by Amarie Avant
“Besides the uh… the uh… statute of limitations,” I pause, wondering if that’s the right term, “Jamie, I have proof that Flour Shoppe has a proper paper trail of investments.” Even if I’m wrong about this, good luck to the cops for seizing my bakery before the bank gets their hands on it.
It took a while for me to calm Jamie down. Finally, I settle on logic, “By the time you arrive, it will be light outside anyway. I’ll manage.”
“Okay,” he hesitates for a moment.
“I love you, Jamie, get some rest.” I smile. As sure as I know, there’d have been no Evan and I if Jamie decided to go out with Sandra and I the other day. We can be with a group of people, and I already know just who I’m sleeping with that night. Jamie too.
“Alright, my love.” Jamie pauses reluctantly, “Have a dreamless sleep, my favorite Reese’s Pieces.”
We hang up, and I sigh heavily. Damn, I do not want to fall asleep. Every instance my eyelashes touch my cheeks, Tony’s voice slither’s through my ears.
“C'mere, doll,” Tony had said earlier this evening. My own father used to utter those very words.
Milo would come home with a diamond tiara on his head. Not that fake cubic zirconia shit, but his black, curly head would be a bed of blinding diamonds. He'd pretend to not know he was sporting a princess crown. Then he'd hug me, jokingly using a funny tone since his resonance was too thick, Italian, manly to play dress-up with. But he'd do it all for me. Yes, he made sure his pretty little girl knew she was a princess. Then he'd teach me how to fight, and make sure I knew his blood was thick, strong and soaring in my veins.
But that last morning I’d see my father alive, Milo had said “C'mere, doll,” all slurred and to the offbeat background of my mother cussing up a storm. Instincts told me something was amiss. Yet, this couldn’t be anything new in our dysfunctional family. Half the time mom talked crap was due to Milo the Magician and how randomly he liked to appear. Yet, this very last time I felt almost an out-of-body-experience.
I didn't care. Lolita could beat my ass later on. It honestly didn't hurt. So at the age of ten, I sat up, slipped into my fuzzy shoes and clambered out of my canopy bed.
“Dad!” I screeched in excitement. I didn’t need the diamonds, nor did I need any of the other frivolous gifts Milo brought home on the rare occasion that he did come home. All I ever needed was the love and attention he bestowed upon me.
Unable to recall the last time I saw my dad, I bounded down the hall, puffy ponytails bouncing on my shoulders. I almost slipped on the shiny marble floor. Just as I righted my footing, I could see my father waving a gun in one hand and pushing my mother’s chest with the other.
“Babe, move. Now,” he ordered.
“Get the fuck outta here, Milo.” Lolita said, in a silk robe.
“I said move,” his voice held bite, almost enough to blow her away.
“Milo, you trying to get us all murdered!” She slapped him. The tie of her robe was hastily tied and the silk fell over one shoulder with the force of her hard blow.
The smack made me grimace. I’d seen Milo beat men into a bloody pulp for saying the wrong word, or speaking a tad too loudly. None ever touched him, none ever got the chance.
His golden skin was marred pink from the hit. Dad gave her one little shove. Her face was wet with tears as she went shuffling backward. Mom’s heels slipped– one, two, three, and she fell to the floor.
Unable to understand just what was going on, I stood rooted at the bottom step. If there was one thing I knew, even at the tender age of ten, it was that a man did not hit a woman. My mom treated dad like shit. He cherished the ground she walked on.
“Dad…” I murmured. As I shook my head in disappointment to what he’d just done, he glanced my way.
Milo yanked me up by the waist and spun me around. My eyes brightened as I took in the scenery. The double doors were open. Across our sprawling yard was a sea of SWAT members. Their guns trained on us…
“REESE!” My mother’s horrifying shout always awakens me before dad and I hit the ground...
There’s a crick in my neck, since while I slept I’d burrowed myself into the fluffy pillows on the sofa in the fetal position. Usually thoughts of my real father force me to awaken in a cold sweat. Yesterday it felt like I was submerged in the past. Tony Zaccaro starring as my mother’s sperm donor, the one she couldn't get away from. See, my mother has been running away from the latest, greatest charmer as far as I can remember.
