Page 110 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

And we both fall asleep.

CHAPTER 28

Gage

Two Weeks Later

At first, Jubilee said a week.

But two days after the shed, she knew exactly what she was doing when she strutted—excuse me, “frolicked with intent”—into the kitchen in nothing but purple lingerie and began dipping her fingers into the frosting on every cupcake. I was pulling a fresh batch out of the oven when I turned around and caught her mid-dip.

This time, I didn’t put her on the counter. I bent her over it, took a goddamn paddle to her backside until she made noises unholy enough to send all our cats running like sinners to confession. By the time we were done, I had just enough frosting to finish the new round of cupcakes while the rest was all over us.

Of course, that didn’t make the final footage cut. But she was pretty damn pleased with herself when she announced the story live to our “Jubilage” subscribers while I chased her around the sofa, trying to cover her dirty mouth.

Guess I can’t be too put out. We teased a clip of that scene. Apparently, “You won’t believe what Gage did after I desecrated his cupcakes” was effective marketing. Jubilage picked up 37,000 subscribers overnight.

Ultimately, I love her even more for it. It’s my girl’s way of marking her territory. As long as she doesn’t get too carried away sharing our “sexual exploits.” No need to traumatize the subscribers who originally came for cats and croissants.

Since then, we’ve done it on just about every surface imaginable. Adapting my pastry into creative arrangements of the edible body kind was both insightful and delicious.

One time, she jump-scared me as I was leaving the gym. I caught her before she could run. And my second “workout” that morning was far superior.

Oh, she’s still annoying as fuck.

She steals my side of the bed, then acts unconscious when I get back from brushing my teeth. I’ll physically roll her across the mattress. She just rolls back in her sleep like a determined rotisserie chicken.

And her weapons-of-ice-destruction feet! The first time she slid those tootsies between my calves, I nearly levitated. She delights in pulling this ominous, creepy smile and says, “Winter is coming,” before another attack. She also hogs all the blankets and complains she’s still cold.

Don’t even get me started on how she rearranges my shower products.

“Chill, loose Cannon,” she blinked the first time I called her out. “It’s a shower, not a military formation. Your body wash doesn’t need to stand at attention.”

“We live in a civilized society,” I’d told her gruffly.

“I’m pro-anarchy. Fight the power.”

Then, she removed her wet towel, tossed it on the counter, and shook her bare little ass at me while my brain short-circuited. She needed another shower ten minutes later.

I had to hide my sacred spice rack before she could mix up all my bottles.

A recurring antic: she talks to me while I’m trying to count. “Three tablespoons⁠—”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes. Four⁠—”

“How much?”

“Jubilee.”

“Enough to restart?”

Long silence. “One tablespoon.”

One morning, I woke up to find little bows on random items. Coffee thermos. KitchenAid. Car mirror. One of my dumbbells. Eventually, I walked into the chicken coop and found a chicken wearing a burgundy bow.

The internet loves her games almost as much as it loves my retaliation. I guess watching Jubilee commit random acts of domestic terrorism and then waiting to see my response has become a significant portion of Jubilage’s appeal.