Chapter 3
Vivian
I grit my teeth as I scrub the damp rag over the already-clean counter. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming.
Loud heavy metal music drowns out the smooth easy listening tunes animating the cupcake shop. The photos on the wall jump in their frames as the whole room vibrates. The barbershop’s speakers are definitely right on the other side of this wall.
Through very meticulous customer profile analysis, I was able to determine that the Broken Cupcake’s ideal customer is a college-aged single female in search of a quiet place to enjoy a warm drink and a sweet treat while trying to study for midterms or complete school assignments. It’s all clearly spelled out in our business plan. So we do our best to keep the atmosphere of the bakery comfortable and laid-back, with low, relaxing music and mellow, calming scents. But ever since the Rusty Razor Barbershop opened up next door, our feng shui has gone to hell in a hand basket.
Yesterday, I witnessed a three-man brawl in the parking lot right outside the front window. Then, there was that hulking degenerate who scared me senseless when I walked in on him peeing against the side of the building while I was taking out the trash last night. Plus, the row of motorcycles constantly lining the curb is starting to become intimidating for some of our regulars.
And of course, there’s also the fact that the shop is run by satan himself—Clinton Alvarez. Lean muscles, brooding eyes and sinful hair I sort of want to slide my fingers through but ultimately, a vile person.
This used to be a good town. A place where people raised their children without a second thought about security, a place where people forgot to lock their doors because they felt so safe. Now all of a sudden Copper Heights is being taken over by sketchy, leather-loving motorcycle guys with broken noses. The real estate value of this town has probably plunged 50 percent in the two weeks since the Rusty Razor opened its doors. Okay, maybe I’m being overdramatic but come on! The situation is really starting to get me hot under the collar.
Sadie—who fails to understand that her job description does not include performing impromptu song and dance routines for the customers—wiggles her butt in time with the obnoxiously loud rock music as she boxes up some donuts for a mean-looking biker with a freshly-coiffed Mohawk. She bats her eyes at him and speaks in a low, flirty voice.
This is just pure treachery.
Rule number one of intra-strip-mall, corporate/commercial warfare is ‘do not fraternize with known associates of the enemy’. I don’t get why that’s so hard to understand. She’s my employee. She’s supposed to be on my side. Instead, she’s making googly eyes at Clinton’s friends.
“Would you stop that?” I hiss after she stretches the man’s change across the counter to him and he marches out the door.
She blinks innocently at me. “Sorry, Boss. I just love that song. My dad used to play it all the time when I was little. Nostalgia, y’know?” A smile pulls her mouth so wide that the little, silver hoop in her bottom lip threatens to pop out.
“You need to stop flirting with the customers,” I chide. “It’s completely unprofessional.”
She rakes her long, tattooed fingers through her blonde ponytail and props one hip against the counter. “You’re right.” She gives me a placating tap on the shoulder. “I won’t flirt with the customers anymore but—” she lifts her pointer finger toward the ceiling in a show of objection. ”—I call dibs on the moody barber next door. The man looks like he’s a beast in bed.”
Reese laughs as she pops out of the kitchen with cakes to refill the display. “Sorry girl. I’m pretty sure that the moody barber has the hots for Vivian. You should have seen the way he looked at her yesterday when we ran into him in the parking lot. It was hot enough to melt an ice cream sandwich in the dead of an Alaskan winter.”
How poetic.
Sadie lifts both eyebrows and then smirks. “He wants to bite that cupcake, huh?” She makes a crude snapping motion with her teeth.
My sister grins over her shoulder as she arranges the treats in the glass case. “He definitely wants to bite that cupcake.” She flashes Sadie a wink.
The cashier wiggles her shoulders. “And he wants to lick the frosting, too.”
“Personally, I think she should let him.” Reese throws back her head and laughs gleefully. “The man is devilishly hot.”
Surprise, surprise—Sadie agrees. “Tell me about it. His ass in those leather pants is the eighth deadly sin.”