Though I could say, in Lolita's defense, she's getting better. My dad was the best. He was the worse. Milo was the hardest addiction to rid herself of. Like chocolate ganache, the sweetest, creamiest, high calorie. Taste so good, bad for you type of stuff. Each subsequent husband wasn't as sweet... For long. And didn't last much longer.
Fortunately for me, I didn't wake up on the wrong side of the bed. It's where I now live and breathe, metaphorically speaking. I can still hear Milo as if he were beside me, teaching me his latest scheme. How to be tough as I could for a girl who indeed was one-half Napolitano. Clearly not full-blooded but just enough for me to lift my chin as I walked. I was ten years old with a mean frown, shoulders cocked. On the other hand, the steeliness of his eyes after the sniper took him out was just a wakeup call, telling me my own father wasn’t as invincible as he made himself out to be.
My body shakes as an imaginary chill creeps up my spine. To this day, I can feel the steeliness of his arms around me, holding my chest as we fell back.
After arising from the couch, I dig around the soft accent pillows and find my cell phone. It’s barely 4:03 a.m. Though my eyelids weigh a ton, I decide that baking morning pastries with Maria will bring me back to life.
A quick shower awakens me just a tad more, I stuff my feet into black tights and a flowy blouse. In the bathroom mirror, I tussle my tangled tresses as the fog dissipates. When I am able to see myself, I grumble, snatch up a hair tie. A thirty-second messy bun and I’m presentable enough to scamper down the stairs, through the dark alley and to the kitchen door.
Pit Bull is belting out lyrics, the door is open. Maria is trying to rap in Spanish as she steps outside with a trash bag. Before I can say good morning, she jumps out of her skin.
She clutches her chest and peers through the darkness. “Ay dios mios!”
“Sorry,” I give a wry smile.
“What in the world are you doing up so early, Reese?” Since implementing the designer cake portion of my business a few years ago, Maria was the only one who opted to open up shop. Though I can be seen in the store at all hours of the day, I’m normally a night owl.
Inside, the kitchen wafts of sweet lavender, one of our most popular muffins. Right before dawn, Maria turns off the music in the kitchen, and presses the panel to a more elevator style of music in the quaint dining room. In tandem, we place flaky, buttery croissants into the glass panels out front. It isn’t until around ten a.m., during the hustle and bustle that I start second-guessing my inherent need to bake and communicate with my fellow Los Angelenos who’re rushing to work. I honestly love being social, but today, my favorite pastime hasn’t done the trick.
“I could smell the blueberry muffins miles away, Reese, I knew you'd opened up shop,” says old Mr. Klebel. His bushy, white eyebrows have arisen as he takes a deep breath.
I smile genuinely, grateful for my most loyal customer. “Thank you, Mr. Klebel. I came in early today, just hoping you’d be here.” I hand over his order for himself and his wife.
Maria bumps my hip as if she's got more junk below. “Are you listening? I just said which is better, butter cream or dark chocolate?”
“Well, nine times out of ten, you're always going for super sweet so butter cream.” I state her preference.
“So, you really haven't been listening,” Maria gestures toward the door.
I can feel my pupils dilating with interest, in the same fashion as a cokehead eyeing premium blow before him. My eyes track him, unable to tear away from h
is searing gaze, as the tray of berry and Jasmine Tea scones in my hands is placed onto the display rake
Upon realizing Maria’s meaning, I blurt. “Neither.”
Now Evan has stepped up to the counter, and I take him in fully. There are a few abrasions near the kind, crinkles of his eyes. A scrape has edged its way across the stubble of his jaw, and a purplish bruise to the cheek does the opposite of blemishing his golden tone, no, it makes him more rugged, more distinguished. He’s bigger, so much bigger and stronger than I remembered. The douchebag at the dive bar would’ve gotten his ass handed to him.
