Page 37 of Strike

Page List

Font Size:

“Great.” I assumed she’d told him the real behind-the-scenes story from my spectacular run in the UFC. Duped and taken for all I was worth. It was humiliating.

“You don’t want people to know the truth?” he fired back. “It’s your funeral, but things don’t have to be this way, Storm.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Signing some form the nurse handed to me, I grabbed my leather jacket and stalked out of the ER. Outside, the air was cool, so I tried to pull it on, but the cast got stuck. “Fuck!”

“Storm! Bloody hell.” He’d followed me again.

“Go the fuck away, Hamish,” I said. “I don’t even know why you’re still here. Don’t you hate my guts? I know I’m high right now, but I’m beginning to think you’re off your nut.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, shaking his head. “I’m tryin’ to help you.”

There wasn’t any point to any of it. I didn’t need help because I was past the point of no return. This was the end of the line for Mark Ryder, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I’d lost the only person who mattered me—I’d lost Callie—before I’d had a chance to really open up to her. I’d hurt her even when I was trying not to. Not even two weeks had passed, and I was already eyeballs deep intofucked-up-ville.

I didn’t bother replying to Hamish’s jibe, and it pissed him off even more.

“There’s the taxi rank.” He pointed to the line of yellow cabs half a block down from the hospital entrance. “Take yourself home, Ryder. Your wish is my command.” He spread his arms wide and backed away before turning completely, leaving me alone on the steps. Just how I wanted it.

Cradling my arm against my chest, I slid my right arm into my jacket and slung the other side over my shoulder. The bone was fractured, not snapped, and lucky for me, I would live to fight another day. Great for my bank account, not so much for my psyche.

Jumping into the first available taxi, I gave the guy my home address and leaned back in the seat. Shit, my arm ached.

Just like my stupid heart.

15

Callie

Opening the oven, a waft of hot air blew into my face, carrying the scent of warm chocolate with it.

It had been weeks since I’d had the chance to make something extravagant, and what better time than now? A heartbreak cake seemed just the thing to help mend the tear in my chest, so that was what I was doing.

The oven in the little kitchen our rented cottage in Northcote wasn’t that great, but I’d worked out its quirks long ago. Like when the dial said two hundred and twenty degrees Celsius, it really meant one-eighty, and the timer ran slow. An hour on that thing equated to an hour and eleven minutes. I’d checked. But stick a simple chocolate sponge into its belly and it came out fluffy and cooked through every time.

He’d hit a woman! I couldn’t believe it. Grabbing my oven mitts, I took the hot pan out of the oven and dumped the steaming cake onto the rack on the kitchen table. Strangulation marks was a serious red flag. Then to claim it was a twisted sex game? Bloody hell.

Leaning against the table, I stared at the chaos—a reflection of what was tumbling inside me—and forced back tears. He’d been evasive yet charming, and he was handsome and really good in bed. I knew he had things he didn’t want to talk about, but I couldn’t get over it. He’d admitted he’d stepped over people on his way to the top, so was the story of the fire coming out now because he saw an opportunity? The evidence was stacked against him.

I did the right thing the other night by kicking him out. Right?

I swallowed, my throat feeling thick, and picked up the block of marzipan I’d been shaping. Glancing at the drawing I’d made on a scrap of paper, I shifted my focus back to the cake I was making. The heartbreak cake.

I needed a new mountain to climb, and this was it. If I could pull off this design, then it would be the centerpiece for my opening weekend. This cake wasn’t for eating—it was for gawking at. Visions of displaying it in the window of The Fitzroy Cake Company came to mind, and I smiled. How good would it be to have someone film me smashing it apart with a baseball bat?Epic.

I hadn’t realized it had grown so late until I heard the front door open and the familiar sound of Macy’s heels clacking down the hallway. I’d been eyeballs deep in batter and whipped chocolate all day, only surfacing to go to the toilet. Too much information right there.

When she came into the kitchen, wearing her usual work getup—a cute blouse, blazer, and skirt—her mouth fell open when she saw the cake mountain on our kitchen table.

“Holy shit,” she said. “It looks like someone detonated a bag of flour in here.”

“I’ll clean it up,” I replied, glancing at the recipe for spun sugar. I knew it by heart, but everything felt blank tonight. I needed the road map to keep me on the straight and narrow. No use crying over burned sugar.

“What cake is this going to be?” She peered at the bottles of food coloring and then the base of the cake I was building up. “It looks like a farmyard.”

“I’m making a Twister cake,” I declared.

“What does that mean?” Macy was frowning at me.

“You know the movie? With the tornadoes and the flying cows and the destruction?” I pointed to my marzipan test subjects. “I’ve even made some cows.”