KMC

by Leolucasdaddy

The Perfect Mix Or A Recipe For Disaster? (g!p)

5. 5

—Poke the Agitated Alice—

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LISA

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"The books look good so far." My grandfather pushes his glasses up his nose, bushy white eyebrows furrowed, shoulders hunched as he leans in close and leafs through the printed reports. Being in his eighties means everything gets lost in translation when he's looking at a computer screen with the exact same numbers, so I print things out for him, even though it makes forests cry.

He rolls his shoulders back, sitting up straighter as he looks around the bar. His eyes crinkle in the corners, the lines in his face deepening with his wistful smile. "The renovations look good, too."

I lean on the bar, pride choking me up, so my reply comes out a little gruff. "Thanks Gramps." It was hard for him when I started changing things, so he hadn't come in much for a while, but he's back to popping in almost every other day.

He pats my arm with his big, knobby fingers. Gramps and I are about the same height, although he's lost a couple of inches with age. His white shock of hair is slicked back and styled neatly, and as usual he's wearing a white button-down and a pair of black dress pants. "Back in my day the only guys who decorated their skin were the ones who were in the Navy or spent some time behind bars." He tells me this pretty much every single time he sees me, which is often, especially now that I'm helping run his bar. Mostly it's a joke. Although the first time he saw my sleeves he asked me why I couldn't hang my art on my walls like regular people.

"I can make you an appointment, get you set up with your own art if you're jealous of mine. We could get matching ones."

Gramps snorts a laugh. "I don't even like it when a pretty nurse takes my blood. Not gonna have some guy coming at me with a bunch o' buzzing needles."

I rap on the bar and point a finger at him. "Just remember that when you tell a nurse she's pretty nowadays it's called sexual harassment."

"It's really a woman's world, isn't it? Can't say we didn't have it comin' or that Dottie didn't tell me it would happen. God rest her soul." He makes the sign of the cross, and I do the same.

Grams passed away a little over a year ago, and for a while there I was worried Gramps was going to follow in her footsteps. They'd been together for more than sixty years and had been working side by side every single day since they met. In all the time they'd been married, they'd never spent a night apart. Sure, Gramps would go out with his friends and play poker, and Grams would have "knitting" nights with her friends—which were really gin martini socials with a few balls of wool and sets of knitting needles lying around for decoration—but there wasn't a single night in over sixty years that they didn't sleep beside each other.

I'm not sure if I'd consider that romantic, clingy, or an extreme case of codependency. Regardless, they loved and bickered fiercely. So when Gramps woke one morning to find that she'd passed in her sleep, I wasn't so sure he was going to be able to manage the world without her. And more selfishly, I worried about how I would handle it if Gramps couldn't deal with the loss.

My dad—his oldest son—and my mom were killed in a car accident when I was twenty. I was old enough to survive on my own, but it still shook the foundation of my life. I'd always been close to my grandparents, so they stepped into the role of surrogate parents. Which is how I ended up back here, running the show instead of just bussing tables and tending bar—although I still do those things, too.

I'd been working my way up the ladder in finance, because that's where the money is, but it isn't my passion. Not even close. It was a nine-to-five grind that lined my pockets but gave me zero in the way of job satisfaction.

For the past several years I've wanted to open my own brewery, but to do that I need cash. So I went to Gramps for a loan, hoping to circumvent the bank's high interest rates.

Having immigrated from Scotland to America as a kid and growing up in a middle-class family that sometimes struggled to make ends meet when they first came to America, he's a big fan of working for what you get. Which means he didn't just hand over the money. Not a big surprise.

However, he offered me an opportunity. The Manoban Cap has been in our family for three generations, and he can no longer handle the responsibility of managing the place on his own. Plus, it was in serious need of an overhaul. He would fund the renovations and if I could breathe some life back into the pub, he would loan me the start-up money for the brewery—no interest. It would give me the experience I needed running a business and hopefully keep his pride and joy from going belly up.

So far, I'm keeping up my end of the bargain.

"I have to admit, I wasn't real keen on the axe-throwing business, but it looks like once the renovations are paid off, you'll be turning a real profit there, as long as no one hacks off an arm, anyway." He winks. "It's a real good start, girl."

"Thanks. And there are some pretty strict rules around the axe throwing, so everyone's limbs should stay safely attached to their bodies."

"That's generally where ya want them, eh?" He drums his fingers on the bar top, his grin wry. "And I appreciate that ya kept the wall o' photographs. Means a lot to this old man."

