by Amarie Avant
There are tears in her eyes, she's prepared to bring up the day his partner and everyone else we all knew by first-name on the police force decided to take him out.
Indeed, I am a product of my environment. As taught, I hightail it from the situation before the truth is told...
“Hmmm… Audrey Hepburn.” Those are my only words as I skim over the bride-to-be’s wedding Pinterest board. We’re sitting at a table in the front of Flour Shoppe. Kitty’s planner is beside her, and the old geezer she dug her claws in is dressed in his golf-club attire. His mind is still on the game and beating other blue-blooded associates about the game.
Kitty reminds me of my mom. Stupid-hot. She’s honey to affluent bees when it comes to the guy who’s sitting beside her and ready to front the bill. Her sapphire eyes brighten. “Yes, Yes! Audrey! That’s exactly what I want.” Kitty claps her hands together.
“You need a vintage, lace cake.” I begin to sketch. “And pearls.”
“Pearls?” The groom’s bushy eyebrows gather together.
“Yes, pearls.” We seem to say in unison.
“Kitty, no pearls. It's just a cake.” Her beau chides, mumbling how much the wedding is going to cost under his breath.
Stifling the need to laugh, I open my mouth to advise the pearls aren’t real but Kitty folds her arms. “Oh yeah, well, not to worry about the cake, my love, we’re also having a cupcake made for each of the five-hundred guests. Reese said each little cake will have edible gold flakes, Tahitian Gold vanilla caviar, and…” she pauses, glancing at me.
“Cognac.” I decide not to mention the price of the cognac, which will be used for the cupcakes since Kitty seems to be goading him. But a smile brightens on the old man’s face.
“Cognac?” He pauses to rub his chin, bushy-white eyebrows lifting with interest. “Guess they’ll be my kinda cupcakes. Kitty, you can have oodles of pearls. Miss Reese, spare no expense.”
As he hugs her, Kitty winks at me. Well, sheesh, she deals with her soon-to-be hubby very well. The old guy canoodles Kitty’s neck. Their voices become muffled; tantalizing even, as they mention cognac and pearls amongst other delights.
I give them a nod to imply they've got all the time in the world to consider what they'd like. In the kitchen, Jamie and Luis are carrying a multi-tier retirement cake toward the alleyway exit.
“If you trip and fall in those heels, Jamie...” I say in a seedy, threatening tone as he walks backwards, large ass strutting. Almost like a giraffe. I shake my head, he ignores it.
“So how is the playboy bunny and her Hugh Hef'?” Sandra chuckles.
I point a finger at the blonde. “Under no circumstances will I allow you to talk crap about our potential clients.”
She sticks her tongue out.
Prince starts in a monotonous voice: “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today–”
No matter how much I love and miss the musical innovator, I cut the iPod before someone can crank it up. “There will be no, let's go crazy.”
Sometimes the people in the front of the house don't mind, especially in the morning when we’re open for breakfast pastries. We only play upbeat tempos, but as Sandra said, Kitty–aka the bunny and Hugh Hef–are quite stuffy.
Sandra waves me off, stepping toward the dining room of Flour. “Whatever, Wicked Witch of the West. My clients should be out front by now.”
Jamie and Luis step back into the building. He sashays in those damn heels I told him never to wear to work. “Tonight we're all taking body shots. And, Reese, my lovely body is up for preview but no touching.”
Maria chuckles. “Yeah, why don't you call Ev–”
He shoots her a glare.
“Sancho?” She spits but I doubt she meant just any ol’ sancho.
My gaze sears through Jamie. Head held high, I say, “Nope, no ‘body shots’ for me.”
“Reese,” Sandra's voice is tense behind me. The doors swish closed as she steps into the kitchen. The room is infused in quiet as we all stare at her wide eyes.
“What! Did they leave?” My heart clenches. Kitty and her fiancé are my way back out of the red, but Sandra had constructed designs for a wedding cake, which would surely be a financial success.
She shakes her platinum hair ‘no’. “They’re still groping each other like wild animals.
“What then?”
“Grayson,” she mouths as if he’s right behind her.
