Page 93 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
Some people have support animals. I have support men. They bury bodies with me, or for me. Depends on the day.
And now we make cupcakes.
I love the weekends when all the boys are here.
Blake’s shirtless on purpose again. He’s outside “fixing” something that probably doesn’t need fixing, some loose hinge or imaginary squeak in the bakery bench. The man could turn a screwdriver into a thirst trap. Every time he leans over, the hem of his shorts tries to defect. I’m not complaining. Let the neighborhood moms clutch their pearls. We sell more lemon tarts when Blake sweats in public.
Carson’s parked at the counter like he owns the place. Technically, he’s “here for breakfast.” Realistically, he’s eatingoff my plate. And sometimes off my thighs. He’s already unbuttoned the top of his shirt like he’s halfway to either a crime scene or a blowjob. Possibly both. Depends on whether we run out of coffee.
Edgar’s behind the glass, composing pastries like they’re symphonies. His apron says Scones Before Bones in gothic script. He irons it. Of course he does. He’s piping blood-orange ganache into tartlets with surgical precision and that little smirk that means he’s either thinking about murdering someone or fingerfucking me in the pantry between batches.
This is peace. This is everything I didn’t know I needed. A bakery that smells like sugar and danger. A garden fed by bad decisions. Men who don’t cringe when the knives come out, who hand me sharper ones with a kiss and a wink.
The bell over the door chimes.
I don’t even look up at first. Probably Mrs. DeWitt for her almond croissants. Or Timmy, the high school burnout who gets discount snickerdoodles for washing our cars.
But then I hear it.
“Damn, girl. You should use that mouth for more than eating.”
Ah. I turn.
He’s not from here. Too smug. Too shiny. The kind of man who thinks he’s doing me a favor by ogling my ass and being loud about it. He’s got finance-bro energy and the moral backbone of overcooked pasta.
Carson tilts his head, eyebrows knitting. “You new in town, or just terminally stupid?”
The man snorts. “It’s not illegal to call it like I see it.”
Blake, now inside, still shirtless and holding a wrench, grins. “Not illegal. Just dumb as shit.”
“Bet your cupcakes are as sweet as your ass,” he says, ignoring Blake, then winks like his soul is made of gym selfies and restraining orders.
Edgar appears beside me like a very elegant ghost. His smile is polite. His eyes are not. “You look like a man of taste. Let me make you something… really special.”
The customer hesitates.
He should.
But he doesn’t leave. He follows Edgar into the kitchen like a dumb little lemming. Some people don’t understand grace when it’s handed to them in the shape of a second chance.
That’s fine. He’ll understand ash.
I look back at my box of cupcakes and tie another ribbon. Another pickup. Another perfect day. The air smells like cinnamon and quiet violence.
I slide the cupcake box across the counter just as the bell rings again. Different customer this time. Local. Polite. Leaves with a smile and a cherry crumble.
No one in this town would be stupid enough to disrespect me or my men.
Not anymore.
Carson brushes past me to refill his coffee, fingers grazing my lower back. Blake winks at me through the front window, all golden sweat and deltoids, like some kind of himbo garden gnome. Edgar hums from the kitchen, a melody I don’t recognize but want to taste.
This is the life I built.
One grave at a time. One lemon bar at a time.
The Definitive Crumb glows soft in the afternoon light. There’s rosemary and basil growing by the steps. And a rose bush that smells like vindication.
There’ll be more assholes.
There always are.
Let them come.
I’ve got a bone saw, an apron, cookies in the oven, and three men who’ll bury the bodies before the timer dings.