"Well, I might not have been there for all of them, but they mean a lot to me, too." I know it's been hard for Gramps to have to step down from running the bar. It's been his second home for most of his life, and all the memories in it contain Grams.

My phone lights up with new social media alerts. We both glance at the screen.

"What's that all about? You get yourself a new girlfriend? You started dating one of the ladies you hired?" His expression brightens and I laugh.

"Once again, asking my employees out is on the list of no-no's these days. Too many potential complications."

Gramps throws his hands in the air. "Dottie and I would n'er 'ave gotten married if we'd worried about complications, now would we?"

"This is true. However, my employees are college students."

"Ah well, you're bound to meet a lass eventually, especially working 'ere."

I decide to veer the topic away from my dating life, since it's not very exciting these days. Besides, if I let him keep going he'll eventually get on me about settling down before I'm too old.

It's not that I don't want a partner, but from what I've seen, you can't be married to your job and married to another person unless you're like my Gramps and Grams who worked together. Otherwise, the career or the partner ends up neglected.

And right now, my career is paramount. I have an obligation to Gramps, and the brewery is actually within my grasp. Besides, I haven't been able to meet anyone since I'm always at The Manoban Cap.

At least this is the justification I give anyone who asks about my relationship status. Honestly, losing my parents at twenty was rough, and that was a kind of pain I wanted to avoid. It didn't help that I'd had a girlfriend when they passed away, and that relationship hit some major turbulence, eventually crashing and burning because I couldn't handle the loss and she didn't know how to help me grieve. It wasn't her fault, we were college kids, but it sure did have an impact.

Relationships make a person vulnerable to pain, and losing my parents and the end of that relationship was more anguish than I could deal with. Watching Gramps degrade quickly after Grams passed was another reason to avoid getting serious with anyone.

"For now I'll focus on the pub, which reminds me, I haven't told you about the golden opportunity that might put us on the map and make it rain."

His mouth turns down. "Is this some young person slang I don't understand?"

"Uh yeah. 'Make it rain' means make lots of money. There's this huge YouTuber—"

"YouTuber?" More frowning ensues.

"Yeah, it's a woman who makes videos—"

"Videos?" Gramps's eyes go wide, and he gives me a disapproving look. "Not the dirty kind. Ya won't be using my Dottie's bar to be makin' those naughty films."

I choke back a mouthful of coffee and cough into my elbow. "No, Gramps. Just videos, not of sex. Why in the world would you think I'd do something like that?"

His eyes shift away and he shrugs, then takes a big gulp of his beer. "I was looking something up on the computer this morning and you know how it likes to fill in words for you sometimes. Well, it took me to a site with all kinds of things no one should be looking at at nine in the morning. Felt like I needed to go to confession after that."

"Not the best way to start the day, huh?"

He shakes his head. "Those images get stuck in the brain, they do. Anyway, you were saying something about this YouTuber?"

"Right, yes." I smack the bar, happy to move the subject away from my grandfather accidentally stumbling on a porn site. "She has a channel."

"Like a TV channel?"

"Yeah, kinda. I mean, they even have commercials that you have to watch—"

"Can't you DVR and fast-forward through the junk?"

I introduced Gramps to DVR back when I lived with him and Grams after my parents passed and it's probably his favorite thing in the world. Apart from this bar and the memory of Grams. "Not on YouTube. Anyway, this woman, Tori Taylor—"

"Sounds like one of those dirty film stars."

"I promise she's not a dirty film star. Anyway, she has a channel with over ten million subscribers."

"Geez, that's a lot of people. She do neat tricks or something? Is she a dancer?"

"No, Gramps. She's not a dancer. Just let me finish." I wait to see if he's going to interrupt again, but he stays silent, for now. "Anyway, she runs a 'Best of' feature on her channel. Best products, best places to visit, that kind of thing. She's running a Best Bar in the Pacific Northwest competition and The Manoban Cap is entered." I pull up the video on my phone and play it for Gramps, then show him The Manoban Cap nominations before I shift to Instagram where he can check out all the other bars that have been nominated, too.

He pauses my scroll a few pictures down. "Isn't that the place next door? Buttercream and Booze?"

"Yup. Sure is." Of course she's been nominated, likely by every single human being she knows. And despite her super prickly attitude, apparently she has a lot of friends because she's clogging up the feed with all the damn nominations.

Gramps takes my phone and starts scrolling. Then he hits her profile link and keeps on flipping through pictures. He lets out a low whistle and holds the phone out two inches from my face. "Have you met her?"

