Chapter Nine
Noah
My scope finds four targets in green camouflage, laughing around a campfire on the African savannah. Probably reminiscing and joking about all the innocents they’ve killed.
It’s been almost a year, but we found those responsible for Swain and his fiancée’s deaths. And Mom sent me to mete out justice because she knows I’ll make it good.
Most importantly, I won’t miss.
They erupt in laughter again. One of them gets up and mimes holding something in front of his crotch while he thrusts.
Rape is all fun and games to you, isn’t it?
The image of Swain’s fiancée’s body flashes in my head as I exhale and pull the trigger, blowing the asshole’s pelvis into a bloody mist. The next bullets hit two of his companions; their skulls explode like watermelons dropped from a skyscraper. The fourth one rolls away, pulling out his gun, and starts shooting wildly.
Bang, bang, bang!
The sound stops abruptly as the lead slums into his head. The reports of the shots fade off, and the savannah is quiet again.
The first one I shot is writhing on the ground, leaving blood everywhere. Could leave him to die like that. Shitty way to go, but then what they did to Swain and his girl was worse.
But then the paranoid voice in my head—the one that makes me so good at my job—warns that he might get lucky and survive.
Which wouldn’t do.
I get up and walk into their camp, unholstering my Sig Sauer P365, and stand over the man. He looks up at me and tries to say something as I put a round into him. Red blooms over his heart; he twitches a couple of times, then stops moving.
I tilt my neck left and right. The tension in my shoulders refuses to ease. So what if the couple got justice? They’re still dead. If vengeance could bring them back, I might’ve gone to Bobbi’s bakery opening. But the finality of death is absolute.
It’s best that I stay away from Bobbi. No matter how much I love her, we simply can’t be together.Can’t let her become a target for animals like this, I think, looking dispassionately at the bodies strewn on the ground. The hyenas will probably devour them before sunrise. A fitting ending.
I go back to my hide site and pack up my beautiful cheetahs—the moniker I gave my guns. Fast, precise and deadly, they’re very similar to the gorgeous cats I love so much. My Jeep bounces over the uneven ground until I reach a small landing strip. It’s just long enough to accommodate a prop plane, and sure enough, one is idling there, waiting.
A darkly tanned pilot squints at me. “Finally. You good?” he says, then spits in the dirt.
The bloodshot eyes, a grimy used-to-be-white wifebeater, dirty pants rolled up to two inches below the knees together with the hint of alcohol on his breath don’t inspire confidence. But the team wouldn’t have hired him if he wasn’t good.
I nod, then climb into the plane.
“All right.” He situates himself in the pilot’s seat. “If anything happens, there’s a parachute under each seat.” He laughs. “If any of ’em work.”
I pray the plane’s better maintained than the man’s clothes, but the craft rattles horribly as it gains speed on the short runway. The cockpit door has been ripped out and never replaced, so… I bounce in my seat, and almost hit my head against the low ceiling despite the seatbelt.Jesus, I know I’m supposed to play the unserious adventurer, but this is ridiculous. Should I be grateful the seatbelt is working?
But the plane takes off, climbing up and up without sputtering. Apparently, the engines are solid underneath the garbage exterior.
–Me: All taken care of. Toilets unclogged.
–Mom: Great.
I thumb through photos that have just arrived on my phone. Lots of fantastic shots of cheetahs in the wild. If anyone ever gets nosy enough to want to see my work, I’ll have something to show them.
We turn on to our heading and level off and everything’s fine for about ten minutes. Then the plane starts to roll.
For fuck’s sake. I know the pilot was drinking before, but is he so drunk that he can’t fly straight?
“Yo, keep the plane straight!” I yell.
Nothing, and the plane tilts further.
What the hell? I unbuckle and go to the cockpit to give the pilot a piece of my mind. I’m not flying like this all the way to Nairobi.
“Hey, what’s—”
The pilot is slumped to the side. I pull his head back and see white foam mixed with blood around his mouth. His eyes are blank. I don’t need to check his pulse to know he’s dead.
There are sudden explosions on each side of the plane—shit. I head back and look out the dirt-crusted windows. Black smoke billows from the engines and we start to nosedive.
Panic, terror, fury—something should hit me, but instead, the only thing filling my head is a blasé “Guess this is how I’m going to go.”
