by Staci Hart
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 my shirt. When I glanced down, it looked like I’d been shot—red velvet had exploded from the point of impact in a burst.
I looked up with murderous designs, only to get a load square in the face.
The sound of her laughter rang like a fire bell in my ears as I scooped cake from my eyes. But I still saw red. I saw red as I slipped on baked goods, trying to get around the table and out of the way, as if I had somewhere to go. I saw red as I imagined shoving cake down Natasha’s throat until she choked. I saw all the red—red fury, red cake, my red hair, which hung lank in my face, sticky with icing.
And I couldn’t do one fucking thing about any of it.
My job description was very clear—I was to be a resource, liaison, and director for the Felixes. I was not to stop them or interfere with their show. I was not to do anything that might be taken as untoward, opinionated, or unhelpful. And I certainly wasn’t allowed to throttle Natasha Felix on the checkered floor of the bakery. It took every iota of willpower that I possessed to endure the shitshow, and though it felt like half of my life, the cake slinging only lasted a few minutes. By the end, all four sisters were laughing, taking final potshots, giggling and swiping fondly at each other’s faces.
The last cameraman standing got it all on film. The baker watched on, her face wide with terror and shock but lips in a grim line—she’d known what she signed up for. We all had.
With the glory came the train wreck. And the Felix train had just exploded in a fireball.
Sorina demanded they get up, and Angelika rose first, looking cowed. No one noticed the wad of cake in her hand until it was on a path for Sorina’s mouth, then smeared to the chorus of laughter of her sisters and Jordan, who’d been pulled into the fray.
I made my way over to the baker, taking her by the shoulders to steer her away from the carnage. The producer followed, promising damages and a crew to clean it up, and I told her I’d call to reschedule before turning to the Felixes once more.
Sorina was laughing and apologizing, rescheduling our meeting to decide the fate of this cursed wedding while the girls stood and tried to right themselves. I endured it all with that liar’s smile on my face, a hundred percent sure I didn’t get paid enough for this. At least they got to slide into private cars and go to their penthouses. I had to endure what was sure to be a humiliating cab ride, followed by a humiliating walk through a hotel lobby, and then a humiliating entrance into the hotel room where Kash was waiting for me.
But somehow, I did endure the Felix Femmes’ exit, along with their crew and several bodyguards who were smattered comically with cake and seemingly unaffected by the fact. Just another day at the office, I supposed.
I wagered they got paid enough for this. They probably made three times my very generous salary just to get slapped with cake and hang around, looking menacing.
The producer hung back, still trying to assuage the baker, who was squeaking her way through her shop, not listening to a word said. And with nothing left to be done, I gathered my things from the back and ventured onto the sidewalk.
The crowd staggered and parted at the sight of me, covered in cake and trying not to slip on whatever was stuck to the bottoms of my shoes. I held a sticky hand up and whistled for a cab, scraping dredge from my pants as best I could as a taxi pulled up to the curb. The cabbie eyed me, offended, as I got in.
Trust me, I am too, buddy.
And with a lurch, we were off.
14
Because, Reasons
KASH
I looked up from my sketchbook, smile on my face at the sound of the hotel room’s door unlocking.
That smile probably should have fallen at the sight of Lila walking through the door, covered in cake and frosting, but it didn’t. It spread despite my attempt to smooth it.
“Don’t laugh,” she warned as the door shut, heavy and loud.
She strode in on those long legs, tossing her bag and coat—which was inside out, I deduced to keep the wool clean of icing—on the desk. I brushed my lips with my fingertips to wipe my smile away and stifle the laugh she’d predicted.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I said lightly. “Wanna tell me what
happened?”
She turned, peeling off her clothes in layers, ruined suit coat first. “The Felix sisters happened. Natasha specifically.”
At that, my smile disappeared in earnest. I swung my legs off the side of the massive bed and stood, heading for her. “What did she do?”
Lila sighed, softening as I neared, as if my proximity alone dropped her shields. As if she’d been holding it all together by force and sagged at the knowledge someone was there to help.
