Page 83 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“Do I even want to know what you bribed them with?” I ask, licking powdered sugar off my thumb.

“Respect,” Edgar says smoothly.

I take a bite and moan obscenely just to watch Blake’s ears turn red.

Carson shifts like he’s thinking about frisking someone. Edgar’s lips twitch. The rooster stares.

My men, I think, proudly.

My himbo, my mortician food snob, my cop-shaped stormcloud. My fairground chaos.

The judging tent still looms in the distance, but for now, I have sugar on my fingers, testosterone in the air, and a rooster that will haunt my dreams.

Life is good, until Cookie appears like a vengeful frosting demon summoned by the scent of success and men she hasn’t successfully emasculated.

She’s wearing full Karen Armor, pearls, pressed khakis, a visor that screams local HOA president, and a blouse so stiff it might legally qualify as body armor. Her lipstick is angry red. Her expression is feral.

And, oh boy, she’s got her sights set on Edgar.

“Couldn’t beat me when you baked dessert not bodies,” she spits, marching up like we’ve personally desecrated her family tomb, “so now you’re hiding behind your little bitch hoping she’ll avenge your pathetic blue ribbon dreams?”

Edgar tilts his head like he’s filing her under threats to neutralize later.

I, however, have stopped mid-bite of my glorious cake. The tension in my jaw could slice cheese.

Blake, sweet chaotic peacemaker that he is, tries to step in. “Hey, that’s not, uh, that’s really not called for.”

Cookie spins on him like a spite-powered top. “Aww,” she sneers, voice dripping with saccharine venom, “aren’t you supposed to just stand there and be pretty like the town trophy man-whore?”

Blake goes pink. Then red. Then sort of shell-shocked buff blush, which is normally hot but currently makes me want to throw down.

Edgar moves. Not subtly. Not with his usual refined ghost-glide. No, he steps forward and his voice rises. An event in itself.

“Say what you will about me,” he says, loud and sharp enough that several people turn to look, “but you will not speak to my woman…” his hand gestures elegantly toward me “…or my harem himbo…” he throws Blake a look that is half affection, half raw possessiveness “…like that.”

The world goes still.

My corndog twitches in my grip like it, too, wants revenge.

I lock eyes with Cookie. I smile. It’s not kind. “You know,” I say sweetly, “they say fried food tastes better when blood’s been spilled.”

I raise the corndog. Weaponized. Poised. Ready.

Carson steps into my peripheral vision like a sultry warden, sunglasses glinting with menace. Without a word, he reaches over and gently takes the corndog from my hand. Like it’s a live grenade. “Let’s keep the murder food-free, sweetheart.”

My murder stance falters. My ovaries, however, applaud. “But she called Blake a whore.”

“I’ll kill her later,” Edgar says, calm as ever. “Without involving mustard.”

Cookie sneers at all three of them, lips curled like someone just farted in her artisanal scone tin. “Takes three men to rein in one crazy bitch.” She flounces off, hips swinging like she’s storming a runway.

Somewhere behind us, a voice yells, “Boooo!”

I turn.

The funnel cake vendor nods solemnly and winks.

“Bless you,” I whisper.

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