“Next time we come to Europe, we have to bring the twins. I think they would be amazed by the history and the cultures,” I said, already planning to come back as soon as we could swing it.
“I could see Lena falling in love with the museums and Elin with the beaches,” Cade agreed.
“I can’t believe we have to leave tomorrow,” I said with what I hoped was an adorable pout.
“It’s been a great trip, but I’m sure you’re ready to get back to your girls, and the twins, of course. Plus, Rufus and CB. And, I need to check in with the MC and make sure things are still copacetic with the Diablos. You know Slade had that meeting set up with Cueball.”
Cade didn’t usually share club business with me, but since I’d staged an unnecessary rescue of him from the Diablos clubhouse, I needed to make sure there was no blowback on the club.
“I’m sure it’s all good, or you would have heard something, right?” I asked.
“Maybe, maybe not, since they know we’re on our honeymoon,” he replied, then took a sip of his beer and looked out at the view. “Anyway, that’s for tomorrow. Tonight, let’s focus on enjoying where we are right now.”
“And who we’re with,” I agreed, sliding my hand across the table to cover his. “I know I’ve probably said it a million times over the last few weeks, but this has seriously been the most incredible trip of my life. I’m in awe that you took the time to plan it, and that you coordinated our lodging with your friends, and ensured this honeymoon was a magical experience. You went above and beyond, Cade.”
“There’s no such thing when it comes to you, Lila. You deserve all this and more, and I plan to spend the rest of my life making sure you get it all.”
“Having you means I already have it all,” I assured him.
He lifted my hand to kiss it.
“Dance with me?”
“Always,” I replied, and spent the rest of the night in my husband’s arms.
The End
About the Author
Want more of the Cupcakes Series? Stop by my website - https://www.bethanylopezauthor.com/
Bethany Lopez is a USA Today Bestselling author of more than thirty books and has been published since 2011. She's a lover of all things romance, which she incorporates into the books she writes, no matter the genre.
When she isn't reading or writing, she loves spending time with family and traveling whenever possible.
Bethany can usually be found with a cup of coffee or glass of wine at hand, and will never turn down a cupcake!
Vitamin D
Vitamin D
A short story
By Kayti McGee
Vitamin D
Copyright © 2020 Kayti McGee
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Denial
Let me tell you a universal truth that all true-crime fans know for certain—we don’t have nearly enough documentaries. I’ve literally watched everything available on every streaming service I’ve bargained and stolen passwords for. Some of them twice. (Looking at you, Bundy Tapes.) And at this time of year, when I’m in the deepest throes of seasonal depression and showering becomes more work than my actual work is, I find this oversight by Hollywood nearly unforgivable.
It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m skipping the giant party my sisters are hosting at our cousin’s bar, There In Spirits. Unlike true crime docs, I seem to have endless amounts of sisters. Seven, to be exact. I love them all fiercely and dearly all summer, but I can’t handle their particular brand of aggressive, tipsy love today.
All I want is the love of a good serial killer. Not in real life, but you know.
I kick off my covers and bury my head momentarily in the pillow. I’m bored. Not bored enough to go out but bored enough to throw a small temper tantrum.
In times like this, I find there’s only one thing to do. I must call on the spirit of Jana Aston to guide me through these dark and difficult times. It’s a job for the tarot cards. I reluctantly roll my way onto the floor and blink at the ceiling for a while before reaching an arm beneath my bed to where I’ve stashed them for just such moments as these. Laying on my back, I begin to shuffle.
I don’t actually know Jana. She’s a romance author. My sister Maggie met her over the holidays last year and I’ve heard so many stories and quotes that I intuitively feel we are soul sisters, though.
Soul sisters are nice because they almost never roast you in the family group-text when you do things like tweet at Netflix every evening at seven when you realize that you still don’t have new and murder-y content.
First card: eight of wands. Balls. That’s a card that implies movement. Perhaps it’s just about moving to the floor, though. Second card: the Sun. Celebration. I’m getting an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Although that could also be the steady diet of Taco Bell I’ve been living on for the past few days. Third card, Jana help me: Knight of Wands. Action and adventure. This is the worst possible drawing, because it could only mean one thing:
I have to go to my sisters’ party.
It sounds awful, but who am I to argue with the Spirit of Jana?
There’s a playlist I use for this sort of thing, a combo of “fuck this” songs and “you can do it” anthems, all in various flavors of punk. Okay, fine, by this sort of thing I mean every morning before work, and twice on trash day. Point being, it, combined with a lot of grumbling, gets me through the shower and the bare minimum of makeup to make me appear more lifelike. I look in the mirror a final time and stick my tongue out at my reflection.
New year, new me is a phrase that immediately makes me sad for anyone who says it. Because it’s never true. And I prefer honesty to optimism. Sure, it’s going to be to be a new year, but the new me will still have hair that’s not quite the right shade of anything. I’ll still have brown eyes. I’ll still think I look rad with a red lip. (And I’ll still be right about that.) And it’ll still feel like armor for when I just don’t feel like people-ing. Same me, new adventure is a better phrase. I close my eyes and make a little wish that it happens.
