Of course, I valued my mental health more, and my job most. And so, I silently stewed with a saccharine smile on my face, ushering them to the table.
Cameras rolled, one to our side, one on the other side of the table. The Femmes were dressed fashionably in pink from the palest shade—Angelika—to the deepest fuchsia—Natasha, of course, ever the attention whore.
Things began without incident, the girls oohing and aahing over the beautiful cakes as the baker walked them through the samples. For a brief, wistful moment, I was dumb enough to let myself imagine they’d behave themselves for once.
Irreverently and in the middle of the baker’s spiel, Natasha stuck her middle finger in one of the cakes, opening her artificially plump, perfectly lined lips. Her tongue extended just enough to provide a landing for that offensive digit covered in lemon creme, making eye contact with me as she sucked her finger off with a moan.
“God, you are so disgusting,” Angelika shot.
Natasha laughed. “And you’re so innocent? Who fucked in the confession booth at the church, Angel?”
“Girls,” Sorina said without a single degree of heat.
Angelika’s cheeks flushed dangerously. “And what about you? Are you going to show your tits at the cake tasting? Everybody saw your bald vagina at the music hall. Don’t want to hold out on the baker, do you? Or I guess you could just blow your fingers like a porn star the whole time we’re here.”
Sofia checked her nails, which were the exact same shade of pink as her dress. “As many sex tapes as she has, she’s basically a porn star already. You know, except she doesn’t get paid.”
Alexandra, the second eldest, rolled her eyes. “Can’t we go anywhere without you making a scene?”
Angelika and Natasha turned on her in unison.
“Please, Alex,” Natasha said. “You got a waiter fired at lunch two hours ago.”
“I have never seen a woman so ugly when she cries,” Angelika added, shaking her head. “That’s on you.”
Sofia rolled her eyes and said lazily, “You’re all whores, and Natasha is the worst. She thinks if she’s enough of an exhibitionist, Drake will call her back.”
“It worked for Hailey Baldwin,” Natasha answered, deadly serious.
Sofia leaned in, cupped her hand to her mouth dramatically, and yelled, “He’s not gonna call you, skank.”
Natasha’s face wrenched up, nostrils flaring and eyes murderous. Her hand unfisted, reaching for the table.
For the cake, I realized with horror.
Natasha slung a handful of dark chocolate cake, which spun in what felt like slow motion, flicking white icing in a spiral on its track for Sofia’s face. It hit its mark with a wet pat and a dark splat against her previously flawless makeup.
The entire room froze for a protracted moment.
When Sofia’s eyes opened, they were hot with fury. With a carnal growl, she filled both fists with cake and let them fly, but before they reached their target—Natasha’s face—she dodged. Cake splatted against Angelika’s face with a one-two plop of red velvet and lemon cake, glued to her face with icing.
A harpy screech. A flash of motion. And the room dissolved into chaos.
Cake flew in streaks across the table, and the rest of us were held hostage by the size of the bakery. The only room was occupied by the Felix sisters, covered in cake and slipping on icing. The baker backed against the wall with her hands over her mouth and eyes tracking the maelstrom. Greedy hands reached for cake, teeth gnashed, faces unrecognizable, covered by dessert. Sofia lunged for Alexandra after a slice of strawberry cake made itself a new home in her ear, the sisters slipping with a squeak and a thud that left them wrestling on the ground. Natasha was on the run from Angelika—who shrieked her rage over her sister ruining her wedding—and with Olympian skill, she vaulted over the counter. She reached into the cooler with a maniacal grin, brows jackknifed in madness, and returned with a massive tiered cake.
Her laughter could only be described as a cackle, a hysterical, evil sound that stopped all three sisters dead. And she plopped the cake on the counter with a thud, reached in with both hands, and fired like a machine gun.
No one was safe from the onslaught, and Natasha had no aim, shooting blind. A slab of cake hit a camera lens. Sorina’s cheek, her face whipping away like she’d been slapped. And then me, a thud to the chest, a cool slide of cake between my breasts and down the front of