Dannika Dark: Seven Years

Naya had a way of staring me down to the very fraction of a lie I just told, and the moment my eyes darted away, a smug look of satisfaction crossed her face.

“Everyone is entitled to a night out,” I continued, sprinkling a little sugar in my cup before taking a sip.

“Glad to hear you’re alive and kicking. That means you’ll be coming to my party on Tuesday.”

“Don’t people have to work?”

“Not the people I hang out with, darling. You know that. Tuesdays are my Saturday, and I know for a fact you don’t work every other Wednesday. There’s going to be a great crowd—lots of fat wallets and alcohol.”

“It’s not the size of a man’s wallet that counts, Naya.”

Her ruby lips turned up in a carnivorous smile. “Hon, that’s the only bulge in the pants that really counts in the long run.”

We both laughed, although deep down I had a feeling she wasn’t joking. As sexual as Naya was, she didn’t seem to care about a guy fulfilling her physical needs. She wanted stability—a man who could offer her a better way of life. She equated security with money. Some women just liked being taken care of; I was not one of those women.

“I’ll come,” I agreed. “But no dancing. And don’t do your thing.”

“What thing?” She laid down a queen and the tip of the card made a snapping sound against the bar.

“You know to which thing I refer.” I took another slow sip of my beverage. “The match game. Don’t do it. If my destiny is at the party and I can’t find him myself, then clearly I should go home without a parting gift. It’s embarrassing.”

She lifted two fingers. “Promise.” Naya glanced at her watch. “Ooo, I’ve got to run. Will you feed Misha? I’m working a double shift tonight.”

I groaned and padded into the living room. “I don’t know why dry food is such a big no-no. It’s a cat, Naya.”

She swung the door open and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re the only person I’ve ever known who didn’t like my pussy.”

I snorted and didn’t bother to respond. I had a love-hate relationship with her cat. I loved to hate it.

“The wet food is by the fridge—”

“I know. Go on, I’ll take care of little Misha.”

Naya blew a kiss and slammed the door.

“Lock it!” She yelled from the outside.

I turned the bolt, set my coffee on an end table, and collapsed on the sofa. All I could think about was Austin. Did I really see him at the cemetery? Maybe I dreamed it. I never could hold my liquor and it didn’t take much to get me drunk, not to mention I was one of those people who blacked out if I drank too much. Not passed out, but conscious and sometimes belting out old rock songs. At least, that’s what Naya told me, as did a girl I used to party with when I was younger. That’s why I avoided binge drinking.

No one needed to hear my rendition of “Feel Like Makin’ Love.”

Still, the conversation had seemed so real.

I was angry and kept hitting the stupid rewind button in my brain, causing me to replay the scene at Dairy Queen. Except in episode two, I got up and cussed him out. By episode three, I told my mom to take Maizy outside and I tore him a new one for walking out of our lives. By four, I managed to get information on where he’d been all this time before slapping him. Somewhere around episode twelve, I started making out with him, and by eighteen, we were having sex all over the hood of his Dodge Challenger.

That’s when I got up and took another shower.

The next day at work, we were slammed with orders . I don’t know if there were a lot of cheating husbands or sick grandmas or what, but Sweet Treats was hopping. Aside from selling candy, we customized gift items. You could choose from a number of candy combinations and have them packaged for different occasions in the container or basket of your choice. It wasn’t just a store for kids—we also sold expensive chocolates and gourmet popcorn. I’d sampled them to death over the years and officially murdered my love for sugar.

If a guy ever gave me a box of candy (not that one ever would, all Beckett ever gave me was a box of Victoria’s Secret lingerie), that would be the equivalent of giving me a box of anchovies. It’s not that I hated candy, but the magic was gone. A man should be more original than a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates. Flowers die and sugar sticks to your hips like a permanent record to a criminal.

However, all superheroes have a kryptonite. I had one weakness.

Lollipops.

Our store only sold the cheap flat ones for the kids and those pinwheel multicolored novelty items. But my favorites were the large round suckers that came in various flavors, including gourmet. We tried carrying them but they never sold. Kids always wanted the chocolate bars or some of the newer candy based on their favorite cartoons or movies. Older generations wanted the hard-to-find items from their childhood or gourmet products. So things like lollipops, peppermints, and butterscotch just didn’t sell.

The only person who knew how much I loved them was Wes. It’s how he used to bribe me to stay quiet whenever he was going to sneak out of the house or if I caught him in a lie. I was a sucker for suckers, and bribery came at a very reasonable price for him. Our parents never bought junk food unless we went to the movies. Only in recent years had Mom let go of the reins when it came to sugar and offered Maizy an occasional treat.

April bounced into the room holding a beautifully wrapped basket with a yellow ribbon. “Here you are, Mrs. Lee.”

“Oh, that’s just gorgeous! Ellie’s going to love it,” the older lady gushed. “She hasn’t tasted some of these candies since she was a little girl.” Mrs. Lee took a moment to admire the packaging before heading out the door.

“Come by and see us again,” April said with a wave. “Thanks for stopping in, and be sure to tell all your friends to visit Sweet Treats!”

The bell jingled and I glared at her from behind the display of gumballs. “That’s a bit much.”

So were the cherry earrings she was wearing and the matching pin clipped in her bright blond hair.

April tilted her head and the earrings swiveled. “You could learn something from me, Alexia. It’s not just about sales, but returning customers. You want them to tell their friends about us and feel like they need to come back here again for more. Charlie doesn’t offer coupons and we don’t do any marketing, so word of mouth is all we have. Relationship building is important for an independently run business.”

“We sell crack, April.”

A kid went jumping by as if there were invisible hopscotch lines on the floor. I nodded at him to illustrate my point.

“You don’t think this place could ever go out of business?”

I shrugged. “If the movie theater or pizza shop closes, then yeah. But this street is a freeway of hyperactive kids between the ages of Winnie-the-Pooh diapers and high school saggy pants. Not to mention the fact we offer pick-up through the Internet.”

“Not everyone likes picking up when they can have it delivered to their house by another company,” she pointed out, refilling a display of Ring Pops.

It was near closing time and I sanitized the counter, wiping away all the grimy little fingerprints and germs.

After hours when we closed the shop and turned on the dim accent lights, it became pure magic. Long canisters lined the walls and we had several short aisles with packaged candy and other items. We didn’t have any fancy neon sign—just a pink board that ran over the doorway with the store name painted in black. We were open from ten to ten—at least those were the advertised hours. Everyone on this side of town knew we’d stay open as long as there were customers. Night owls loved it because the colorful displays in the window would catch their eye and draw them in for a late night snack before or even after their movie. I mentioned to Charlie once or twice that he should consider making us a hybrid business—perhaps buy the space next door to open a coffee shop and offer sweet treats for the adults, with a door connecting the shops. “Pipe dreams,” he would say. Charlie might have gone for it, but he probably didn’t have the money.