"Sure have."

"She's quite the looker," Gramps mutters.

"I guess, if you like the whole June Cleaver get-up."

Gramps cocks a brow. "Does nae matter what she's wearing. Could be a burlap sack and she'd still have the face of an angel."

Gramps isn't wrong. She's stunning in a very classic, wholesome way. I have to admit, as unconventional as her clothing choices may be, they also make her alluring. She's a mass of contradictions. Her entire look screams sweet and retro, but she's a real take-no-prisoners spitfire. And I have to admit I kind of like how easy it is to get under her skin. It's addicting, really.

The flyers were meant to be a joke and so was the fake poop. I'd watched her step in it the day before and thought the best way to clear the air would be to make light of it. Apparently Alice and I have very different ideas as to what is funny and what isn't. She didn't seem to appreciate the fake turd. Or the anger management flyer, or the lavender oil—who doesn't love the smell of that? And I didn't so much as get a thank you or a chuckle over the reconfigured unicorn martini glass. Which I put a lot of time and effort into for my own personal satisfaction.

I thought she'd laugh and soften up, but that isn't at all what's happened. Then again, what would I expect of someone who'd rather mix drinks with fourteen freaking ingredients instead of pouring a nice hoppy beer instead.

"Does she own the place next door, or just work there?" Gramps asks.

"I think it's hers? She runs it, that much I know."

"Well, it's been empty a long time. Every single business that crops up there ends up going under within the year. Here's hoping she's got better luck than the rest. I'm guessing she got a deal on the rent with all the bad juju coming outta that place."

I'm not a big believer in things like "bad juju" or luck. Places fail or succeed for a lot of reasons, not because the businesses that occupied the same location prior tanked. Regardless, the fact that she probably got a deal on rent tells me something about grumpy Alice in Wonderland. She's clearly a fighter and savvy. I've got my work cut out for me if I'm going to beat her as The Best Bar in the Pacific Northwest.

Was it the smartest way to handle things by piggybacking on her Grand Opening? Probably not, and I hadn't intentionally copied her, but it definitely ended up working in my favor. Good thing I like friendly competition.

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"Live bands, they're always popular." Chan, my fulltime bartender, polishes a glass while checking out his reflection in the mirror. "I'd be happy to be the first live performance if you can get Lana to bartend."

He's good at his job, and the women love him, which is why I deal with his inflated ego. He's also my twenty-three-year-old cousin who's still waiting for his big break to rock stardom, hence the bartending gig. "So you can serenade her with songs you've written professing your undying love?"

"Women eat that shit up."

"Too bad you can't date her since you work with her." It's more of a reminder than anything.

"Why are you always such a buzzkill? This is a bar, not some office."

"Why are you always such a fuckboy?"

He smirks. "I'm surprised you even know what that means, old woman."

"I'm thirty, not collecting my pension."

"Whatever. I'm in my sexual prime and I plan to capitalize on that for as long as my dick will allow."

"Just not with any of the women who work here and preferably not the patrons, either."

He rolls his eyes. "What's the point of being a bartender if I can't use it to get laid?"

It's my turn to give him a look. "Okay, first of all, think about what you're saying, Chan. Do you really want to entice drunk, not fully coherent women into your bed? Consider the potential ramifications of that. Carefully."

His entire face scrunches up. "When you put it that way…"

"Consent is best sought when sober." I'm aware that I am, in fact, being a huge buzzkill—but for good reason. Serving alcohol is a big responsibility, especially in an establishment that has been in my family for years. I'm all for having fun…within reason. And twenty-one-year-olds aren't known for high-level thinking skills when they're under the influence.

If Chan and Lana end up dating, there's really not much I can do about it, but by telling them a no-dating-coworkers-and-customers policy exists, I figure I'm at least putting the fear of unemployment into them. Although, I will say that as much of a player as Chan presents himself to be, he doesn't like to disappoint people. So I'm banking on that to keep him in line.

I rap on the bar top. "Anyway, back to live bands. Won't we need sound equipment for that?"

"Yeah, but I have two sets at home, so I can bring one to keep here if you want. Most bands have their own equipment, but they're not all created equal." He smirks. "Plus, we can host a karaoke night. Everyone thinks they're a singer when they're drunk."

"Hell yes, they do," I agree. And I can just imagine Alice in Wonderland throwing an epic fit over it.

"Look at how excited you are." Chan mirrors what I'm assuming is my wide smile. "You win this thing and you definitely better credit me with some of the ideas."

