Always Room for Cupcakes (Cupcakes 1)

Katie and the North Star (Children’s)

I would like to give a shout out, and say "thank you", to Heather Hildenbrand. A smart, savvy writer, businesswoman, and mentor of authors, who I am proud to call a friend. Always giving and inspirational, I'm so happy to have her in my life.

One day you’re be-bopping along, jamming to the music in your head while wondering if your thighs can handle grabbing a cupcake on the way home. The next thing you know your entire world crashes and burns.

I used to wake up at night in a sweat, crying because I’d dreamt that my husband was cheating on me, or that he hated me and resented my kids. He’d always hold me close and tell me it was all just a dream, that he loved me and our family and that he’d never let me go.

He was a fucking liar.

Instead of being the sweet, affable, hard-working man he projected to me and the outside world, he was actually a cheating, vagina-licking asshole, who only cared about getting off and being free of responsibility.

I’d gone from sweet and caring housewife to bitter, hard-as-nails single mom, who worked her ass off to give her kids a quarter of the life they were used to. Putting my photography skills to use, I’d gone to work for a scumbag PI. He used me to dig up dirt on his clients.

I was happy to do it.

I was doing a public service for women like me who thought the men in their lives could actually be trusted, and I really enjoyed my job.

I’d learned quickly that men suck, my children are my saving grace, and there is always room for cupcakes.

“Get it in focus this time, Lila … none of that grainy shit you sent me last week. I need to actually see what’s going down, or in this case, what’s entering what.”

“Ugh, thanks for that mental image, Moose,” I said with a grimace into my cell. “It’s bad enough I have to see that shit through my lens, I don’t need you constantly talking about it.”

“Quit your bitchin’ and get me some good shots. This one’s a high roller.”

“Got it, boss,” I replied, and pressed end on the call.

My boss may be a creepy, low-life PI, but he’d taken a chance on me when my douchebag ex left me high and dry. So even though I regularly gave him shit, he knew I’d do anything for him.

Especially if that meant a more lucrative paycheck.

That’s why I was currently scrunched down in my caravan outside a seedy hotel, a half-eaten sandwich on my lap and my camera at the ready.

Moose got the clients, then hired me to get the goods. This usually involved taking pictures of men, and women, having affairs, but sometimes it was as easy as following someone and snapping a shot of them being somewhere other than where they were supposed to be.

Being a wronged woman myself, I didn’t feel guilty about catching liars and cheaters in the act. I just wish I’d had an inkling that there were problems in my own marriage, and had thought to hire someone like Moose and me to get evidence against The Douche. Instead, I’d been clueless.

I thought my twelve-year marriage was perfect. I was a doting housewife, who’d loved raising our kids, keeping the house spic and span and having a hot meal ready for our family dinners every night. My husband made good money, we had a nice house, and we lived in a neighborhood where the kids could play outside and we didn’t have to worry.

Then, one day he was supposed to be out with his buddies watching the game at a local bar, and Elena, one of our twins, had a sharp pain in her stomach that wouldn’t quit. I got scared and tried to call him, but he didn’t answer. Since our town was small enough that I could drive around it in fifteen minutes, I packed the kids in the car and went to the bar.

Imagine my surprise when neither he nor his buddies were there. Figuring I got the place wrong, I activated the phone finder app I’d installed on all of our phones and ended up in the parking lot behind Starbucks.

>

Seeing some movement in his car, I told the kids I’d be right back and jogged over to the vehicle, which, although it didn’t register at the time, had foggy windows.

Filled with worry over our daughter, I didn’t think, I just acted, and yanked the car door open. That’s when I saw Slutty Shirley Finkle, legs spread wide, bare cunt lifted in the air, with my husband’s face buried nose deep inside.

“You mother-fucking son of a whore!”

Yup, I’m pretty sure those were the exact words I’d yelled in the Starbucks parking lot before snapping a picture with my phone and hightailing it out of there to take my kids to the hospital.

Now my kids and I lived in a shitty three-bedroom apartment in The Heights. I worked for Moose, and picked up shifts at my best friend Amy May’s bakery whenever I could. They saw their dad most weekends, while I avoided him at all costs.

He’d humiliated me, broken my trust, and made me feel like an idiot for having such blind faith in him all of those years. I hated everything about him. His blond wavy hair, his chiseled jaw, and the stupid way he looked in a perfectly tailored suit. I wanted no reminder of the life we had together, except for our beautiful children, of course, which was why I’d left all of our material possessions behind with him and the house we’d once shared.

And as I watched a slick-looking middle aged man guide a heavily breasted, much younger woman into the seedy motel, I thought, this one’s for the sisterhood. I pumped my fist as I watched them walk back out of the office and down a few doors, then got ready to strike.

First floor … nice.

At least this time I wouldn’t have to climb anything.