister and a few others in town, no one knows what the bakery man did before he opened shop.

  Evey hasn’t loosened up since she sat down in my truck and I don’t blame her one bit. She sits with her arms locked around her, cold and protective of herself — as she should be. I meant what I said, though. I’ll never hurt her. It stings a little that she might think I would.

  We sneak in through the bakery’s back entrance and I lead her up to my apartment. She sits down at the counter while I lay the grocery bags between us; full of pasta and fresh vegetables I’d planned on cooking a nice meal with but our plans have derailed a bit. I catch sight of the blood on my hands and I move to the sink to wash it off. No wonder she flinched when I tried to touch her.

  When I turn back around, her eyes fall, retreating from mine.

  “Evey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this before,” I say, “but it’s not something I like to talk about.”

  She nods slowly. “Why not?”

  I pause, clenching my teeth together. “It’s a loaded question, but when I was in the service… well, some things happened that I’d rather forget about.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” she says, lowering her shield. “Honestly, I’m more relieved than anything.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This definitely isn’t what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Not this,” she chuckles. “I expected you to be in a gang or something — not a goddamn war hero.”

  “I’m not a hero.” I correct my tone to something a little less forceful. “I’m just a normal guy and I would appreciate it if that’s all you saw me as.”

  She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye — that same look every girl gave me when I was in uniform. I don’t like it. I preferred the way she used to look at me — when I was just a baker teaching her how to frost a cupcake.

  I shake it off and reach into the bags for ingredients.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “I promised you dinner, didn’t I?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure I can eat after that, Vincent,” she smiles.

  “Well…” I smirk as I empty the bags, “I’ll get started and we’ll see how we feel in a half-hour. Sound good?”

  She nods. “Sure.”

  I bend over to grab a pot from the cabinet to fill with water. Evey leans forward, resting her arms on the counter and I try to stop my eyes from staring into her beautiful cleavage.

  “So…” she hesitates fidgeting hands, “what did you do as a Navy SEAL? And you can plead the fifth, if you want… You don’t have to tell me.”

  I bite my tongue, remembering that I promised to tell her anything she wanted to know if she came with me. I set the pot down on the stove and flick the heat on high. “Evey, nothing I’m about to tell you leaves this room.”

  She leans forward, her eyes widening. “Okay…”

  I slide open a drawer for a knife but she doesn’t flinch as I reach for an onion to chop up. “I was part of an elite team tasked with assisting and training insurgents against tyrannical governments.”

  She blinks. “… One more time?”

  “We went in,” I contin
ue, “usually with nothing more than the clothes on our backs and a bottle of water.”

  “No weapons?”

  I shake my head. “The borders were heavily patrolled and guarded. Nothing got in and anyone that attempted to smuggle in contraband were shot on sight. So… once we made it inside, we met up with the rebels, and taught them how to defend themselves in other ways.”

  “Like karate?”

  I smile. “There was a little hand-to-hand training, yes, but these people were weak and malnourished for the most part. They couldn’t defend themselves the way I could in that alley back there. We had to improvise and managed to build explosives and incendiary devices using common household items they had access to.”

  She stares at me, her mouth gaping wide. “Whoa…”

  “I did that for a few years before I finally got out,” I say. “I came back home to Boston and opened Muffin Top.”

  Evey chews on her lip. “How does a Navy SEAL end up running a bakery?”

  I rip open a box of pasta and pour it into the boiling water on the stove. “Well, that part you already know,” I say. “My mother ran a place like it when I was a kid. My sister and I used to help her out.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She died while I was overseas.”

  Her eyes fall. “I’m sorry.”

  I wave a hand. “It’s all right. She was in a lot of pain near the end. I got to say my goodbyes.”

  She pauses, her own memories overwhelming her and I catch that same look on her face she had in the days after her father died.

  I clear my throat to change the subject. “So, do you prefer marinara or alfredo?”

  “Marinara,” she answers.

  “Me, too,” I say, snatching a few tomatoes and picking up the knife.

  “Vincent…”

  I look up. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you,” she says. “For being there in that alley.”

  I nod. “Shank’s men, I assume?”

  “Yeah.” She exhales. “I guess he didn’t just want money, after all.”

  “Money rarely matters to men like him,” I say. “They only care about power and control.”

  “That’s definitely Aiden. He offered to let me work it off first. Told me that for every night I spent with him, he’d subtract twenty dollars from the total.”