Page 5 of Fractured
Yes, I was only eight years old, but when you had four older brothers, you had to be tough.
He chuckled, then shook his head and headed to the living room, then out the front door.
I whirled and then smiled.
Then I smirked as I tossed the burnt-on-purpose cake into the trash and opened the bottom cabinet where I had stored his actual welcome home cake.
Chocolate with cherry pie filling mixed in and homemade frosting.
Sadly, the other eleven I had made hadn’t looked this good.
It even looked better than the twelfth one I made.
See, on the twelfth one I made, I had tasted that one, and then proceeded to do a happy dance.
Dang, but it was good.
Then I made this one the same way I made the twelfth one.
I waited until everyone helped Dom unload, and then, the moment they had all gathered in the dining room, I grabbed the cake, a knife, and paper plates, tucking them underneath my elbow, and carried everything.
I had just set the cake down in front of Dom and smiled, “Welcome Home, Dom.”
He eyed it suspiciously, then he looked at me and asked, “Did you have someone buy this from the bakery?”
I growled, “No, Dom. I didn’t.”
He shook his head, “Not Dom. Dominik to you.”
I narrowed my eyes, “And why is that?”
“Because you’re a pain in my ass.” He said with a smirk.
And when no one corrected him, or got onto him about his language, my pride took a hit.
Then I stared at the cake I had taken special classes thanks to Ms. Henrietta, to learn how to make, then at the smug smile on his face, and mentally said,fudge it.
I smiled sweetly, nodded, then tagged the cake.
And then I slammed it in his face.
Then I said, “That just teaches me a lesson. Don’t try to do something nice for someone. Thanks for that.”
Then I stormed out of the house, ignoring them shouting my name and my brothers laughing, got on my bike, and rode down the three blocks to Henrietta Alcott’s house.
She was rocking on her front porch when she saw me and then took a pull from her cigarette.
Henrietta Alcott was a widow and one of the best bakers in three counties.
She was also a crotchety old woman.
And I loved her.
Dearly.
“So, how’d he like the cake?” she asked as I made my way up her front porch and sat down in her other rocker.
Then I brought my knees to my chest and asked, “What’s the point?”
