Page 218 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Little Death’s jonesing for a fix.

And worst of all:

today’s Mom’s birthday.

Dropping all this on Hell Week?

Call it what it is—masterful art.

Call me the fucking Picasso of petty.

Call Hell Week my rehab, ‘cause Baby’s about to go five straight days with no climax—my way of proving I still have control over my body, that I own my addiction, it doesn’t own me, and if I can go a whole week, then I win, and I don’t really need the Baby Contract, or the Boys, and if they can’t handle me at my worst, then they don’t deserve to be here at all, so for the next five days, call me Sober Sue, and this addiction my bitch like this was a sane fucking decision.

And somewhere between convenient and decision, the kitchen fell silent.

Ben and me stare each other down.

Honor clears his throat. “You really puttin’ nutmeg next to the paprika?”

Ben grits his teeth. “It’s color-coded.”

I press my lips together,

holding back a laugh.

Honor drops the duffel on the floor.

“Hear me out. You don’t line ‘em up by color. Put salt, pepper, garlic up front. Shit you actually grab. The rest? Back row or in the trash. That’s it. Done.”

Ben straightens. “The trash? Nah. Look at this shit. All the reds in one row: cayenne, paprika, chili flakes. Then the oranges. Then the browns. I know where everything’s at. The ombre system’s stayin’. Shit looks fire.”

Honor snorts.

“Fire? Looks like you tryna start one.”

Andrew grabs another mug from the cabinet.

Ben nudges his chin at Andrew.

“You makin’ that for Baby?”

Andrew doesn’t answer, unfazed, but his shoulders flex, as if the name Baby got stuck between the blades.

Ben chuckles, placing another jar into the rack. “Word of advice, bro—she’s picky as shit. Get her coffee wrong? You just ruined her whole day.” Then Ben turns his attention to Honor. “An’ you—rules are, you stayin’ here? Hands off my spice rack, or I’ll fuck you up.

“Serious. I know how.

“I’m a boxer.”

Honor holds out his hand to Andrew,

going for the handshake.

Andrew bypasses it, lifting his mug for a sip on his way to me.

Ben nudges his chin.

“That’s Andrew from Joisey,” he mutters. “He ain’t important.”