The first wedding cake I made for myself was at the age of four. I showed Milo first. Dad approved. He’d knelt down to my level and exclaimed, “Shit! That’s fucking beautiful, doll!”
He told me I had a knack, probably not entirely sure what my ‘knack’ was, and begged to put the photo on the subzero refrigerator in our vast kitchen. The vision before him was atrocious and almost looked like a wet cat. But I continued to perfect that cake. It would be the focal point of the wedding celebration. And then I had a leather-bound notebook dedicated to my cake. It was perfect.
Grayson had approved of the cake. Now the newest rendering of it–which had been cherished–was burnt to a crisp in my bedroom fireplace a long time ago. What in the heck is he doing here?
The rattling of my bones decreases as my spine erects, I stand tall and get the words out in one fluid, decipherable sentence, “Why is Grayson here?”
“He's with the O'Neil party. I’ve settled them down with a few samples,” Sandra shakes her head as if just realizing that mentioning every bit of the dynamics isn't necessary.
Glenda O'Neil. His brother was dating a woman named Glenda O'Neil. Fuck, why hadn’t I made this connection? We often chatted about marrying the guys, the infamous, moneyed Vandecamp brothers. Why didn't the reservation say Vandecamp/ O’Neil? Why? Why? Why!
I take a seat on my stool. Sandra grabs one of the iPads’ we use to review various designs.
“Butter. Sugar. I need very ripe peaches. I need to bake,” I tell myself.
“What are you doing, tart, you've gotta go sell a wedding cake to the old fart and his little southern belle. And I mean tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of personalized cupcakes!” Jamie tells me.
My palm hits my forehead. “Yes, Kitty and her fiancé.”
“Slap some lip gloss on before you go back out,” Maria stresses, picking up her handbag from beneath the counter. It’s almost time for her shift to end.
“Yes,” Jamie chimes in. “Don't take your ass out there until you look like someone I wanna fuck.”
My glare goes to him as I stop before the door.
He chuckles. “Listen, honey, if you can make me want you, Grayson will cream his tighty-whities with just one look at you.”
“But I don't want him.” I blurt, yet the words are more than convincing, they ring true. Jamie was right that night after coming from Powerhouse. He’d had an epiphany. Even though we ended up ruining the soufflé, he knew I was madly, deeply in love with my stepbrother!
Sheesh, I've seen Grayson out and about, since the notorious breakup email. One time, I twisted my ankle at the farmers’ market just so the ex-Suit wouldn't see me in a sweat suit, bloated and on my monthly.
“So should I go upstairs and return dressed in a string bikini or something?” I quip, giving them all a listless glower.
“Or something,” Jamie grimaces. “One of your tatas is a smidge bigger than the other.”
Luis chuckles.
“You believe it too?” I gawk.
“No speak English,” Luis says and I reach into my apron to throw any available object, which so happens to be a tab of sticky notes. Gravity is in his favor as the colorful pad falls short of hitting my mark.
Shoulders high, chin jutted in mock confidence, I step back to the front of the house to a round of laughter. The O’Neils and the Vandecamps are seated at the picturesque window. Their chins are even higher than mine with a flair for being affluent. The entire wedding party is trying various flavors of cake. I hasten over to Kitty and her fiancé since they’re at the closest ta
ble to the display case, which no longer has breakfast pastries, but eye-catching desserts. The two are making out like horn dogs. I assume they’ve sensed me since they stop.
“Miss Dunham, we'll take no less than copious amounts of pearls. And by all means, spare no expense on the cognac for each of the cupcakes,” the old man says. “Now, my gorgeous Kitty, I've got a round of golf to play.”
They return back to smooching, and then he heads toward the Bentley coup parallel parked out front.
“Every step we make, Rupert must finish it with a round of golf,” Kitty's voice holds a dash of melancholy.
“You're in love,” I say, attempting not to look toward the exit where Sandra is seated on a barstool.