In a fraction of a second, the meaning of my life flashes by—and the fallout from my death. At least it’ll be a clean, quick one. Painless. I deserve that much for all the horrible actors I’ve killed over the years. My brothers might wonder—but Mom will feed them a good story. Hopefully she doesn’t tell them I’m dead. No need to dump grief on them. They have their wives and families. They should be busy enjoying what they have.
On the other hand, maybe they’ll be fine even if they learn about my demise. They might even console themselves, thinking I died doing what I loved the most.
Shooting cheetahs.
They would’ve been right two years ago. Now…
Bobbi.
Longing wraps a fist around my heart. I miss her so much. My eyes land on the yellow bag by the pilot. It’s the same color as the beautiful birthday cake she baked for me in Mexico. I’d never felt so loved and cherished in that moment, when she woke me up from a nightmare after bringing the cake and all I could see was her looking down at me with concern in her eyes. Even as guilt poked at me for lying to her, I basked in her warmth.
Dying means never seeing her again. Never putting her in danger. She’ll never end up like Swain’s fiancée.
My heart sputters, then beats hard at the notion that I’m never going to see her smile again. She won’t miss me. She might even be glad when she hears I’m gone.
After all, what have I given her in the end except deception and heartache?
The knot in my chest grows unbearably tight, enough to make me wince and put a hand over it.
If you’re going to miss her that much, why did you stay away? a voice in my head asks.
Can’t go like this. I won’t let Bobbi think she meant nothing to me. If I survive this, I’m going to go back to her. Show her what she means. I’ll prove it to her…
Adrenaline pumps. I reach for the bottom of the pilot’s seat. He won’t be needing his parachute. And bingo. It’s so dusty and stiff... Is it still in working order?
Only one way to find out.
I put it on quickly and look outside. Still some distance to the ground, although not much. Time to see how much Lady Luck loves me.
Grabbing my cheetahs, I jump. Then land on my side so hard, my whole body jars with the impact. Ow.
I wince, then blink at the feel of smooth hardwood floor against my cheek and torso. What the hell?
Slowly, my senses take in my whereabouts. Cool airconditioned air without any dust. A faint scent of pine my housekeepers used to clean the mansion. Damn it. I push myself up. Sheets are tangled on the mattress, like a coil of twisting snakes.
I huff, then flop back on the bed. I slept like crap, which is unusual. I make it a rule to sleep well because to be healthy and happy a man needs three things—sleep, food and sex—and I strive to ensure I’m at least generally healthy if not always happy.
Perhaps I’m not sleeping well because I haven’t had sex in a while. Not since that last time with Bobbi. Which might explain my strong reaction to Lorcan now that I think about it. And my strong desire to modify and enhance her vision board because she doesn’t need some random dweeb she found in a magazine when she can have me.
She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. The height and the strong frame and lean muscle. The long golden hair that cascades down her shoulders and back. The confident tilt of her head, those slightly slanted, dark caramel eyes and those lips I could kiss for an eternity. Her breasts aren’t huge, but I don’t need anything larger than my palm. What’s important is sensitivity, and in that respect Bobbi’s are the gold standard. I’ve made her come just by sucking on her tits.
And she had no idea the kind of filthy thoughts that went through my head when she burst through the bedroom door. I wanted to gobble her up the way I did her apple pie. I might’ve tried to kiss her if I was one hundred percent certain she wouldn’t shoot me with that nice Glock of hers. Bobbi has a temper—gloriously fiery. And I love her even more for it.
Last night, though… The disappointment was crushing because I was waiting for her call. I was sure she wouldn’t be able to put me out of her mind like she did a year ago. I expected her to ream me out. Call me names for stealing her food, altering her vision board or crashing her ridiculous date with Joey. If I wasn’t worth a call, I figured she’d at least text. I’m open to any name—asshole, dickhead, thief, jerkface.
But no. I haven’t even merited a text. What a letdown.
Still, she was beautiful in that skirt, which Joey The Sycophant doesn’t deserve to see her in. I wondered who the date was when I saw her note under the vision board—and didn’t plan to let her see some loser, but it was worse than anything I could’ve imagined. Why is she scraping the bottom of the barrel? She could do so much better than the Lorcan Duncans and Joeys of the world.
Like me. I’m back. I’m available and more than willing.
