Prologue
The moment that bastard pulls the trigger I feel it in my chest. It's almost as though the bullet lodges itself in my heart and not my best friend, the pain so intense that everything but Francis fades around me, my eyes latched onto the unmoving woman.
Suddenly, my mind is crowded with every single memory I've ever shared with my Francis over the years. My grief-stricken mind latches onto one of my favorites, reminiscing with a hollow ache in my chest.
I'm not a baker. That much is glaringly obvious based on the shitastrophe that is the birthday cake I've made for Francis' thirtieth birthday. I don't know how I did it, but it looks more like a mound of shit than the double chocolate cake the recipe promised all the ingredients would turn into.
With a shake of my head, I check the clock on the wall. Alright, I have an hour and a half to find a replacement and get to Frenchie's before my best friend kills me for being late to her birthday gathering. Yep, it's not a party. It's a gathering. Because Francis is trying to be all sophisticated and shit.
Eyeing the overly sweet turd that's on my counter, I grumble, "Guess I'm buying a cake instead. Never going to hear the end of it."
I snatch my purse off the counter and shove my feet into my Converse with a little more aggression than called for, heading out of my apartment and to Nimbus, buckling up and setting off to buy my best friend a cake that doesn't resemble a freshly created turd. Even I wouldn't eat it, and I'm a chocolate-obsessed freak. I'd eat just about anything related to chocolate. Who knew I drew a line at stuff that looked like it just fell out of a cow's ass?
It doesn't take me long to find a grocery store and a cake that looks a million times better than my attempt, some cupcakes with colorful icing, and a card with an old lady joke on the front. I'd buy Francis a gift if she wouldn't nipple twist me again. It's safe to say I learned my lesson from the last couple of years I tried it.
Smiling and happy enough with my purchases, I fold myself back into my black Dodge Charger and head on home to get ready for this fancy gathering I know I'm going to hate but will suck it up because I love my bestie. After all, she puts up with my crap as much as I put up with hers.
As soon as I make it home, I lug the cake and extras up the five flights of stairs, cussing out whoever broke the elevator as I go. I'm breathless as soon as I enter my apartment, my eyes going to the brown goop on the counter with a sneer of distaste. Definitely not doing that again.
Placing the bag on the counter, I place the failed cake in a different bag, ready to throw it out. Deciding I should probably get ready before taking it to the trash, I leave it where it is and head upstairs, passing Francis' room as I go. As always, her bed is made and the curtains are wide open, letting in the early afternoon sun. Francis left early to open her shop, refusing my help to decorate for her birthday since she found the stash of penis memorabilia I'd bought and poorly hid. I suppose it gave me time to create the disaster and replace it, so I have that in my favor.
Trudging up the stairs, I head straight for my closet to find the outfit Francis picked out for me. It's a white skin tight dress that stops mid-thigh, with sleeves so long that they hide my tattoos. She couldn't do much about the leg sleeve I have. I also refused to re-dye my freshly colored red hair. I'll do a lot of things for that woman, but my hair is a no zone. It's sacred. I've been dying it every color on the spectrum since I discovered hair dye and wanted to get rid of the silver I was blessed with.
Shaking my head, I go about getting ready. I shower quickly, dry and curl my hair, and slip on the pretty little dress with as much enthusiasm as a cat would whilst having a bath. Once my body is tightly encased in the dress I'd forgotten I even owned until Francis found it, I paint my face with eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara, going for my usual dramatic look since Francis isn't here to stop me. My eyeshadow matches my hair and red pumps I've donned, so at least I didn't rebel too much.
As happy as can be with the outcome, I check the time and see I have twenty minutes to get to Frenchie's. I don't know why I promised to be there early, but apparently that's what having a best friend is all about.
I make my way down the stairs, my footsteps rushed even in the heels that threaten to break my neck. With hurried motions, I exchange my purse for one in a deeper red than my hair and shoes, snatch the bag off the counter, and head out to my car, driving to Frenchie's only a little over the speed limit.
Bag in hand, I head to the shop and let myself in only to find myself in the middle of some English tea party. What the fuck?
"Francis?" I call, looking around and wondering if I just fell face first into Wonderland. "Uh, Frenchie? Are you drinking tea with the Mad Hatter by any chance?"
"Har har, very funny," Francis replies, her voice coming from behind the counter. Strolling toward it, I place the bag down and lean over to find Francis on the floor, cutting out pastel triangles with a long string twirled all around her. Her chestnut hair is half up and half down, the locks in the hair tie twisted into a haphazard bun. Clear-framed glasses sit on her face, freckles sprinkled along the beige of her nose from sitting in the sun so much.
Clearing my throat and smothering the smile that threatens to break out over my face, I ask, "Do I even want to know what you're doing?"
She looks up with a glare she finds fierce but has the same effect as a pouting puppy. "I'm trying to make banners."
Frowning, I look around. "Like the billion you have plastered all around the shop?"
I make no joke when I tell you she has gone overboard with the decorations. And they're all in various forms of pastel colors. It's nauseating.
"There aren't that many," she insists, popping her head up over the counter to look over her handiwork. I wait, three, two, one, seconds before realization hits her. "Okay, maybe it's a little much. But it's fine. We'll make it work."
Smiling too big to be genuine, I nod quickly and go back to the bag, deciding to distract her with cake. Opening the bag, however, reveals that we've both made mistakes today. Inside sits the shit cake I created and not the pretty unicorn one I found in the store. Oh, hell. Now what?
"What the unholy hell is that?" Francis asks from right fucking behind me.
Groaning, I fully reveal the disaster and gesture my hand to it. "That... that would be the cake I tried to make you. I bought a new one because, as you can see, this one didn't turn out as expected. I mixed up the bags while I rushed to get out of the apartment."
Francis is silent while she sidles up close to my side and tilts her head, inspecting the poop-like cake with horrified fascination. She pulls a face as though she's sucked something sour and admits, "I mean, it's unique. I've never seen a cake like it before in my life."
Narrowing my eyes, I defend myself. "It takes true talent to create something like this, and that's all I have to say about it. At least I tried."
"And failed," Francis mutters under her breath. Not quiet enough since I hear her.
Turning to face her, my eyes narrowing that much more, I stare at her until she looks up at me with wide doe eyes swimming with playful regret. Oh, I'll make her regret it.
With a saccharine smile, I demand, "Eat shit."