“Nothing surprising,” she said, looking up at me with those gray eyes of hers, her hair lank with muck. I smoothed it, not caring there was icing on my palm. “The girls got into a battle royale that devolved into disaster. I was caught in the crossfire.”
One of my brows rose, and she sighed again.
“Okay, she was aiming for me, I’m sure. But it would have happened one way or another. That shop was too small for four Femmes to chuck cake without there being casualties.”
“But still. Fuck her a little.”
A chuckle. “Fuck her a little,” she echoed. “And that’s not the worst of it.”
I frowned. “Oh God.”
“You can say that again. The church found out about Angelika’s exhibition in the confession booth and turned them out. So if you need me for the next month, I’ll be dying under a to-do list I’ll never complete.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, reaching for her. “Everything will fall into place.”
“I hope you’re right.” She started to slip her arms around my waist but stopped, stepping back instead. “Ugh, I’m filthy. I’m sorry.”
“Usually it’s me who’s filthy. At least you’ll taste good.”
Another laugh, a flush of her cheeks. I thumbed one, dotted with cake.
Really, she was a mess. Icing had dried in flecks in her eyebrows, little chunks of cake peppering her neck, her cheeks. Her shirtfront was a crimson explosion in the shape of a V, the rest of her shirt, which had been protected by her coat, incongruently pristine.
My hands moved to the buttons, unfastening one with a snap.
“I’m sorry you had a shitty day,” I offered, unbuttoning another.
“Knowing you’d be here to make me forget all about it is the only reason I didn’t commit homicide in a cake shop today.”
With a tug, I freed her shirt from her pants. “Is it always this bad?”
“Cake fight bad? No. Getting permanently banned from a church? Never.”
“No, I mean … is it always this hard? It seems too much to ask to work with people like them every day.”
“It is. Want to know something?”
“I want to know everything,” I answered too honestly, sliding my hands into her shirt, around her waist.
“I hate my clients, and I hate my boss. But I love my job.”
“That’s confusing.”
“I’m very conflicted.”
My hands trailed up her ribs, traced the curve of her breasts, slipped over the caps of her shoulders, taking her shirt with them.
“If you hate them, why not quit?”
“I just told you why. I love my job.”
“But you don’t have to work for assholes.”
She paused, seeming to consider. “I’ve worked my whole adult life for this. To work at this firm, with high-profile clients. We all have to put up with things we hate to be successful.”
“True,” I said as her shirt fell to the ground in a whisper of silk. “But at what cost?”
Lila frowned up at me. “It’s temporary. Someday, I’ll be in charge. That is the goal. Put in my dues and collect big later.”
“But there are other firms. Other kinds of clients.”
“But I don’t want those,” she insisted. “I want this.”
“Even though you hate it?” My hands paused in the space between her pants and her ass, which sat firmly and roundly in my palms.
Her frown deepened, but she didn’t speak.
“If you hate it, change it.”
A scoff, coupled with a roll of her eyes. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
I smirked down at her. “How come?”
An impatient huff. “Because for the last decade, it’s all I’ve dreamed of. Because I’ve busted my ass to prove myself, put myself through all the bullshit associated with that. Because this is my dream, hard or not. Because reasons, Kash, volumes and hoards of reasons.”
I kept on smirking despite the pause she expected me to fill.
“All right, Mr. Disapproval, what about you? Is this your dream job? Is working in the greenhouse your calling, or whatever?” She deflected, and I let her.
“Would it offend you if I said I didn’t have one?”
“Yes, it would.”
I laughed, giving her ass a squeeze.
Her brow quirked. “You really don’t have a passion?”
“There are things I enjoy, like sketching and growing things, sure. But passion’s a strong word. Are you passionate about getting hit in the face with cake?”
“Not so much that part of it, but the Femmes are a package deal. A smelly, gross package that will end up with me being humiliated weekly on national television, but a package that’s good for my career nonetheless. What I’m passionate about is the thrill. Spending months organizing something, bringing it all together to create a perfect moment. The joy of seeing that moment come to fruition and the joy experienced by the people I put it together for. It makes me feel like I did something great, something hard.”