"It's a long shot. Literally hundreds of bars have been nominated."

"Yeah, but this one has history and a great story. I vote we start posting about our grandparents. Tori Taylor ships pretty much every famous couple out there."

I frown, feeling like I'm missing something. "Ships what?"

"She's always posting about couple goals. Anyways, it's something else we can post about if we need to, you know, to pull in the lady crowd."

"Right, yeah." I don't want to have to worry about things like couple goals and romance. I just want laid-back and easygoing. A nice chilled-out environment where people come and drink pints and enjoy conversation or sports or whatever, as opposed to my uptight neighbor and her perfect prissy cupcakes and fruity drinks. "I'll get some graphics made so we can start promoting the live band. You think this Saturday will work for you?"

"Yeah, I can get the guys together for Saturday."

"And you'll be ready to perform?"

The bell over the door chimes, and a group of women who look to be in their early twenties walk in.

"I was born ready." Chan winks and turns to the group of women. "Evening, ladies. Looking thirsty."

I shake my head and leave him to his flirting. It's after seven and I have yet to make a stop next door for my daily dose of sweet and sour. My neighbor might be an annoying pain in the ass, but those cupcakes are addictive. I'm starting to wonder if they're laced with something.

I stop by every night before closing—she shuts down around nine, but stays open later on Friday and Saturday. It has to make for insanely long days for her. But her hours aren't my problem. Besides, I pull long days, too.

I nab a coupon from behind the bar. "I'll be back in a few," I call out as I pass Chan chatting up the group of women who now span the four barstools directly in front of the draft taps.

He tips his chin up at me and goes back to checking IDs as I push through the door and step outside in the waning evening sunshine. It's still warm and balmy for early September. I miss the nights where I used to have time to sit outside on my balcony and enjoy watching the sun set. Now I'm always here, at the bar, watching the light fade through the windows.

I'll get that back someday, though. For now, I remind myself that there's a bigger plan and a few missed sunsets aren't the end of the world if I'm able to pursue my dream.

When I was young—in my teens, and long before I was of legal drinking age—my dad used to dabble in home brewing. I learned from a very early age to appreciate the science behind creating superior craft beers. It had always been a hobby for my dad and somewhere along the way it became a passion for me. Now, aside from my grandfather, it's the final connection I have with my dad, the one thing I don't want to give up, especially as the memories of him continue to fade.

For a while money mattered more than dreams, but when Grams passed, it shifted my perspective. I needed the memories to stay fresh and I needed time with Gramps, so here I am.

I glance up at the sign I had custom made, expensive but worth it. Your storefront is your main source of advertising for passersby, and the more alluring it is the more likely people are to come in. I snicker as I pass Alice in Wonderland's sidewalk sign. Today it reads: DON'T BE BITTER. TREAT YOURSELF TO SOMETHING SWEET!

I open the door and survey the shop. Despite it being a Tuesday, the café is busy, almost every table occupied by latte- and martini-drinking women. In the corners, young couples huddle, their textbooks lying open but ignored as their owners pick at cupcakes, their feet intertwined under the tables while they flirt.

Alice-Jennie is behind the counter, hands propped on her hips, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her dress is pale pink with a huge rainbow swirl lollipop print. The skirt flares wide; obviously there's some kind of material underneath to make it so…poofy. It accentuates her lush, curvy figure. Her hair is pulled into some kind of intricate up-do, making her look like she's stepped straight off the set of a fifties-era sitcom. She sure is an interesting woman.

Her head turns and her welcoming smile turns saccharine. "Well, if it isn't my favorite neighbor." She bats her lashes. "I've been expecting you."

My own grin widens with genuine happiness. For reasons I don't quite understand, part of me really enjoys the daily dose of snark I get from Jennie.

"Miss me, then?" I lean on the glass display case. Yes, I'm very aware it says I shouldn't. I'm also aware that the second I leave she'll be out with some environmentally friendly, lemony-smelling glass cleaner, wiping away the mark my forearm leaves behind.

She makes a guttural sound, rolls her eyes, and mutters something under her breath. I don't quite catch all of it, but I swear it sounds sexual.

I probably need to get laid.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." She keeps that smile plastered on her face, but her cheeks have flushed pink. "What can I get for you today, Lisa?"

"Dunno, what'd you recommend?"

"I'd recommend Death by Chocolate again, but we're fresh out and you always seem opposed." She taps her pink-glossed lips and hmms. They're full. A little pouty. Probably perfect for kissing.