Kitty's large, brown eyes water. True to form there is a look of love in them, it makes me shudder since my mother’s eyes have reflected the same look for Tony. I want to inquire more. I can't believe the truth. Lolita met the man in Vegas. Instead, Kitty, myself, and the wedding planner who appeared when I did, finalize her order.
“Reese,” Glenda's sugarcoated voice calls out to me as I thank Kitty for her business and escort her toward the door, twenty minutes later.
She's seated on Grayson's brother’s lap, scanning over Sandra’s renderings. Her blue eyes slither up and down my apron, jeans and the shoes Jamie always points and laughs at. “The business woman works with the help?”
I pause not sure how to respond. Sandra's gaze steels with anger. The boisterous blue-bloods are tickled pink with laughter. All but one. Emerald eyes gaze right through me. Grayson runs his hand through a shock of black hair. I never noticed how puny he was, though a tailored suit attempts to do the trick. His skin is white, which I had once loved, is pale against the beige of his suit. His chin is all sharp angles. It’s a square jaw indeed, but his cheeks are sunken in.
Grayson speaks up. “I always rather enjoyed the scent of Reese, after she came home from the bakery.”
He nods in my direction or at least it appears so from my peripheral. My eyes lock onto those vibrant green orbs, but they don’t captivate me like before. My gander sweeps across each of them dressed for success.
“Hmmm,” Glenda says, and I remember how much I couldn't stand her as I greet them all. Everything was a competition, with the heiress. Who'd marry a Vandecamp first?
Now I’m in competition with myself. Evan Zaccaro is not to be had. I’d be the laughing stock of the century to even dream that he loved me let alone consider him for a future.
19
Evan
Tyrone tosses my Tom Ford jacket at me. “Let's go, pretty boy, we've been called to San Pedro. The boys over there say they've got a guy asking for us. And they were just getting ready to throw his ass the book.”
“What’s his name?”
“Egor Dobrynin.”
I shrug into my jacket as my partner eyes me.
“The name doesn't ring a bell for me either.” Tyrone grabs the keys to his car. “But, Dobrynin mentioned the name we've wanted to hear.”
“Riker?” I probe.
“Kosyak.”
My jaw sets.
Kosyak is the Don of the entire illegal alcohol syndicate. He heads a port off of the city of San Pedro, and a fleet of other ports lining up and down the coast of California. So the various Russian mobs must seek his agreement before ruminating over pissing into to the Pacific Ocean. He has to be behind the shootout off La Brea or there'd have been a slew of murders afterwards in retaliation. But Kosyak is untouchable; he has the DA dangling from his cock. We head over to the precinct in San Pedro, expecting Egor Dobrynin to be a snitch, and more so expecting him to be part of Kosyak’s crew but he's neither.
He’s got a rap sheet a mile long but it's engrossed with petty theft, grand larceny and the likes. Before we enter the interrogation room, we’re debriefed. He was just as far as removed from Kosyak as he was with Riker. No affiliations or connections, but a second-generation Russian from the west side who has the misfortune of always getting caught doing stupid shit.
Egor Dobrynin is five foot six, one hundred forty-two pounds of wasted space, not much wasted space, but wasted nevertheless. There are chains about his wrists, and his head is in his hands, as he leans against the table when we enter the room. He looks up. Tired, gray eyes, questioning us but he says not one word.
Tyrone takes the lead as we step inside to sit across from him. He introduces us and then says, “Dobrynin, you called us down here. What information are you able to provide?”
“Where's the DA?” His eyes roll back and forth to the both of us. “Don't play me like a fool.”
“Don't waste our time,” Tyrone begins to rise.
“I'm not saying shit without that pretty little DA cunt.”
“The DA wants to give you the maximum time, fucktard,” I speak. “The little old lady you just happened to rob is related to one of the senators.”
Dobrynin rubs his weather-beaten face, it’s evident he’s thinking the same thing as I do. He’s got the worst luck ever while delving in the field of crime. “Man, I know the redhead hates me. But as sure as I know the DA is the only one who can hurt me, she's the only one that can save me.”
My partner and I glance at each other. We’re at the end of our rope, grasping at any lead. Is Dobrynin wasting our valuable time?