I stare at the ceiling, wishing I didn’t have to get up. But the catering people are coming soon to set up Saturday brunch with my brothers. I volunteered to host since Griffin wasn’t in any condition. His triplets have been keeping him and his wife up round the clock for six days in a row. They might grow up to be the best interrogators this nation has ever seen. Enough sleep-deprivation and people will say and do anything you want them to.
At least it’s just us seven guys, so the food can be kept simple—lots of eggs, ham, sausages and bacon and a mountain of bread and pastries. The wives don’t join in—they call our monthly brunches and dinners “the boys’ time.” Instead, they get together and do their own thing, mostly spas or tennis or reading while gobbling up chocolate fondue.
Look at the bright side, I tell myself as I drag my ass out of bed. A bag of Bobbi’s croissants is waiting in the kitchen. She was always a fabulous baker, and she’s even better now. I was never that picky about bread or desserts until I met her.
Starchy carbs aren’t the only things I’ve become selective about after Bobbi. My life is divided into pre-Bobbi and post-Bobbi. And I’ve become very particular about women. Nobody else measures up. They aren’t as beautiful, or capable or sexy. Not that I’d say that out loud any time soon because I don’t want my married brothers to give me shit. Love has blinded each one of them into thinking their particular wife is the best.
After a quick shower, I change into a blue T-shirt and black shorts and make my way downstairs. The catering people text that they’re at the gates, and I let them in as I head to the kitchen.
The Bobbi’s Sweet Things bag is sitting on the counter just as I left it. The logo is pastel blue and purple, just as lovely as the woman herself. Anticipation curling in my belly, I take a pastry out and note the buttercream. Hmm. Does she sell buttercream-filled croissants? I don’t remember seeing any in the store. But who cares? Maybe she stuffed them specifically for herself. Crème de la Bobbi, mmm-hmm. If they taste fantastic—I’m sure they will—I’ll ask the catering team to add buttercream croissants to the menu.
I start to bite into it as the catering team comes in and starts setting up. A thought pops into my head. Bobbi could’ve lost her phone in the last twelve months—and thus my number. So even if she wanted to call or text and call me an asshole, she couldn’t.
I have her number memorized, of course, but she probably doesn’t have mine. After all, not everyone has a photographic memory. I partied all night and got straight As in school. My brothers wanted to know what magical ass-kissing I did but I’ve always hidden that particular talent.
I chew on the croissant. Delicious. All that perfect flaky goodness. The buttercream is light and sweet, but not overly so. The texture is great. No wonder Bobbi’s bakery has become such a success—
Wait. What was that?
I run my tongue over my teeth to get the weird thing out. But it isn’t enough. I spit into the sink, but that doesn’t work either.
Sonya, one of the catering people, looks over from setting up the brunch spread. “You okay?”
Shaking my head, I grab a glass of water and rinse my mouth. Little bits of hair remain in the sink. What the fuck?
Sonya walks up, stares at the hair, then at me. Her eyes are wide with alarm, probably wondering if the hair came from the food her team has brought.
“It’s not you,” I say before grabbing another croissant. Again, buttercream filled. But is it untampered with?
This time, I scoop up a generous glob using a finger and rub it with my thumb. Sure enough, there’s hair hidden in the cream.
No need to check the other two. Bobbi wouldn’t have done this if she’d planned to have them herself. And she didn’t know Lorcan would show up to be her fake fiancé. So that means she did this afterward, specifically for me.
I start to laugh, ignoring the rich-people-are-so-weird look on Sonya’s face, then go check the security feed from last night on my phone. Bobbi stopped by at 11:54. She is scorching hot as she glares at the security pad out by the gates and punches in a number. Given that there was no alert, she remembered the date.
And again, she input the right combination for the door. Did she also recall what I told her when I gave her the code? Did that remind her of what she means to me?
I watch her mix something in a bowl, then sabotage the croissants. Jesus, she’s sexy as hell. And the intense look on her beautiful face? I want to blow it up, print it out and frame it so I can hang it in my bedroom.
Maybe I should do it and text Bobbi a snapshot. Sure, it’s immature, but I need some validation—no matter how inconsequential—that I matter enough for her to react. It’s possible I never grew out of the tug-the-girl’s-hair-for-attention phase of boyhood, although I never felt the urge until I met Bobbi.
