The best I could do was try to push it somewhere to the back of my mind, or at least not at the forefront.

So I baked.  And drank.  A lot of both.

Baking cupcakes and drinking scotch.  Ardently courting comfort and oblivion.

Oblivion was particularly elusive when I was at this level of keyed up, so I settled for getting buzzed and keeping busy with mindless chores.

I don’t bake often, but I do it well, even out of practice.  Sweet carbs rarely find their way into the apartment of four actresses, but I knew no one could resist my cupcakes, even if they’d all be cursing me for it later.

I told myself, to appease the sharper half of my personality, that if I made my competition gain a few pounds it was an added bonus, but it rang hollow, more like a humorless joke than anything else.

Our hideous dog, Amos, kept me company, nudging my legs and licking my toes as I worked, the damned mutt.

He was the ugliest dog in the world.  His fur was half kinky curly, half sticking straight up in the air and the color was a mix of different shades of poo brown.  He had one light blue eye, one dark one, and his muzzle was long and homely, his teeth sticking out of his mouth at odd angles.  He was hideous.   Some kind of a mix that apparently nobody but me had wanted.

Well, I wouldn’t say I’d wanted him.

So why did I have a dog I’d never wanted?

Ten months ago I’d found him in a dumpster down the street.  Someone had thrown him away.

I sympathized with the poor guy.

I tolerated him.  He was a sweet thing.  Slobbery and ugly as hell.  And affectionate to a fault.

But I didn’t even like dogs.  I was a cat person.

I loved cats.  Everything about them.  I loved that they could be vicious and adorable in equal parts.  The way they loved you more if you ignored them.  How they did whatever the hell they wanted and with outright defiance.  They soothed me with their sleek bodies, soft fur, loud purrs, contrary ways and bad attitudes.

I loved cats, but I had a dog.

Story of my life.  I was a conflicted person.  Never at peace with myself.  Hard to please.  A malcontent.

I refused to be happy about any part of it, even something as simple as having a pet.

I collected eccentric and funny cat T-shirts.   I liked to wear them around the house, sigh at Amos, and occasionally lecture him about how how disappointing he was to me.

He’d always just wag his tail, gaze at me with absolute adoration, and wait for any affection I might have to give him.

Damn dogs, with their unconditional love and unfalteringly bad breath.  Who could deal with either of those things?

I knew I should have just gotten a cat, but it seemed wrong somehow, to get a frivolous thing like a second pet when we all traveled as much as we did.  Our neighbor took in Amos when we were out of town, but we could hardly ask him to take in still another pet part-time.

Also, some part of me had a really big problem with openly seeking out something that might bring me joy.  Like, with all the things I’d done that were actually sins, looking for a bit of happiness in my life was the real transgression.

CHAPTER NINE

“Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”

~Marilyn Monroe

For all intents and purposes, I had the apartment to myself for the majority of the day.

It was for the best.  I had a lot of baking and drinking to do before I was even close to fit for company.

I was frosting my fifth batch of cupcakes (these red velvet) when the doorbell rang.

My eyes narrowed, and my first instinct was to ignore it.  I just had a bad feeling.  Nothing I could put into words, just a need to avoid that could be for any number of reasons, not the least of which that I was working on getting stupid, sloppy drunk, and the condition was eluding me.

Nope, I decided.  Not answering.

The doorbell rang again, and this time a sleepy Demi came out of her room, gave me a good morning/afternoon wave, and went to open it herself before I could stop her.

I went back to frosting and didn’t look up again until she plopped a large red box on the kitchen counter scant inches from my growing horde of cupcakes.  I’d made three flavors—German chocolate, vanilla cream, and red velvet.

“Oh my God,” she said slowly, her big blue eyes wide.  “What are all these cupcakes for?”

I looked at her.  She was a gorgeous little thing with big, bright blue eyes, masses of dark hair, pale skin, and a rosebud mouth.  She was petite but curvy in all the right places.  She basically looked and was the Hollywood version of Snow White.  “You.  Help yourself.”

“You bitch!” she shot back, making me smile for the first time all day.  Her calling me a bitch to my face was 100% my influence on her, and I loved it.  “You know I have an audition in two days!  And red velvet is my absolute favorite!”

I had known that.  The whole point of my baking was never to make something for myself.  I despised cupcakes.  I had the opposite of a sweet tooth.  I had a bitter one.

I nodded at the red box.  “What’s that?”

“Something for you.  Some sort of special delivery from a guy in a suit.”

I froze, my insides coiling up tight.  “Not . . . Dante, right?”

“No, not him.  I’d have recognized him.  It was some guy I’ve never seen before, but he insisted I give the box directly to you and said it should be opened immediately.”

I felt no better.  This reeked of Dante, even it that hadn’t been him at the door, though I was still thanking God for that.