I’m becoming increasingly annoyed. "I don't care how handsome that smug face is. I just want to punch it.” I ball up my skinny fists and slam them into the counter. Ouch! He probably wouldn’t even flinch if I punched him. With all those taut muscles and those scarred knuckles, he looks like he’s been in a few scraps in his lifetime. And he has a short temper. There’s this look in his eye that says he’s always one misstep away from a fight.
"Are you sure you don't like him?” my sister asks. “'Cause you really let him get under your skin."
Sadie’s eyes dart away as she mumbles. “And you could definitely use a man like him under your skirt.” Reese tries to give her a stern look but eventually the two of them dissolve into giggles.
I glare at them. “Remember what we talked about, Sadie? That little thing called professionalism?” She doesn’t care. She’s grinning like a mad woman. I turn my wrath on my sister. “And Reese, would you stop enabling her?”
My sister watches me with dancing eyes. “But seriously, you like him. No?”
A framed photo of a bushel of apples jumps off the vibrating wall and by some miracle, it doesn’t shatter into a million pieces when it hits the counter. Neither Reese nor Sadie even blink as they wait for my reaction. Are we seriously having this conversation?
I scoff as I pick up the picture frame and rise onto my toes trying to hook it back on the wall. "Of course I don’t like him. He's a dreadful, grotty, infuriating person. He has absolutely no manners, he never closes the dumpster out back…And he’s not all that cute." Very satisfied with my rebuttal, I nod my head and smile to myself as I take a few steps back to inspect the photo. Good one, Viv.
But when I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, the girls don’t look impressed at all. In fact, they both look sort of tense. “Uh, maybe you should stop saying those things…” Reese suggests in a low, panicky voice.
Sadie agrees with overenthusiastic awkwardness. “Yeah, stop saying those things. Stop saying all things.” I roll my eyes. Whose side are they on anyway? I’m not the bad guy here.
The stupid picture frame is crooked. I reach up again to adjust it. “Is this an alternate universe? Somewhere where I get persecuted for having standards? Where I get vilified for not being desperate to get roughed up in bed by a mean, rude, inked-up thug? I mean, imagine what it would be like to have sex with a brute like Clinton Alvarez.” My volume increases as I become more and more riled up. “I’m sure he doesn’t know how to touch a woman in a way that makes her feel cared for and appreciated, like a lady.” I walk backwards until I bump into the cash register, my eyes still assessing the frame that’s still lopsided on the wall. “Sex with him would probably be all pressed up against a wall, ripping each other’s clothes off and clawing at each other’s flesh…Sorry but, that’s not my style.”
Even as I say the words, I feel heat coursing up my neck at the thought. I’m sort of breathless. Inwardly, I scold myself. What the hell is wrong with me, getting all hot and bothered over that ill-mannered brute?
“Uh, Viv…” Reese’s eyes are extra wide now.
Sadie tips her head suggestively, wearing a horrified look on her face. “Please stop talking. Please.”
Uh-oh…
I spin around slowly, cringing from my hair follicles all the way down to my toenails as my eyes connect with Clinton’s stormy brown irises. My mouth opens and closes, flapping wordlessly.
I instantly have a toothache. Several toothaches, actually.
“Welcome to the Broken Cupcake.” Sadie nudges me out of the way and I stumble away from the cash.
My gaze meets Reese’s at the other end of the counter. Her expression is horrified and apologetic. Sorry, she mouths across the distance. I swear I want to kill her right now.
I simmer in a pot of mortification while Sadie takes Clinton’s order—an extra-large dark roast, black and unsweetened. When I glance back at him, he’s looking at me. His gaze is intense, only deepening my guilt and embarrassment. I want to hide in the cupboard under the espresso machine for all of eternity.
Like a good employee, Sadie tries to upsell the customer. “Would you like to try one of our decadent cupcakes?” she asks. “Our special this week is strawberry-lemon. I’d be glad to give you a sample.”
“No thanks.” His bitter glare is still on me as he speaks. I feel the vibration of his raspy voice deep in my belly.
“How about our selection of organic teas?” Sadie is suddenly a staunch and committed participant of the workforce, delivering recommendations with competent professionalism. “We have Heavenly Hibiscus, made from a blend of black currents, elderberries and hibiscus, of course. Steeped to perfection in hot filtered water for exactly seven minutes."