And then I order an Uber and make a second wish that my adventure isn’t the debt that ride-share surge pricing may put me in tonight.
The first piece of luck I have is that my driver has no interest in chatting, after the “You Kiera?” when I hop in. The second is that when I get to There In Spirits, someone is coming out as I’m heading in, so I’m spared the indignity of yelling the code word, “potato.”
That’s it. That’s where my luck ends.
Once inside the little speakeasy, The Sisters descend upon me. Maggie’s back in town from wherever the hell it is she’s been, and she’s chattering about how I need to come visit (I won’t). Eileen’s trying to enlist me to help mediate Kathleen and Skye’s latest drama (Also won’t). I spy Erin shoving Darby out of the way to get to the bathroom first, and oh my god why did I do this to myself. I could be at home, bored in bed, peacefully. Throwing little fits alone. But I’m not.
My oldest sister, Bridget, grabs my arm and pulls me blessedly towards the bar where our usual bartender is waiting with fresh Jameson and cokes. Perhaps my luck is returning. I hold my glass up, and we do a little cheers before she smiles at me.
“Listen, you little shit,” she starts. Nope, no luck. “When I text you, you text me back. Them’s the rules.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t really in the mood for harassment.” I take a sip.
“Well you didn’t ask to be born into this family, but here you are. Why have you been ignoring us?”
“I just haven’t been
in the mood for literally anything. Including talking or texting.” Which is true, even if it does sound bitchy.
“That’s just bitchy.” Yep.
“I don’t mean it like that. It’s just been hard to summon motivation lately, you know? I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in weeks. I go into work before it comes up and I get home after it’s set. It’s hibernation season. And that includes from my family of rabid bear sisters.” Bridget softens at that one and clinks me again.
“Aw, kiddo. I know how that feels. Do you have one of those little light thingies?” I don’t, but again, not feeling like a lecture, so I lie.
“Yeah, but it’s not really doing much.”
“Well, you need the vitamins! And you also need to text back at least one out of three times, or we start to think you might be the victim of a crime.” Now she’s definitely trying to butter me up. But she has a point about vitamins. I can’t remember the last time I drank some juice. It’s possible I may be developing scurvy. I gesture to Dave for a lime.
“Don’t worry. I’ll switch to gin after this,” I reassure her.
“What? No, not C. You need D.” And right on cue, Darby swings in, tipsy and crude.
“You looking for some D? I got you, girl. Check out this dude in the velvet armchair.” ‘This dude’ is literally right next to us and can very clearly hear her. God, he’s hot, too. Well, that’s fine then. He’s probably used to drunk girls objectifying him.
“Darby. We’re talking about a course of vitamin D, not the D.” I nod to the D in question regally, because surely this is the sort of mistake that happens all the time. He nods back.
“Um, yeah? You need a couple weeks with something that’s gonna make you happy and give you a reason to stop watching true crime? I feel like he could do that for you.” At that, the D leans forward.
“I do feel like I could do that for you. But I like true crime, actually. Have you seen the Bundy Tapes?”
At this point in any of my sisters’ stories, they’d have fallen in love just then. But I’m wiser, more jaded. More a fan of true crime. Therefore I am immediately suspicious of him. Sure, he’s obviously tall, dark, and handsome. But so was the aforementioned Bundy. Also, how did he know to mention that doc in particular? I know it was wildly popular for about a week, but the coincidence is concerning. He’s waiting for me to say something back, but I’ve learned from all the detectives on these shows that waiting for the perp to fill the silence is how to win. Faced with silence, they trip themselves up.
Because obviously, there are two distinct possibilities here. One, that he is a serial killer who’s been stalking me. I’ve not been good at varying my routine enough to evade those. In fact, I’ve not varied my routine even once in the last week, including the Taco Bell drive-through at 6:05 sharp. Haven’t even varied my order. And why would I, as long as the 7-layer burritos provide a nod to each and every food group?
The other concern about him is equally bad.
He could be a plant from my sisters.
Either way, he’s outwaiting me in the silence department. Darby and Bridget are swiveling their heads back and forth between us as though we’re a documentary made for their amusement. My eyes narrow at his deep brown ones. What are they hiding? I’m feeling better about coming out tonight, because I do love a good mystery. Also, if he’s a killer, I’m probably the only one who can save Darby. She’s the obvious victim. Adorable, derpy, and drunk.
Finally, he speaks.
“Can I buy you a drink and discuss vitamins?” I’m set to refuse when I realize my drink is empty. I don’t remember drinking it. Have I been drugged? Did he drug me?! Panic is beginning to set in when I spot my straw hanging out of Bridget’s mouth.
“She’d love one,” she tells the D, and abandons me to my fate. But the joke is on her. Because I am absolutely never, no-way no-how, ever, ever accepting a vitamin from this person of interest before me. Even if his jawline is perfect.
Anger
“Oh my god, yes, yes yes,” I’m moaning into his ear fifteen minutes later, in the genderless bathroom, as I take my vitamins. What? He was hot, he bought me a gin, thereby saving me from scurvy, and the Spirit of Jana moved me.