I laugh again as she flips the ceiling off. Yes! It might not be love, but I don’t care! As long as she isn’t indifferent to me. Disgust, dislike, even hate… I can work with that.
But first. Her excellent effort shouldn’t go unrecognized.
–Me: You didn’t have to be so cruel, my love. Wasting perfectly good croissants… Think of the starving children somewhere in the world.
I pour a cup of coffee from one of the pots Sonya’s team has laid out and count. Three… Two… One…
–TLOML: Se?or Mittens sends his regurgitated regards.
That must be the cat. He disapproved of me, but absolutely hated Lorcan. What a good, sensible little kitty.
–Me: I love you too, light of my life.
–TLOML: I hope you choke on a gaggle of dicks. Heavy on the gag.
–Me: Not my thing, but I could do an MMF if you really want. Just as long as nobody gets to touch you but me.
Three dots appear then disappear. Although I wait a good minute, nothing happens. Probably too overcome to respond.
My phone vibrates with a new text. I raise my hand eagerly, then glare at a photo my dad sent.
–Dad: What do you think? Erika is five-eight. D cup. Nice ass. Holds a brilliant conversation.
The photo is a woman, naked from the waist up. She has hair so bleached it looks like straw and plastic tits with nipples the size of dinner plates. Her face is spray-tanned to the point of looking more tangerine than human.
The only correct thing is likely her name and her cup size. But that’s only because I know it’s Joey doing the menial job of texting me. And unlike my dad, who still can’t remember his daughters-in-laws’ names, Joey keeps track of such details.
Besides, is he blind enough to think I’m going to downgrade to Erika after Bobbi?
–Me: My walls can probably hold a better conversation.
–Dad: But can they give you a baby? Josh Singer just got another grandchild. She sings like an angel.
–Me: Newborns don’t sing like angels. They scream and cry like demons burning in eternal hellfire, day in and day out.
Except for my nephews and nieces, but then they’re the most precious, precocious babies. And since my brothers are smart, they keep our father and Joey away from their offspring. Nothing good comes from being around those two.
–Dad: His does. And I want you to create a child who can outdo her!
By that, he means outdo Josh Singer. Dad has some kind of weird psychotic rivalry with the man. Who the hell knows why. Not even Joey can explain it. I’d bet my left nut that Josh Singer doesn’t know, either. And I’m not having a baby just to hand it over to my dad so he can parade it around as a prop to boost his already overinflated ego. Children deserve to be loved, not used.
–Me: If I ever have a baby, it’ll outshine everyone just by existing. Now go away, Joey, before I decide to get myself snipped.
I open one of the eight social media apps on my phone. Everyone thinks I’m addicted to these brain-rotting sites, but actually they’re search engines and intel for government assets. I scroll the feed—a lot of general gossip about celebs and stuff—so that if anybody happens to see my screen they won’t notice anything unusual. Then I stop at a post of an apartment building. In front is a tree heavy with red pomegranates.
I can’t believe moving means saving 50% on rent! But then my landlord is a jerk.
It’s one of the profiles we use for communication, and I asked Keelan to keep an eye on Bobbi and my brothers. A picture with red fruit means it’s about Bobbi. I skim the comments.
So much greed, man!
This is why everything costs so much! Price gouging! I had to pay almost $10 for a loaf of specialty bread today. I used to pay only like $5!
I go to the search section on the app and look up the landlord for Bobbi’s bakery. Floyd Baggett. I hit the profile, then tap on the gear icon at the top and enter my passcode.
The screen fills with details about him. God must’ve been in a hurry when He created Floyd. The man’s been mediocre—or worse—all his life. Hasn’t been able to hold a job or a relationship for more than a few months.
He inherited the building Bobbi’s bakery is in when his mother passed away six months ago. Floyd quit his job in Denver the same day, ostensibly to deal with his grief and work on mental health and self-care. Apparently, such care involved strippers and hookers.
His financial situation was shit, but the money left by his mother took care of his debt. But now he’s buried in IOUs again. He even owes money to Uncle Sam and the state of California. He’s got some balls to take on both the federal and state governments. They won’t break your knees to get paid, but they do have a lot of excruciating methods to extract money out of you. Since a nine-to-five would interfere with his degenerate lifestyle, he’s trying to jack up the rent on Bobbi’s Sweet Things.