He tears his eyes away from me and tilts his head to the side, throwing her an irritated glare. "Just the coffee."
She smiles and scuttles away like a little mouse, grabbing a takeout cup as she goes. So hot, she mouths to me as she moves toward the coffee maker.
While Sadie is pouring the coffee, a thunderous base kicks up next-door as the song changes and the photo frames on the wall jump particularly hard. Clinton’s eyes narrow as he observes it.
Good. Maybe he’ll turn down the damn music when he gets back to his shop.
When my now-devoted employee hands him the drink, he pays and thanks her, then tosses the change into the tip jar. He moves toward the door but his eyes find mine one last time, branding my skin with his venom and animosity.
Sadie’s voice rings out sweetly as he grabs the door handle. “Have a great day. And be sure to come back for your free coffee refill.”
When he steps out of the building, I finally take a breath.
“Uh, Sadie, we don’t give free refills anymore,” my sister informs her.
The cashier huffs. “Well, since Viv just gave the hot, cranky barber a verbal beat-down, I’m afraid that we do.”
My cheeks are still blazing and my heart is beating recklessly fast. “Thanks for having my back, by the way,” I shoot at my sister.
She hitches a brow and folds her arms over her chest. “I tried to give you a heads up but you were so busy flapping away at the mouth that you didn’t notice.”
“Grrr....” My chest rumbles with frustration. She’s right. I have no one to blame for my messy bout of verbal diarrhea but myself. I said some mean things. And he heard every word of it. My mother would be so ashamed of me. She raised me right. She taught me that bad-talking other people is in poor taste. She also taught me that when you make a mistake, you own up to it and you make things right. I bite down on my bottom lip and cringe. “Maybe I should go apologize.”
Reese nods forcefully. “You should. We have to cross the guy in the alley almost every day. It’s the neighborly thing to do…Plus, he’s a teeny bit scary.”
“Exactly,” Sadie adds.
I pull in a deep breath. I have to take the moral high ground in this silly rivalry that’s developing between Clinton and me. It’s the right thing to do. Yes, I’ll have to swallow my pride, but I’m not above that. I’m a mature adult with a solid character. Saying sorry is a simple extension of goodwill. I can do this I can do this.
With a decided nod, I untie my apron and hang it on the hook in the hallway. “Okay. I’m gonna go apologize.” I blot my cheeks with a napkin and smooth down my hair with my fingers before straightening the hem of my vintage cap-sleeved dress and checking my reflection in the display case.
Sadie tsks. “Dude, you’re not going to audition for America’s Next Top Model. Just hop on over next door and get it over with.”
I roll my eyes and make a mental note to research whether “pisses me off” is sufficient legal grounds for dismissing an employee under Illinois law. I take nervous steps toward the exit. My pulse is racing. My fingers shake ever-so-slightly. I can do this I can do this I can do. I repeat the mantra to myself as the image of Clinton’s loathing expression flashes in my mind.
As I set my hand on the door handle, I jolt. The whole room shakes as the chorus of AC/DC’s Shook Me All Night Long vibrates the walls. The music is louder than before. Louder than ever. One of the pictures pops off the wall and swipes two other frames on the way down. Sadie and Reese shriek as glass rains like confetti from behind the counter. Startled, I clutch my hand over my chest.
My head snaps in the direction of the window and I see Clinton swaggering out of the barbershop. His movements halt on the pavement. He brings the coffee cup to his lips and takes a long swallow. I watch the motion of his bobbing Adam’s apple. When he lowers the cup, his eyes are focused on the window of the bakery. I swear he’s looking right at me.
My eyes travel back to the vibrating wall. He did it deliberately!
He tosses the coffee cup into a nearby trashcan and right before he pulls his helmet onto his skull, he flashes the most self-satisfied smirk. Then he hops onto his bike and cranks it before gunning out of the parking lot.
I’m seething. That jerk!
Historians, take note. This is how the Great Civil War of the Copper Heights Strip Mall began.