“It makes you feel accomplished. But is that your passion? Is it something you’d do if you didn’t make a cent doing it?”
She was frowning again. “Is gardening yours?”
I shrugged, taking her arms around my neck for a ride. “Sure.”
“That was convincing.”
“There are a lot of things I love about it and nothing I hate. Other than getting bawled out by wedding planners.”
That earned me a laugh. “You mean to tell me there’s not one thing about your job you’re loathe to do? I mean, aside from dealing with me.”
I gave it the thought it deserved and answered honestly. “No, nothing.”
“Even shoveling mulch?”
“Even shoveling mulch. I call it shoulder day and wear a bandana to cover the smell. Makes me feel like a cowboy.”
She assessed me, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You know, I could see that. You as a cowboy. You don’t belong in this world.”
“No?”
“No. You could be a Gallic warrior or a Viking king or a cowboy. Brutish and wild, untamed. Size alone warrants the impossibility that you live in this time and not somewhere long ago, ruled by survival.”
The compliment I kept, held it tight, slid it into my pocket to remember later. “I think I’d pick a cowboy. Always did like horses. Although I’d probably be terrible at guns and lassos.”
“You’d learn,” she assured me, smiling. “There’s got to be something about your job you hate.”
“Why’s it so hard to believe?”
“Because it’s impossible.”
“Hate’s just as strong a word as passion. I don’t hate much of anything.”
She inspected me, saying after a moment, “Tell me one thing you hate.”
I broke my gaze to look over the top of her head at the wall, finally landing on something. “I hate when someone I love is hurt.”
“That doesn’t count.”
I frowned, looking back down at her. “How come?”
“Because it’s about other people, not you. Come on, what about something to eat? Like onions. Or mushrooms.”
“No, I like both of those. I’m like a raccoon—I’ll eat pretty much anything.”
She shook her head at me in disbelief. “I cannot fathom this.”
“Because you have so many opinions. Is it that hard to believe there could be another end of the spectrum?”
“Sure, but to hate
nothing? That’s just weird, Kash. Everybody has things they love and things they hate, and I aim to figure out yours.”
I pulled her a little closer, smirking again. “What do you love to do that’s not organizing things and bossing people around?”
She pinched me. “Did you just call me bossy?”
“No, I just called you a boss. It’s how you get things done—you take charge. But I’m not letting you slide this time … what’s your hobby? Something unrelated to your job that you love and hate.”
“I don’t really have time for much else,” she admitted after a beat.
“Ever gardened?”
“Please, I kill everything I touch. Black thumb. I even killed an air plant, and all it needs to survive is air.”
I chuckled. “Nobody’s good at it until they learn. Come over, and I’ll show you at the greenhouse.”
A smile, slow and sweet. “All right.”
I pushed her pants over the swell of her ass, and they fell, pooling at her ankles. “Don’t wear white,” I said, angling for her lips.
She started to laugh, but I swallowed it, kissed her deep. Her lips tasted like buttercream, eager and seeking, her hands ruffling my hair as we twisted together. The silk of her bra and panties were slick, catching on my callused fingers, but she didn’t care for their well-being, and for that, I was glad. Because that silk in my hands had become one of my favorite sensations.
Deeper I kissed her, lips stretched and seamed, mouths wide, tongues searching. A moan into my mouth, rattling my tongue as it passed. Her thigh hitched, hanging on my hip in an effort to get closer to me, to press against my length. Less than a minute was all it took for the heavy heat between us to turn frantic.
She broke the kiss, lips swollen and breath loud, to look up at me. “I should clean up,” she said like she hoped I’d object.
Which I did.
I kissed her again, too impatient to speak. It was a tasting, slow and light, tongues brushing, retreating, teasing and testing. All day, I had waited for this moment, to hold her in my arms, to feel that perilous click of rightness.
