CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Gizmo
T he crash of the waves beyond is like a soothing soundtrack to the crinkle of the paper bag every time we reach in to grab another couple of fries.
We’re backed into a parking spot at the beach. There are other people milling around, but the night is moonless, and while that prevents a view of the waves, it also prevents people from recognizing me.
And I’m beginning to realize I might have needed this just as much as she did.
There’s a rush that comes with being recognized. A feeding of my ego that becomes addicting after you’ve had it for so long. But this is simple. Real—just like Hendrix—and I mean that in the best way possible.
“This is heaven,” she says as she takes a sip of her drink and leans back against the back part of the seat from where we’re seated in the cargo area of my SUV.
“I am definitely not complaining.” I chuckle when I finish chewing. “This was our staple when we first started—before we made it. The burgers are cheap and the beach is free and man, that goes a long way when you’re broke.”
My mind flashes back for a second. To the long days and endless hours trying to make something of ourselves. To this being our only hope, our only chance to be the men we saw in each other when our own parents didn’t or couldn’t see it themselves. The laughs we had on this beach. The memories. The arguments. The baring of our souls to one another. BENT was forged in this sand.
Funny how a woman who isn’t supposed to be a part of my life but now very much is, made me see that.
“You went quiet there for a second,” she says, knocking her knee against mine. “Where’d you go?”
“To back when the only thing I ever had was dreams.”
“Dreams are good,” she murmurs and rests her head on my shoulder.
“They definitely are.” I pause. “So tell me about yours. Why a bakery? Why cookies? Why that instead of, I don’t know, becoming some famous pastry chef or whatever?”
“I like the quiet.”
I snort. “Cookie, I hate to break it to you, but I think you married the wrong guy then.”
Her body shakes with a soft laugh.
“Clearly.” She exhales slowly. “I liked being by myself as a kid. My mom and her husband at the time fought a lot. He was fond of the bottom of the bottle and that led to some pretty horrific fights. Going into the kitchen, putting music on and creating something was my way of shutting out the noise until he sobered up. I also wasn’t his, and I always felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, but in the kitchen, I was in charge. I could create and get mad at my imaginary helpers.” She chuckles. “And then when I walked into the family room with whatever design I had made at the time, it forced them to abandon their bickering and praise me instead. Kind of self-absorbing and prolonging the inevitable divorce when it all came down to it, but when you’re younger, you’re only thinking about the here and now.”
“So they ended up divorcing?”
She nods. “It was for the best. They split. My mom was finally happy again and the fighting stopped. He moved on to a new wife, a new life, and while I wasn’t exactly a big fan of his, I was jealous that I didn’t have a ‘real’ family. One I could bring home friends to after school without having to explain why I didn’t have a dad. That kind of thing.”
Her words hit me squarely in the gut. A silent reflection of my own life, my own situation, and it takes everything I have to not press the heel of my hand to my breastbone. The last thing I need or want is to bare my scars to the world. That would be a telltale sign her words just picked a scab off one of them.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, so am I, but being sorry doesn’t change shit so I’ve moved on.”
“Divorce cookies,” I murmur to which she laughs.
“That’s about right.”
“So you baked as a distraction.” I smile.
“I did. As I got older, I became known for it. At first it was for friends’ birthday parties. Then it was for teachers wanting this or that. I worked at a bank during the day and then baked from my apartment at night. It was a lot.”
“And how did Cookie Cutter start?”
“Mmm,” she says and then falls quiet. I have a feeling Paul is about to enter the picture. The fucker . “A bakery was always the dream. A successful one. Paul was sick of me working at both jobs and not being able to give him the quality time he deserved.”
“I’m reserving judgment here, Hendrix, but if you love someone, you support them even when their dreams overshadow you for a while.”
She angles her head up to look at me. Her expression tells me she doesn’t understand how someone like me could say that. I’m not even quite sure that I understand it if I’m honest.
“For as much of a prick as he turned out to be, he did encourage me to officially start the bakery. Find the location with the loft above it and get friends who were mechanical to help me repair some of the mixing vats I have when I bought used ones. And when the banks wouldn’t approve me for a small business loan, he stepped up and used some of his own money.”
“Hmm.”
She laughs. “I know that sound. I feel that sound. I’m grateful for the help he gave me but that doesn’t erase what he did.”
“Fucking someone in your bed?”
“That and the draining of our bank accounts before he left.” The fuck? He took her money? Even my dad, despite his complete assholery, didn’t steal from Mom when he left us.
I blow out a long, low whistle. No wonder she is, was, in dire straits. How the fuck did her ex think she could run a business with no capital? Did she sign a contract with him? Was it illegal for him to do that?
Nathaniel would have a field day with this but it’s out of my wheelhouse.
“You know that’s completely fucked, right, Cookie?”
“Hmm.” It’s her turn to make the sound.
“Did he get back all of the money he put into the company?”
“Nowhere close.”
“And he hasn’t asked for the remainder?”
“There were fights. Plenty of fights. But you can’t give back something you don’t have, and he can’t ask for the things that aren’t officially his.”
I nod, letting the crash of the waves fill the silence, and hope that’s where it ends for her. For him. Unless he decides to come after her for the rest. Shit.
Fuck you, Paul.
“Back to the cookies. Paul is... the past and—”
“Fuck him.”
She snorts. “Exactly. Fuck him . I like creating things. Making people happy with something as simple as a cookie. To eat. To save. To commemorate.” She chuckles. “Now I just sound stupid. Enough about me.” She shifts so that she’s cross-legged and facing me. “How’d BENT start?”
I smirk. “A bet.”
She blinks. “A bet?”
“Yeah. Rocket and I were drunk off our asses one night in some shitty garage—we were teenagers trying to act way cooler than we were. He swore I couldn’t learn to play drums in six months.”
“Six months?”
“Yeah. The bet was that I had to learn and play them in a contest the local club was holding. I told him if I did, then he had to break up with his girlfriend because I liked her.” The memory and his cockiness have me smiling.
“By the smirk on your face you won the bet.”
I nod. “I did. I won the girl. Apparently, she liked drummers better anyway, so it was only a matter of time before she broke up with him, but... that helped things along.” I chuckle. “God, he was so pissed at me. We got in a fistfight over me winning the bet. And as fate would have it, the guy who broke us up was Hawkin.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. You’re telling me. He and his friend Vincent were starting a band, mostly to get women, and then... somehow we were decent.”
“More than decent.”
“Not at first. My God.” The endless rehearsals. The fights over each others’ girls. The fights over the songs to play. “We had a rough go for a while. I think all of us questioned if we’d even work. But then we became friends. And that led us to caring more. To becoming better. Then better became good. Played a few gigs. Got lucky to be in the right place at the right time.”
She shakes her head, grinning. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It was way easier than dealing with life at home.” The words come out before I can think them through. Before I can stop them.
And now I’m left with my ass hanging in the wind and facing a conversation I really don’t want to have.