Chapter 2 #2
It’s Friday. I’m pretty sure that means the coven has control of at least one room in the community center tonight.
Kayla doesn’t seem surprised that I know. Hell. I’m Roxy Kane. I make it my business to know everything. “Uh, yeah. At six.”
Perfect.
I grab two boxes and cram everything left in the display case inside.
Kayla holds up her hands. “I was hoping I can have two turnovers—”
“You can have all of this…” I step over to the iPad that serves as a POS for Dough You Believe in Magic. I plug in two turnovers. “... for six bucks thirty-five cents. Consider it a donation to the spell circle from us here at Dough You Believe in Magic.”
Hey. It never hurts to have the witches on your side—and to make mouthy wolves go red-faced with fury as they realize I’m all sold out. So I’ll have to make up the difference in the register myself.
Honestly? It’s worth it.
Once Kayla leaves with her two boxes, I meet the wolf’s golden-eyed stare and pat the top of my messy bun. “Sorry, but looks like we’re out for the day. I’m sure you don’t mind. After all, wouldn’t want you to get poisoned.”
He snarls under his breath.
I perch my hand on my hip and wait to see if he’s all bark and no bite.
A slight gnashing of his fangs before he turns on his heel, stalks toward the door, and shoves the door open with his palms as I give him a finger wave and call out, “Ciao” in as snarky a tone as I can manage.
And since it’s me, it’s pretty fucking snarky.
See? And that’s why I think the whole idea of predators and prey in the shifter community is bullshit. Either you have balls and can back your shit up or you can’t.
I stroll leisurely over to the front door, taking my time in case the wolf wants to come back and confront me again. When he doesn’t, I smirk and lock the door. A flip of the switch and all the lights—except for the emergencies—go out.
If there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s hygiene; when you have a rep like I do, you don’t want to give anyone any ammunition.
So I dig through dumpsters. I’m never without hand sanitizer, baby wipes, and a bottle of soap.
I shower at least once, if not twice a day, and my hair is squeaky clean.
My shop is chaotic, but it’s organized chaos.
I dare you to find a speck of dust either among my knick-knacks or up in my apartment.
Honey trusted me with her bakery. So while I’d rather close up and head toward my end of Moonburrow, I know better.
“Time to clean up,” I mutter to myself as I push open the swinging door and step into the kitchen.
There, sitting next to one of the used baking trays, is Gus.
The little shit is eating one of the donuts I saved for myself!
It looks like a backward ‘C’ in his grip. He’s holding one side of the donut, nibbling happily on the cinnamon-and-sugar coated side nearest to his muzzle. The piece of parchment paper where I kept the two donuts is crinkled, nothing left behind except for some sugar crystals and crumbs.
What the—
He ate both of them!
Unbelievable!
“Gus,” I growl.
He freezes mid-chew, nose twitching at me. I guess his mouth is too full to chitter some more opossum nonsense my way.
“You live here,” I remind him. “You were out front all morning. You had unlimited pastry access. And you ate my donuts?”
With a defiant look, Gus takes another bite.
I haven’t had a true rival since Crystal. I don’t know what it says about me that, here I am, damn near thirty, and I’ve found one in a wild opossum who is somehow winning.
He’s just doing it to fuck with me, I decide. I don’t know what Honey’s said about me—or if siccing Gus on me is some long revenge plan to get back at me for the bubblegum—but I’m the adult in this situation. I’m the person.
I have money. I can get more donuts. And Gus might just go on a sugar-free diet and miss his evening grapes for this little stunt.
“Okay,” I sigh, glancing around the disaster that’s the kitchen. “Let’s get this done instead.”
Gus nibbles again as though I didn’t say a word. But I’m watching him. His ears perked up, and maybe Honey’s got a point, but I swear it’s like he heard me, then decided to pretend like he didn’t.
“Come on, you little rat. If you’re not gonna help, at least get out of my way.”
Gus lifts his chin, squeaking something that sounds like a complaint.
It doesn’t take much to figure out what he’s saying. “Fine. I won’t call you a rat. What about trash cat?” Isn’t that what humans refer to opossums as affectionately? “I’m a trash panda. You’re a trash cat.” I bend low, grabbing a large black garbage bag. “And this is a trash bag.”