He leans forward, asking, “You two want to know why Kosyak is connected to those redneck, meth heads? Go get the redhead.”
We send for the DA.
Dobrynin makes a list of demands, which starts with his record being expunged. Go figure. The media has puffed up the entire investigation, and Dobrynin uses that as ammunition to continue making requests. If I'm reading him right, Dobrynin has the missing puzzle piece to connect these two entities, which wouldn’t even be considered rivals.
When he starts to tell the story, his tone breaks as he mentioned his sister, Mischa Dobrynin.
“Mischa went off to college with a full scholarship. She was enrolled at some out-of-state, tiny school… New Hampshire, I think. Fuck, I complained like a jackass when she was accepted. I told our mama that the fucking college was too far. Now, I wish she never…” Egor Dobrynin’s gray eyes rim with tears. He pinches the bridge of his narrow nose.
When he speaks again, his voice is heavy with sorrow, “Mischa, sh-she came home for the holiday season. She and a few friends went to this bar in West Los Angeles.”
Dobrynin speaks of the very same bar I met Reese at. “It was a seedy place with cheap margaritas, or so the neon lights imply. Some asshole came up to her. He had tats all over his fucking face. On the back of the motherfucker’s elbows were skulls.”
Dobrynin gives the entire rundown of what Riker looks like. He's sobbing by now, telling how Riker roughed up, raped, and beat his sister Mischa.
One of the detectives listening in, on the opposite side of the two-way mirror, speaks into the chip in my ear and Tyrone’s confirming that a Miss Mischa Dobrynin’s body was found in the LA River. The story adds up.
“What does that have to do with Kosyak?” I ask.
“Kosyak always wanted to fuck my sister. Mischa never looked his way. And you know men, we want what we can't have more than anything in this world.”
I strain in my seat, thoughts of Reese breaking through my concentration.
“Kosyak is the type of man who doesn't respect anyone. But there are people you fear for because of him, his mama, obviously, and my little sister. Nobody ever messed with her. She was beautiful, inside and out. No stand-up guy, not even some two-bit crook on the corner looked her way, due to Kosyak. She went away to college innocent. And I'm fucking telling you, she came back on winter break just as innocent only to hang out with her cunt friends at the wrong motherfucking bar.”
Men like Kosyak hold all the power. Touch one single hair on their mother, or anyone they love, and they will cross the ocean to retaliate.
Fuck. This situation got out of hand with national publicity due to slain cops. Th
e Feds are one step away from taking over. But Captain Raynor, the Chief of Police, and our entire division expects this situation to be resolved inside. With Kosyak in the mix, the shit can only get uglier.
It’s almost seven p.m., when my sports car zooms into underground parking. The exhaust sound is amplified by the cement walls. The windows are down, and I have been ruminating over Egor Dobrynin’s words during the drive over. There're too many fucking alphas running around, desiring to be king. If what he's saying is true, Kosyak, who has no respecter of persons, is looking for Riker. His people knocked off Cooper because Kosyak’s searching for him. He wants to catch up with Riker before I do.
I've got a bone to pick with that motherfucker, Riker, and the Don of the western illegal alcohol syndicate will not come between that no matter how much he believes he's above the law.
The doorman was all smiles when I arrived this evening. Holding a carton of Chinese food for dinner, I rubbed the fingertips of my other hand together in anticipation of Reese, naked and sprawled out on my bed. Or Reese, sitting spread eagle on the chaise lounge right at the entrance of my home.
The blood rushing through my body died in less than a second as I open the front door and have to press the light switch on the wall. Bright lights bathe the room in light. The large area is devoid of her smile, her sweet, intoxicating scent; it’s devoid of her.
I notice a powder-blue box on the dining room table, the silver Flour Shoppe insignia on the side, and I head over there. On top of the box is a short note, which reads: “Just thought I’d see how nice the doorman is. (wink)”
A smile tips the left side of my mouth. I open the top of the box. Steam rises from the flaky, golden crust of a personal-size chicken pot pie. I pull out my cell phone and dial Reese’s number.
“You home?” Reese asks once the call connects.