Which won’t do. Bobbi isn’t laboring away to fund this disgusting man’s existence. I tap the corner of my phone. How should I deal with him? Arrange for a seemingly innocent incident that puts him out of commission for a while, since his property manager seems saner? Bury him in so much debt he has no choice but to sell the building?
As I ponder my options, my brothers start to arrive. We’re all busy, but we make sure to keep in touch and have regular brunches and dinners. It’s just the seven of us against the world. Unfortunately, our dad is an oblivious, self-centered piece of shit who didn’t really want to have kids. But he sure got stuck with some when the seven of us were born within four months of each other after his vasectomy failed. And our mothers… Well, they have their lists of priorities. And we aren’t always on them.
People in L.A. view our parentage with envy. After all, our father, the vaunted Ted Lasker, is one of the most successful movie producers of all time—having had nothing but mega-hits during his prolific career. And our mothers are generally successful in their fields as well. Any one of us could be a star any time we wanted, with throngs of women screaming our names and paparazzi taking pictures of our every private moment. What a glorious life!
Ugh.
“Good morning,” Emmett says with a wide grin. He’s happy because a new business he funded made more money than he expected. GrantEm has been raking money in like crazy. The firm has made all of us ridiculously wealthy as well. A lot of people incorrectly assume we got our fortunes from our father. To be fair, his idea of parenting is throwing money at his children, but he doesn’t throw billions.
Griffin just grunts. There are dark circles on his face larger than Texas, but he’s still a handsome bastard, inheriting his chiseled features from his fashion model mom. He can be grouchy as hell and people still love him. Well, except for his econometrics students because he hands out Cs and Ds like candy on Halloween. They’re probably deserved, too—Griffin is anything but unfair.
Currently his T-shirt has a mysterious yellow stain that didn’t come out in the wash. His attention to fashion has degraded significantly since his wife had triplets.
Grant, Nicholas, Huxley and Sebastian walk through the door. The latter looks like there’s a chunk of lemon in his mouth.
“What’s the problem?” I say as we start to grab food and coffee.
“Preston being a dick?” Grant asks.
“Yes. My piece-of-shit half-brother got arrested for dealing drugs.”
“Well, you wanted him to work—” Emmett begins.
“Stop sounding like my mother,” Sebastian says.
“—and that was probably the only thing he could find.” Preston is the type of guy who’s dumb enough to stick his finger into a pile of dogshit to see if it’s chocolate.
We go to the table and sit down. I grab two extra croissants because I need some carbs if I’m going to stay alert and fuel my brain.
“Will Jeremiah take the case?” I stuff my mouth with half a hair-free croissant. Jeremiah is Huxley’s mom. A scary Harvard-trained lawyer who believes the only acceptable outcome isn’t just victory, but complete evisceration of the other party. She can make anything go away—if you can afford her and if she feels like taking you on.
Sebastian shakes his head. “She refused.”
Huxley raises his hands, palms out. “I’m not getting involved. She said she’d only do it if I joined the firm.”
He’d rather jump into a pit of fire carrying a case of Chinese fireworks than become a lawyer. He went to Harvard Law for the sole purpose of showing his family that he wasn’t cut out to be an attorney, except he graduated summa cum laude. That just made his family want him more. The obvious solution would have been to flunk out, but his ego is too big to feign stupidity, even if it’s for a good cause.
Eye on the prize, man. Eye on the prize, I think. But what I say is, “Ah, she shouldn’t have to waste her time defending that dumbass.” I’m brimming with good humor because that’s the mask I wear and that’s what I want my brothers to see. It’s safer for them. “I would’ve dealt better drugs and also not gotten caught.”
“Not something to be proud of.” Griffin sounds like a teacher imparting the wisdom of life: Just say no.
“I’m proud of all my abilities.” I wink, then chomp down on a piece of bacon and try to resist telling Huxley about a possible betrayal brewing in his family. His grandmother has been meeting with Andreas Webber, one of the name partners at Huxley Webber. I’m certain they’re plotting against him behind his back since they have no reason to meet and they aren’t having a clandestine affair. They show photos of their grandchildren to each other every time they meet, and nobody coos over pictures of grown-ass adult grandkids or tries to pair them up like they’re playing some kind of fantasy wedding match up. But what am I going to say if anybody asks how I know? Huxley’s grandmother doesn’t do social media, and Andreas only posts about golf. I’m not admitting that I keep an eye on my brothers to make sure nothing dangerous is headed toward them. They might take it the wrong way.
