Page 4 of Playboy’s Purgatory

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.