PROLOGUE #2
“If I could projectile vomit on command, it would be a superpower which would only be useful in this exact moment,” my words are deadpan.
But I mean every single one.
He makes a strangled sound that could almost be a laugh. Almost.
When I hazard a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, he’s looking at me with something like amusement in his brown eyes.
They always remind me of melted chocolate.
His mouth, however, is like one of those gag jellybeans that are all gross flavors.
It’s why we don’t talk much and I prefer to avoid him as much as possible.
“Last, but not least, Playboy,” comes from the speakers and I startle slightly.
The strange thing is that I don’t feel the need to run away from the crowd anymore. Not as strongly at least. Maybe those breathing exercises kicked in.
Uh huh. Maybe.
Playboy struts onto the stage, his arms are up in the air while soaking up every single cheer from the crowd. He’s the exact opposite of me.
While I want to run, he walks out there like he’s already won and everyone else needs to catch up.
I huff and roll my eyes before crossing my arms. He’s so fucking cocky. Now, I’m considering the whole puking thing all over again. He’d deserve it.
He glances back at me, a smirk curling his lips, and winks.
Fucking winks.
It makes me want to claw his eyes out.
His beautiful, chocolate brown eyes.
The fucking asshole.
I try to force my gaze away, but then the contest begins and I can’t look away from him.
Every single cake being devoured on stage is one I made with my own hands; a simple round cake with light frosting. Playboy inhales it.
A minute and twenty seconds has never been so long or so slow in my life.
The entire time my jaw is on the floor, and I barely stop myself from cheering along with the crowd.
When he licks his fingers clean of the last bit of frosting, I finally manage to look away.
If my cheeks heat from the whistles coming from the crowd, I ignore it.
Playboy is playing it up as the announcer gets the crowd cheering even louder for him. His voice booms as he says, “How about a round of applause for Lara Champman, owner of Bunz Out, for sponsoring tonight’s event.”
He motions for me to join them out on stage, and I straighten my spine and step out. Not because I want to. But because my daughter is watching.
She knows how much I hate things like this. I hope she learns this lesson well—sometimes you have to do things you hate, and it’s okay to not like it.
There’s no doubt in my mind that I look like a newly born fawn right now. I give a small wave and people cheer. It does nothing to help me feel better about the situation.
“That’s my mama,” Vanessa shouts. I find her easily in the crowd and feel my face relax slightly and the smile on my face loses some of the horror and terror I was trying to mask.
“Come on, get together for a picture with the winner,” the announcer sounds gleeful, as if the suggestion is seismic. I have to force myself not to glare at the man while my body goes rigid at the thought.
Before I can make some sort of excuse and run the other way with my tail tucked between my legs, Playboy is standing next to me. He throws his arm around my shoulders while pumping his fist and waving at the crowd with the other.
He leans in while his smokey scent curls around me sinisterly. “Gotta say, cupcake,” I can hear the derision in the nickname in his whisper, “the cake was dry. I think if it was moister, I could have shaved off at least five seconds.”
Rage fills me. It’s not an emotion I’m unfamiliar with.
Feeling anger that might as well be molten lava is common when you grow up with a sister like mine.
One who always leaves behind messes. One who always seems to get away with it while no one cares if the scars left behind were meant for me to bear in the first place.
One who never takes responsibility. One who has never been asked to be small.
Playboy is the only other person who has elicited this feeling in me.
He always seems to know where the bruise is.
The smile on my face freezes and cracks while I curl my hand into a fist and hope I don’t swing at him. It’s tempting; very fucking tempting. Just thinking about the satisfaction that I would feel decking him is intoxicating.
But my daughter is watching.
Also, I don’t think it would make any difference in the way he treats me.
Without saying a word, I shrug off his arm and wave again to the crowd. I wave until I step down off the stage and head straight toward Vanessa. My girl is bouncing on her toes with excitement written all over her face.
It’s moments like this when I’m reminded that she’s still a little girl. It’s hard to remember when it becomes very clear just how close to the teenage years we are.
She practically vaults toward me, but I’m ready for her and catch her easily. Before I can conveniently forget our new fish friend, she’s steering me back toward the table where Ariel is waiting.
Her happy chatter while her fishbowl is cradled in her arms helps to cool some of my anger. I don’t look back to see Playboy celebrating his victory. I definitely don’t look to see if a club whore is draped over him.
A particular club whore.
I shiver with disgust as we make our way out of the fair. When people call out or say hello, I give a polite wave and smile but keep us moving.
If I stop, I’ll go hunt Playboy down and give him a piece of my mind. Dry cake? Has he lost his fucking mind?
My cake is not dry.
It’s moist as fuck.
Something shifts in Vanessa the moment we’re ensconced in our car. I feel it the moment it happens and I look at her in the rearview mirror. She’s looking down at Ariel and watching the fish swim in lazy circles.
The way her eyebrows are pulled together, and the way one side of her mouth is twisted tells me she’s thinking hard about something. I don’t interrupt and I don’t push her to do it faster. She’ll speak up in her own time; she always does.
Just as I start the car and take a deep breath, trying to shake off the dredges of my anger, Vanessa pipes up. “He said something rude to you, didn’t he?”
I glance in the mirror again, ready to tell her he didn’t or to play dumb and ask her who she’s talking about. The moment I look into her blue eyes, the same ones I share with my sister, the words die in my throat.
“He said the cake was dry,” I grumble.
Hearing the words out loud make me feel a little ridiculous. Sure, he’s completely wrong and my bakery only thrives because I make a product worth buying, but the insult is juvenile. At best.
Vanessa’s face scrunches up and she huffs, “That’s a bold-faced lie.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Not just at her words, but at her indignation. We’ve had each other’s backs for ten years now and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“He’s kind of a jerk to you,” she pouts. I have to agree, but I keep it to myself as silence stretches between us. “Is it because of Lola?” Her question is soft, but there are so many emotions wrapped up in it.
Hurt.
Uncertainty.
Resentment.
Frustration.
Fear.
A certain kind of resolve she shouldn’t have at her age.
I don’t hear the hope anymore. I don’t hear the want for something to be different.
It breaks my heart.
Even worse, I have no idea how to answer her question. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that the only reason Playboy treats me the way he does is because of Lola.
My sister has broken Vanessa’s heart enough. This shouldn’t be just another time she’s involved in my daughter’s pain.
I nod, unable to lie to her, and murmur, “I’m pretty sure it is.”
Her heart breaks in real time. Again. Right in front of me. And there’s nothing I can do about it.