That’s not to say that he might not still be a killer. But that’s why I didn’t move to a second location.
See? Wise.
Anyways, he wooed me with a really insightful analysis of the psychology behind Abducted In Plain Sight, he had a condom in his wallet, and long story extremely short, here we are.
Not that there is anything short about what I’m riding, back against the wall, legs around his waist. He isn’t rushing just because we’re in a bar bathroom and there might be a line outside, either. I appreciate that, as the recipient, although I do worry that the selfishness he’s showing to the rest of the customers present doesn’t bode well towards his potential as a psychopath.
Then he hits a particularly good spot just as he nips at my neck with his teeth and I decide this is not the time for psychoanalysis. This is the time to hold on tight and enjoy the ride.
My hands are all tangled up in his black hair, ruining the lovely style he came in with. His hands are on my hips, holding me steady as he pushes in once, twice—and then on the third push I lose it, and take him with me. We stay there for a moment, heads on each other’s shoulders, breathing each other in heavily. He smells suuuper good, and I probably do now too. It’s all juniper and sandalwood. Like gin and Pure Man. Which is, frankly, how I imagine Bundy smelled too.
As we detangle, I’m back to my concerns about what I’ve done, and who I’ve done it with. But I have to give it to my sisters—I do feel a whole lot better.
Spritely, even.
There aren’t any mirrors in here, which forces us to fix each other’s hair and shirts. It’s pretty intimate if you think about it.
Good thing I wore the long-wear lipstick. Also, we didn’t do any mouth kissing. Like Pretty Woman. Oh, god, I maybe shouldn’t compare myself to a hooker. He’s not paying me. Just saving me from scurvy, and seasonal affective disorder. And he’s still staring at me as my train of thought heads through all these stations.
He plays the silence game better than me, it turns out.
“Are you a detective?” I ask. It’s a possible solution that could work out well for everyone. Particularly me.
“Nope.”
He offers nothing else, just unlocks the door and holds it open, where two of my sisters are waiting to applaud us. Dammit, I should have known this wouldn’t go unnoticed. I can feel the blush starting as I duck my head. The D, whose name I really ought to get at some point, doesn’t look even remotely ashamed. He takes a bow. I’m a little impressed despite myself.
Also, if everyone knows we were just together, it would be so obvious that he did it if my body shows up later, that I immediately decide he’s safe.
Back at the bar, Dave is giving us his disappointed face. “Guys, you know I really should kick you out for that.”
“Dave, I swear—” I start preparing a lie for our alibi, but the D just gives him a high five and says, “thanks, man. How about I buy you a drink? It’s a holiday for you too, even if you are working.”
That disappointed face turns into a delighted grin so fast I swear his mouth might have whiplash. Don’t overthink the mechanics of that.
“I’d love one! Can I have a White Russian?”
“You’re the bartender,” the D says.
“Oh! Haha!” And he’s off to make himself a cocktail. I try to think if I’ve ever bought Dave a drink and come up real lacking. I should be a better customer. And more importantly, my mysterious partner in crime appears to spread happiness wherever he goes. Like a ripped, chiseled Willy Wonka.
“So, where’s your friend?” I ask. It’s a graceful way of letting him know he did a good deed, but that he’s welcome to leave me to the inevitable interrogation of The Sisters.
“What friend?”
“I assume you didn’t
come alone.” We stare at each other as Dave sets fresh gins down, takes a little sip of his Caucasian.
“You know what they say happens when you assume.” Aw no. I don’t even care that he winks as he says it, because I am immediately filled with the patented Riley-girl rage.
Firstly, don’t use stupid phrases my fifth-grade teacher used.
Secondly, if he came here alone on New Year’s Eve, that means he’s worse than a killer.
He’s a pickup artist. Pure trash.
Thirdly, I should have known better. I didn’t even want to come out tonight!
Fourthly, and most damning, I still don’t even regret what happened in Unisex Bathroom Number One, because it was great.
I may be incendiary right now, but I am still mindful that I’ve dodged one bullet with Dave already, and also aware that the police get called a little too frequently to the scene of various flipped tables and fights started by one or more angry Rileys. So instead of saying a word, I just get up and take myself and my gin over to the loveseat where Darby is giving her best friend a lap dance.
Honestly, maybe I’m the one doing good deeds now, because I’m dead certain her poor best friend Judd is in love with her and it’s just mean for her to tease him.
“Keep it in your pants, Darb,” I tell her. Judd shoots me a grateful glance. Man, it feels so good to spread happiness. I’m growing as a person already.
“Like you did?” She cackles and collapses on top of poor Judd. I grit my teeth and remind myself that being the butt of her joke is still spreading happiness.
“Well, I sure didn’t,” comes a low voice in my ear. I jump half a mile. I should have known the D would follow me. Also, I’m well aware of what was happening in, and out, of his pants. No recap necessary. Except for the one I’ll deliver into the group text later, obviously. The one where I minimize his player status and emphasize my own. You know, just like he’s probably going to do with his online group of trash-trolls. I turn to shoo him off, but Darby hops up and past me to put her arms around him.
A Little Bit Cupid: A Collection of Short Stories Page 27