Yup, definitely need to get laid.

"Oh! Actually, I have something special for you today."

"Special?"

"Mmm." She arches a brow and spins around, her skirt flaring impressively. There's a bow knotted at the center of her back. Even her apron is tied perfectly, which seems impossible since she can't see the back of it. Unless she has someone do it for her.

She's in the middle of retrieving something—not from the cupcake case—when a lanky guy wearing a polo that reads CUPCAKES TO GO! over his left pec appears from the back of the café.

"All set for tomorrow morning. You need anything else before I take off?" He runs a hand through his thinning hair.

She abandons the box, which I'm assuming is for me, and takes a few steps in his direction. "Thanks so much for taking care of all of this tonight instead of tomorrow morning, Yosh. I know it's going to be a busy day for you."

"Well, I wasn't going to leave you hanging." His shoulders roll back and his smile oozes pride and satisfaction.

"You're a godsend." She puts a manicured hand on his forearm. "I would've been here all night if I'd tried to pull that off on my own."

That smile of his widens further and he tips his chin down as she tips hers up. "Can't have you turning into a zombie on me."

"I appreciate your concern for my well-being and my non-zombie status." She gives his arm a squeeze and steps back. "Now you should go because it's getting late, and I don't want you to be the zombie on account of being here so late."

She turns away from this Yosh and his gaze follows her. She crosses over to the sink, turns on the tap, and lathers up her hands. She hums a tune under her breath as she rubs her palms together. She also does a hip shake.

He glances at me as he takes a step back and his expression shifts to hostility. Huh. That's interesting.

He knocks into the bussing cart, which gets Jennie's attention.

"Oh! Thank you so much for taking that to the back, Yoshi. Callie has been running off her feet all day and we'll both definitely appreciate the help."

"Oh, right, yeah, of course. Have a good night, Jennie."

"You, too."

He backs down the hall, throwing me one final glare before he disappears. I wonder if she's mentioned me to him, and if so, I'm guessing whatever she said wasn't all that pleasant. Jennie sashays across the small space, holding a plate with a single cupcake. She sets it down on the counter and pushes it toward me. "Here you go. I made this one special for you." She winks.

I glance down at the cake. There's a tiny cookie-shaped decoration on top with the phrase EAT ME in block capital letters.

I lift my gaze to hers. "You made this for me?"

She blinks once—that same, almost unnervingly placid smile plastered on her gorgeous face. Wait. Gorgeous? Since when do I find her and her odd fashion sense attractive?

"I did," she replies.

I glance back down at the cake, assessing the details more carefully. The tiny cookie looks like it's made out of candy and the letters have been painted on with an incredibly steady hand. I touch the edge, gently and with care. "What about this? Did you make this?"

"Yup. It's not laced with arsenic or anything. You can eat it without worrying about your health."

"I wasn't until you said that."

"I wouldn't risk the welfare of my entire business over you." She's still smiling, but there's a sharp edge to her tone, like a razorblade slice.

I laugh a little. "You're killing me with your kindness, Jennie."

"Are you gonna eat it or what?" She leans against the edge of the counter.

Obviously I've reached the limit to her patience, which is exactly what I've been waiting for. I love it when she gets sour with me. Like one of her lemon curd-filled cupcakes.

"You gonna jam it in my mouth for me if I don't?"

"Maybe." Her lips twitch.

"Don't you want me to savor the experience?" I pluck the tiny candy cookie from the top. "It doesn't say devour me, it says EAT ME. Slow or fast is always the question. Slow is usually better, though, don't you think?" What in the actual fuck am I doing? Am I using sexual innuendos?

The design on the cupcake is clearly an Alice in Wonderland reference, not an actual invitation to eat her. And why am I suddenly thinking about what that would be like? Is she quiet or loud? I bet she's demanding. Probably bossy. And there's nothing sexier than a woman who tells you exactly what she wants.

I pop the tiny candy into my mouth, to make sure none of the thoughts floating around in my head ends up coming out of my mouth, and also to get this over with. Because I need to get out of here instead of continuing this conversation. She's my competition in the Best Bar challenge, not a prospective date.

Fast is how it's going to be, apparently.

Except that tiny little candy dissolves on my tongue, fizzing unexpectedly. And the flavor is familiar.

Jennie smirks and clasps her hands behind her, rocking back on her heels.

I peel the wrapper from the cake and drop it on the plate. I bring it to my nose and sniff it. "Is that…coffee?"