My mouth waters with a craving for those ripped-up arms to wrap around me like they’d done the other night
“Your face,” I mumble. My fingers tingle with the need to touch, to nurture–
“This is your stepbrother? The Suit on the phone?” Sandra says.
How did she get here? She only socializes with customers who have ordered specially items. With one glance to Maria, I know the two have been talking about my love life, or lack thereof. Maria probably waved her into the dining room as soon as my gaze landed on Evan. Maria quickly greets another customer all the while her eyes are on him.
“Yes, I’m the stepbrother and the Suit,” Evan reaches a hand over the glass display. Though my cheeks are flamed by Sandra asking her questions, I notice him wink as he mentioned suit.
He shakes hands with both of my employees. Maria adds on the Latina charm, and I do believe that Evan might persuade Sandra to brighten her horizons from her usual chubby chasing fetish.
He introduces us to his partner, Tyrone Miller. He’s dark brown, at least six-feet and a stocky type of build. While shaking his hand, I try to address this misconstrued business. “Hi, Tyrone, nice to meet you, and no, I am so not his stepsis–”
“Wait, Lolita got married again?” Maria says, handing the customer her change.
Though the front of the bakery is small, the entire store glances around. Like Sandra, and my other friends who clearly have decided to keep all eligible blood relations under lock and key, my regulars are leery of my mother too. Right around the time she met husband number four here, I think. Sheesh, the local, who became her ex-husband, would come into Flour Shoppe and purchase dozens of expensive macaroons each day to place in his realtor office. Not to mention the days the broker used Flour for various real estate showings in mansions from the Hollywood Hills to Malibu. Needless to say, I lost a loyal customer during the divorce. And I do not discriminate against my customers, I have loyalist such as Mr. Klebel who I wouldn’t give away for the world.
“Yes, she married my father,” Evan mentions. The cocky bastard smiles, getting his kicks in at my expense. While he quickly looks to me to elaborate, I fold my arms since I refuse to explain the dynamics, the deteriorating, soon to be meet its demise familial dynamics.
Clearly this isn't the place to stop and make introductions, so Maria relieves me. Sandra dawdles in her stilettos before heading back to the kitchen.
The guy’s head outside. I grab two cups of coffee, a Danish and a scone then on second thought add another few croissant ham and egg sandwiches to the bag before heading out. These boys look like they’ve had a helluva night.
I can hear Tyrone saying "hook a brother up" as I step toward the umbrella table and chairs. Evan doesn't even respond because he sees me first.
He stands.
Feeling uncomfortable, I thrust out the case with the drinks and the paper bag of food. “Here. Not sure if you've had breakfast.”
“I can always eat,” Tyrone says, his eyes are eagerly taking me in.
“No, we haven't eaten. Just got back to the city,” Evan replies, beginning to reach into his suit pocket for his wallet. The very same suit pants he wore last night to dinner. He hasn’t been home.
“Your money is no good here.” I shake my head as he tries to hand me more than enough for the food. I fold my arms. “Hard night, huh? Does it have something to do with that new scar?” I murmur though there's no reason for me to care. We aren't blood, and we sure as heck can't have one last shag. No hurrah for us.
“Yup.”
Feeling like a klutz standing there with him, I place my hands in my pockets and warn myself not to stare as his partner watches us curiously while eating. I notice Evan’s eyes are a bit tired but the sparkle in them still has me borderline hypnotized.
Evan closes the space between us. “Reese, last night things got a little weird...”
“Yeah, your dad is shagging my mom,” I bite my lip. Tyrone is busily finishing off his first croissant having demolished a cream cheese Danish.
“I'm sure they won't last. Maybe a month, two tops.” He shrugs. “Especially since your mother seems to have a running record–”
“My mom?” I ask, slighted. Nobody can talk crap about Lolita regardless of her faults.
“I'm not here to discuss them.”
I cock an eyebrow.
Like a tiger advancing on his prey, he licks his lips, and moves in so close that I can sense his power. My heart skips a few beats within my chest cavity.
His voice is deliciously sinful. “We didn't finish our agreement.”
A giddy feeling overcomes me. “There were no signed documents, Detective Zaccaro.”
