Chapter Six #2
It was cake for fuck’s sake. Drea sounded like she’d just had an orgasm in the middle of the kitchen. He cut a piece and popped it into his mouth.
The tart lemon and rich, sweet buttercream mixed together perfectly and was as close to heaven as anything he’d ever tasted. “Holy shit.”
“You like, oui?”
“Gotta be honest. Didn’t know cake could taste so good.” Cujo moved to take another piece of the cake, was about to take a slice when Madeleine whipped the plate out from underneath him. “Wait, I was gonna—”
Drea laughed. He turned and curled his lip at her, hoping she didn’t notice the way the corner of his lip was twitching up into a smile.
“Non, non! There are many to try and you will be too full.”
Madeleine placed another plate on the table. “This is a vanilla sponge, layered with butterscotch buttercream, and the icing is toffee infused.”
Cujo and Drea eyed each other before racing to grab a bite.
“Mmm,” Drea sighed.
Some of the sticky toffee buttercream clung defiantly to her fork. Not to be bested, Drea licked the fork clean, a sight requiring an adjustment of his jeans.
He chewed, thinking about what he could do to Drea with that icing. Or even better. Straight-up toffee sauce. He needed to quit thinking that way.
“It is good, non? Qu’est ce que vous preferez?”
“This one—”
“The other one—” They said at the same time. Cujo snatched another piece of cake before Madeleine could take the plate.
“Oh, sneaky,” Drea whispered in admiration as her plate was taken away.
More treats were placed in front of them, a delicious chocolate s’mores, a white chocolate topped with raspberry fondant, and one with icing that tasted like key lime pie.
Once the cakes were all sampled, Madeleine served them an espresso, and put four plain cupcakes, two bags of buttercream icing—one a bright sunny yellow, the other brown—and a tray of toppings in front of them.
“The mind makes the best decisions when it is otherwise occupied. Ice your treats and decide. I will be à l’étage, désolé, upstairs, in my office. Enjoy.”
Cujo took a sip of the dark, rich espresso. The past half hour had lightened his mood. Who knew cake tasting could do that?
Drea put a cupcake in front of him and handed him the brown icing. “You heard the lady,” she said, smiling.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” The plastic icing bag was squashy in his hands.
“You want me to do the whole Patrick Swayze Ghost thing?” Drea picked up the yellow icing, held the top with one hand, and used the other to squeeze the icing down toward the nozzle.
“The what?”
She looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “You know, when he sits behind Demi Moore at the potter’s wheel?”
“No fucking clue what you’re talking about.” It sounded like a total chick thing, whatever it was. Romantic shit really wasn’t his strong point. He never stayed in a relationship long enough for it to matter.
Drea squeezed the icing bag for what had to be a millisecond before pulling away, leaving behind the most perfect-looking tiny star on her cupcake.
Well guess what? He was the artist, so no way was she going to beat him at cake decorating.
He looked around the room for inspiration, his eyes searching for an idea. Then, he saw it.
Drea repeated her action, moving her cake in small movements until she had a ring of stars. Silent in her task, she had single pointed focus. He admired that.
Cujo picked up the brown icing, focused on the center of the cake, and squeezed the bag gently. The small dot of icing was exactly what he needed. He placed another next to it, then hunched over the cake. One dot after another. He used a knife to remove any dots that weren’t perfect.
His thoughts drifted back to his mom. Could he hold her responsible for something she didn’t remember?
Wouldn’t life be easier if he could let go of the past until she recovered?
What if she never regained those memories?
Would he share his experience of it with her?
Give her real understanding of what it was like to grow up thinking he was a mistake.
That’s what he’d try to do when she was well enough.
He finished the brown dots on both of his cupcakes. “Can I take the yellow?”
Drea nodded.
Using the yellow icing, he drew narrow lines spreading outward from the brown dots in the center. Each stroke was slightly different.
He needed to talk to his dad, tell him what he heard that night, and ask if it really was his fault mom left. Not knowing was killing him inside. If it was true, he could learn to manage that pain.
He sat back and admired his work. Not bad for a first effort.
And Madeleine was right. The mind did make better decisions when it was otherwise occupied.
He felt a level of comfort he hadn’t been able to achieve at the gym despite busting his ass by simply decorating a fucking cupcake.
Someone should take away his man-card because he sure as fuck didn’t deserve it right now.
“The chocolate s’mores cake,” he said, looking at Drea.
“Agreed,” she said quietly, her eyes studying him intently but not revealing what they found.
“I gotta go. Tell Madeleine, thanks,” he said, standing abruptly. He placed the two cupcakes on Drea’s board.