And, before he can react, I snatch the slightly crumpled piece of parchment paper he was resting part of his rump on. Gus has to right himself before he falls onto his side. Me? I snicker to myself as I toss the parchment paper into the trash and leave him to enjoy the rest of his donut.
I spend the next hour tossing out trash, scrubbing countertops, organizing Honey’s baking trays, and trying to restore some level of order to the kitchen. Would be easier if flour didn’t get every-fucking-where, but I’m determined.
At some point, while I’m distracted by Gus climbing into one of the industrial mixing bowls for reasons only he knows, I go around the kitchen and do another sweep with the trash bag.
That done, I mop. After that, I bluff and tell Gus I won’t be back until tomorrow if he tracks any more flour across the freshly cleaned floor. Then, once I’m sure the kitchen is as good as it’s going to get, I grab the trash and toss it out into the dumpster.
Not bad. There’s plenty of time for me to grab some lunch myself, maybe check out the dumpster behind Maureen’s Crystal Emporium, and wash up before coming back to feed Gus his supper.
At least, that’s the plan. I return to the kitchen to bring Gus upstairs, grab my phone, plus the keys to the bakery so that I can lock up behind me.
Honey told me that, while she and Gus are currently living with Max at the Alpha cabin on wolf territory, no one has taken her up on her offer to let the apartment over Dough You Believe in Magic.
That means it’s best for Gus to hang out in her old bedroom where she keeps a running water fountain and a litter box for him to do his business inside while she and Max are out of town.
See? Litter box?
Trash cat.
Only, once I slip back inside, two things happen: Gus bolts past me as the door leading to the alley behind the bakery closes behind me, and while I find my phone instantly where I left it, it takes one look at the pristine counter to see that the keys are gone.
I know I have to go after Gus. I’ll never forgive myself if I lose Honey’s rat, and though he took off with more speed than I would’ve given him credit for, I’m confident I’ll catch up to him if I turn and bolt after him.
Especially since I have the sinking suspicion that some other sticky fingered critter might’ve ran off with the keys.
I’m halfway out the door and into the alley when I have the distinct memory of something glittering and golden going in the trash bag.
Shit. Gus doesn’t have them, does he? I threw the damn things away myself.
They were on the counter and I was just grabbing whatever I could, and that’s exactly what I did.
Of course the one day Honey trusts me to behave like a responsible adult, I accidentally went on to toss the trash bag with the bakery keys inside of it into the dumpster behind the building—and the dumpster is full of at least fifteen bags that look exactly like that one.
On the plus side, Gus stopped his flight for freedom directly in front of the dumpster. His nose is twitching wildly, his tail lashing, his bristly dark grey fur on end as he starts to climb up the metal corner.
Technically, I don’t need the keys. There isn’t a lock in Moonburrow I can’t pick, and Honey changed the back door lock three times before she gave up and realized that there’s no keeping Roxy Kane out.
Especially when free pastries are on the line.
Does that mean I want to admit to Honey I was careless enough to throw away her keys when she trusted me?
Ah, well. Only one way to get them back.
Dumpsters don’t bother me. Maybe because Crystal ensured that I spent more than my fair share of time inside of them or, you know, because I’m a raccoon and I dive into them for fun whenever I can.
People think calling us trash pandas is cute. Back home, it never sounded cute when others said it about me, and that was one of the nicer things they would say.
I know you raccoons and your sticky fingers…
I shake my head. Keys, Rox. Get the keys.
No point in shifting. This is the dumpster for Dough You Believe in Magic only. I know exactly what kind of trash to expect. So maybe I get some batter on my boots or some more flour. They’ll scrub clean—
What the fuck?
Like I said. Dumpsters don’t bother Roxy. That’s why I grabbed the pitted metal handle, hopped up, and basically tossed myself feet-first into the trash bags right as Gus reached the mouth of the open dumpster.
But when my boots land on something that’s definitely not a trash bag, my stomach drops straight through to the pavement under the dumpster.