“Hmmm,” the cadence of his tone is likened to a tiger’s purr. Evan had done that very thing two nights ago, his mouth vibrating against my two other lips. I cross my legs at the ankle, cursing my entire body’s ability to scream out for just one taste.
“After that awkward dinner date, I had the feeling you would be less than agreeable, Miss Dunham.”
The left side of my full-lips pitch. Is he warning me?
“So I brought reinforcements.” He cocks his head to Tyrone.
For a second, I'm confused this is some good cop, bad cop stuff but I have my doubts that he shares.
Then Evan backs away, saying loudly, “See you tonight, little sister.” He winks.
My ears begin to burn as he puts me on the spot. Eyes shaded slightly, I choose not to reply but my face says it all.
There will be no more sex.
8
Evan
Around 8:15 p.m., the notion that I've been stood up settled into my bones. Now, the soft sound of rain settles the rush of my blood. I lean against the bathroom countertop, waiting patiently for Reese to turn off her shower.
A sweet, strawberry scent infuses in the air. I let my thumb course across the stubble of my chin as my mouth reminisces on the taste between those ample thighs.
The water stops. The fogged curtain parts and I notice that she's changed nail polish. The black polish has been replaced with a light pink, more Reese's speed. My mouth floods as I take her in from head to toe, curves for days, those nickel-sized nipples perked just so, breasts that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. Those chocolate-brown curls call out to me.
She steps one foot onto a cupcake embroider rug. Then those rich brown orbs brighten, she almost falls back noticing me. I clasp her left forearm.
“Thanks,” an apology brings her plush lips into a wide smile. Then realization takes over. She sneers, “No, wait! Wh-what are you doing in my apartment?”
“We had arrangements for this evening, I cooked agnolotti-bolognese.” I grab the towel draped over the wicker basket, since those cute cheeks have reddened.
She snatches it saying, “Well, I didn't RSVP, big brother.”
Reese begins to wrap the towel around her. She glances at the door. I stand cemented in my spot, admiring the soft mist of her golden skin.
“Evan, honestly, how the hell did you get in my home? Oh boy, I have no doubt you cops think you're above the law! But the last time I checked, breaking and entering is ill–”
I step close to her. The warm steam between us parts ways. All she has to do is grant me the signal. There is no need for arguing like... siblings. “I can assure you that I always play it by the book, Reese.”
“Okay, by the books,” she s
coffs. “Sure.”
“The lovely Maria offered her spare until I get a set.”
“Until you get a set?” Reese hastily knots the towel around her breasts that I've licked every inch of.
“Yes, she said almost all of your employees and your mom have a key. I only asked to come up, is all.” I smile adding, “Since I am your stepbrother, she felt obliged.”
Reese begins to walk past me. “You aren't my brother, and I'd prefer it–”
“No. I am not your fucking brother, Reese.” I grab her arm and press her moist, soft body to mine. “Why would I want to be related to you, when all I really desire is to fuck every inch of that beautiful body of yours? We should be putting those glorious lips of yours to good use. And the other night, you proved very well how that mouth was meant for my enjoyment.”
She gulps, chin jutted. “Look, regardless that we’re not related... What am I saying?”
“You’re not saying anything logical. Stop while ahead, beautiful.”
It's instinctive the way Reese bites the pink lushness of her bottom lip because she's calculating her every move. That ever crumbling brick wall surrounding Reese begins to be doused in liquid titanium as she continues to think. “You don't understand, Evan.”
“I understand very well. You don't fuck suits.” I’ll find out why later, for now she doesn’t need to fuck suits anyway, she needs to fuck me.
“Or cops, Evan.” She points a finger in my face.
I grab her tiny wrist, applying just enough pressure. Though, I enjoy the little tart, my eyes lock onto Reese’s, demanding her full attention. “The next time you place your hand in my face, you better be prepared to back it up.”
“Maybe I will,” Reese says vehemently. Then she clears her throat, composing herself. “In all honesty, there’ll never be a next time. The first time I let you touch me, was your last, and I was good and drunk when we...”