“Oh my God, those sunflowers are beautiful! How did you—”
He bent over and kissed the top of her head. “Bye, Shortcake.” It wasn’t so much running away as removing himself from temptation. Because somehow, Drea was giving him everything he needed. And in his opinion, he didn’t need that at all.
* * *
Mondays sucked. Well so did most every other day. But to Drea it signified the start of another week that would be exactly the same as every one before.
She pulled a clean ‘José’s’ T-shirt over her head. Mom was up, breakfast was eaten, two loads of laundry were washed and hung in the yard, lunches were ready, and Drea needed to head out.
The phone sitting on the bedside table vibrated.
“Hello.”
“Andrea, it’s Gilliam. Do you have a moment?”
She sat on the chair next to her desk and pulled out a notepad and pen. “I do. And please, call me Drea.”
“The files you sent me were very interesting, Drea. I have been in touch with Sylvie, Mike’s wife. Mike’s itinerary was to visit his family in Athabasca, then drive up to Fort McMurray to meet with a new contact.”
“Does she know who the new contact was? Or why Fort McMurray?” Drea asked, leaning over her keyboard to put the location into Google maps. Wow, that really was a long way north. Six hundred miles straight up from the Montana and Alberta border.
“My guess is because Fort McMurray is at the heart of the Athabasca oil sands. Every major energy company worth a lick of salt is up there,” Gilliam explained. “Sylvie didn’t know who he was meeting.”
She made a note to research which companies operated there, then put a line straight through it. Leave it to Detective Carter. “Do you think his trip was connected to the note? It did say Mike was headed north.”
“Possibly, but it would be pure speculation on my part. Sylvie has agreed to let me take a look through Mike’s things once she gets them back from the police. There may be something he was carrying with him that can help piece this together. Did you go to the police as I suggested?”
“Yes.” She tapped the pen on the corner of the desk, pondering the decision to trust Gilliam.
“It’s clear the files you have point to the illegal behavior of senior elected officials but don’t categorically prove anything. And a letter in those files names three people—Walter, Mike, and ‘L.A’. Mike is dead. The woman carrying the files is missing—”
“I can’t help but think L.A. is the woman from the coffee shop.” Drea wrote the letters L and A on a blank page. “What do you think we should do, Gilliam?”
“You need to be careful. You asked about Mike? He was writing an exposé on corruption in the permitting processes across the U.S. He’d called me to ask if I could look at a soil sample he had brought back from Florida.
I have told the police this already, but he told me he thought he was being followed. ”
The idea that MacArthur was killed still shocked her. Reminded her that this had serious consequences. “Did he say who was following him?” What if the person following him was one of the two men who chased the woman?
“He didn’t know. But he told me the man looked like Rondo Hatton.”
“Who?” she asked curiously.
“Oh, a famous character actor from the thirties and forties. Had an unusual medical condition, acromegaly, a disfiguring disease.”
Drea typed the name into her search engine. Black and white photos appeared of a man with an exceptionally large forehead and swollen nose. Large puffy eyes were capped with thick, dark eyebrows. It was a startling portrait.
There was a long pause. Drea tapped the pen some more before throwing it onto the desk. “You think I’ll be safe, Gilliam?”
A longer pause. “I honestly don’t know.”
Drea ended the call. She felt unsafe in her own home. She thought back to Cujo’s words after the night with Snake. He said he’d help her with security if she needed it.
She dialed Cujo’s number.
“Hey,” he answered. His voice, all rough with sleep, vibrated through her.
“Cujo, it’s Drea. Did I wake you?”
“S’all good, Shortcake. If you hadn’t, my snooze button would have in another three minutes.
What’s up?” The sound of bedding rustling spurred images of him in bed, naked perhaps …
with a strategically placed white cotton sheet across his thighs.
No, ditch the sheet … he could just be lying there on his back with—
“You still there, Shortcake?”
Goddamn daydreaming made her hot under the collar. “Yes. Sorry. I wondered if I could take you up on your offer.”
“And which offer was that?” he asked salaciously.
He’d turned her down. Had the opportunity to do more than kiss her but he’d turned his back on her and walked away. “You can’t say things like that to me, Cujo,” she grumbled.
There was a pause, and this time it was her turn to wonder if he was still on the other end of the line.
“Sorry, Drea … it’s just … it’s so easy to forget around you. Seriously, what do you need?”
“New locks for the doors, deadbolts or whatever. I don’t know what to buy, and I definitely don’t know how to install them.”
“What time do you need to be at work?”
Drea looked at the clock. “An hour, but I need to leave in twenty-five minutes to get the bus.”
“Sit tight. I’ll come see what you need, then run you to work. We’ll figure out when I can fit them, then. Okay?”
“Thank you, Brody.”
“Brody, huh?”
“Yeah. But only when you are nice.”