"Just take a bite," she snaps.

Her tone, however, doesn't match her expression, which I realize she's trying to keep neutral, but is failing at quite painfully. Her gaze is trained on my face—eager, expectant. She bounces a couple of times and I glance at the reflection in the mirrored bar behind her, lined with bottles of top-shelf spirits and liqueurs. She's wringing her clasped hands behind her back, but trying to keep them hidden.

I take a bite, not as big as I originally intended, because that's probably what she expects and I want to prolong the agony of her anticipation as much as I humanly can. I intend to tell her it's just okay, but the moment the flavors hit my tongue I groan. Loudly. "Oh my God," I mumble, crumbs tumble out of my mouth and sprinkle all over the counter. Which I realize is disgusting.

But Jennie doesn't seem to care. She grins widely, satisfaction and triumph making her face even more stunning. I consider asking what this is, but decide I don't care enough to stop eating it. There's coffee in the icing, but it's not overly sweet, it's light and buttery and decadently creamy. The cake practically melts in my mouth, hints of…whiskey, cocoa, and vanilla and with the next bite I get a hit of creamy custard with a gentle hint of…almond.

Jennie doesn't seem to notice the mess I'm making. At all. She's sucking on her bottom lip and bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her lip pops free, teeth marks still evident. "Enjoying yourself." It's not a question, more of an accusation.

I want to shove the rest of it in my face instead of answering, but I lift my hand to cover my mouth so I can ask a question instead of affirm what she clearly already knows. "What is it?"

A slow smirk spreads across her lips.

She doesn't say anything right away, so I jam the rest of it in my mouth. Half of me wants to beg her for more, but I know if I do, then somehow I've managed to give her the upper hand. Which is ridiculous. It's just a cupcake, and regardless of what she thinks, we're not really competing with each other. For the YouTube thing sure, but I don't see how she can win against me and my kickass cool bar and the axe throwing. And now the whole live bands idea and karaoke.

The cupcakes-and-cocktails theme is cute. But that's about all it is.

I try to keep my groan in this time, but a sound of contentment slips out.

"So you like my screaming orgasms?" she asks.

Which is when I start coughing. I also try to inhale with food in my mouth and choke. And cough some more. Jennie takes a step back since I'm spraying the counter with half-chewed cupcake. It's a travesty because I want that all in my belly and not on the counter.

"Are you okay?" she asks when I continue to cough for another solid fifteen seconds.

"Yeah." Cough. "I just"—cough—"didn't expect that."

"It's the name of the cupcake," she informs me.

"I figured, since you didn't scream even once."

"I'm not a screamer." Her eyes flare, as if she didn't mean for that to slip out.

Now it's my turn to smirk. "Is that right?"

She spins around, but I can see her face in the mirrored wall in front of her. Her ears have gone red and she mutters something to herself, nabbing the box from the bar behind her. She rolls her shoulders back and turns to face me again. Her cheeks are the same color as her ears. She drops the box unceremoniously on the counter. "I figured you'd want more than one."

"Yes. Definitely." I nod.

"Multiples really are the best." Her cheek tics, and the tips of her ears look as if they're going to light on fire and take all her hair with it. I wonder how much product she uses to keep it looking so perfect and if it's soft to the touch or not.

"I love multiples." Both the giving and the receiving. I leave that part out, because I would prefer to eat the cupcakes, not wear them, and I feel like we're suddenly treading a very fine line. Either that or we've already jumped right over it. I shake my head to clear it. "Uh, what do I owe you?"

"Those are on the house. Enjoy your night."

Jennie usually happily charges me full price for my cupcake addiction. Although she does tend to toss in an extra one for good measure. I'm tempted to ask if I'm going to end up hogtied in the trunk of a car if I eat the rest of these, but I figure that might be pushing it. "I can't imagine anyone has ever said no to free multiple screaming orgasms."

She gives me a patronizing look. "Okay, Lisa, the joke is over. Off you go." She shoos me away. "I have customers to serve and they want what you had."

I leave the cupcake shop feeling a lot like I lost that round. I even forgot to pass her a coupon for free beer and fried pickles.

Chan has moved on from flirting with the group of women so he can serve other customers. I round the bar and flip the box open, intent on eating another one of the cupcakes. I shake my head when I see the rest of them. Each one has a message written on tiny sugary cookies: EAT ME, BITE ME, SUCK IT and there's one rogue Death by Chocolate cupcake, complete with skull and crossbones.

Huh, looks like Alice has a sense of humor after all.

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