Suddenly, Grant says, “Hey, you bought stuff from Bobbi’s Sweet Things and aren’t sharing?” He gestures at the mountain of carbs, then at the bag from Bobbi’s bakery I left out. “This doesn’t taste like her stuff.”
“There’s nothing to share.” I’m happy she made the effort to come over, but it would’ve been better if she hadn’t ruined the croissants with cat hair. She could’ve just spat on them instead, so I could’ve eaten them in innocent ignorance. If she tried to taunt me later, it wouldn’t have mattered. We’ve already exchanged saliva—many times—during other activities. “I saw the bag and took it.”
Sebastian looks at me like I left my brain back in Africa. “You stole bread? What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s like something out of Les Mis,” Emmett says.
“Jean Valjean.” Griffin sounds typically professorial, although he teaches econometrics, not French literature.
Hux shakes his head. “You’re on your own, man. Mom doesn’t defend petty criminals. It’s beneath her.”
“I also broke into Bobbi’s house,” I say. “Does that elevate my criminal status?”
Huxley laughs. He thinks I’m joking. But then all my brothers do.
“You probably shouldn’t say things like that because you’re making us witnesses to your confession. If her house was burglarized for real, you’d be a prime suspect even if you hadn’t done anything,” Nicholas says. He’s always so calm and sensible.
“Oh ye of little faith. If I broke in, nobody would notice.” None of my brothers take me seriously. I’ve done my job well over the years.
“Are you even allowed inside her bakery?” Emmett asks.
I give him a smug smile. “Of course I’m allowed in.”
“And you stole from her. Way to go.” Griffin shakes his head.
“Hey, she wouldn’t sell any to me,” I grumble.
“Should’ve taken some money,” Grant says with a laugh. “At least a credit card.”
“Join the modern world, bro. Nobody takes credit cards when they have a phone.” I shrug. “Anyway, she wouldn’t sell me anything. Told me she was out of croissants when there were four sitting right in front of me. Taunting me. Who does that?”
“Somebody who doesn’t want you as a customer. What have you done to her?”
Grant’s assumption that I’m the bad guy is mean, but not entirely unfair. Still, I put on my best I-didn’t-do-nuthin’ expression. “Not a thing. I’m completely innocent.”
“That’s why you will never get croissants from her bakery. When a woman’s mad at you, you just say, ‘I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’” Sebastian’s tone is half-smug and half-chiding. Dickhead. He turns to Grant. “By the way, did you make up with Aspen?”
I swivel around. “Uh-oh. What’s going on?”
“Grant’s in the doghouse,” Nicholas says.
“He’s being a bad boy,” Huxley agrees. “Tell us what you did wrong.”
Grant shakes his head. “Wrong? Nothing.”
Seb points to him and mouths, See? Wrong thing to say, to me.
“I’m sure Grant is innocent as well,” I say.
Seb throws his hands up in the air, rolling his eyes.
“Depends on your viewpoint. Aspen wants to invest in a bar that her friend is starting, and Grant here is a little annoyed.” Emmett’s eyes twinkle with evil brother humor.
“Not just a friend. Zack, who’s been panting after her like a fucking dog since college!” Grant’s outrage reminds me a little of Bobbi’s cat.
“But you’re going to smooth things out,” Griffin says gravely.
“Obviously. My problem is with the asshole, not Aspen.”
“How?” I ask. My brothers have healthy relationships with their wives. I want to know what they do when they anger their women for real.
“I’ll simply explain to her why I’m upset. Calmly, of course,” Grant says.
“Better bring flowers,” Emmett says.
“And jewelry. Jewelry always works,” Sebastian says. I wonder how many pieces he’s given his wife so far?
“So you just tell her why you’re upset…and then she’s cool?” I ask.
Huxley tilts his head, his eyes narrowed. “Why are you so curious? Did you piss a girl off? Perhaps a certain baker in the greater Los Angeles area…?”
“Me? Are you kidding? Ladies can’t resist my charms.”
“Right. Which is why you’re forced to steal from a poor, hard-working baker lady.” Sebastian snickers.
I point my fork. “Shut your pie hole.”
The snicker turns into a full-blown laugh. “At least this hole gets to eat pies from Bobbi’s Sweet Things.”