Cake

by Nicole Reed

  To all my pink ladies who have had to fight, for the loved ones that never gave up, and to the angels who live on in our hearts.

  Shirley Henry 1936 – 2013

  Cake Playlist

  Little Rap Queen

  Oh My POP God!

  Love Stinks

  Tall Tales

  Baby Daddy

  Losing My Mind

  Crazy Train

  Twilight Central

  Say Yes, Kylie

  Cowgirls Like Rap

  Sandwiches And Spankings

  Karma Is A…

  Oops…You Forgot What?!

  Bourbon, Boys, And Breast Cancer

  Skanks And Slores Allowed

  Big Girls Do Cry

  Landslide

  Up The Duff

  Panty Dropper

  Scoot Down Doctor And DNA Test

  Are You My Daddy?

  Epilogue ~ Two Years Later

  Nick’s POV

  Acknowledgements

  About Me

  These songs were on constant rotation while writing Cake. In fact, the entire album, I Love You by The Neighbourhood, was such a creative inspiration that I will forever love this band.

  Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood

  Wicked Games by The Weeknd

  Bad by Wale

  Kisses Down Low by Kelly Rowland

  Wanted You More by Lady Antebellum

  Gone by Olivia Broadfield

  Mine Would Be You by Blake Shelton

  Promiscuous by Nelly Furtado & Timbaland

  Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye by Luke Bryan

  Made to Love by John Legend

  Pictures by Terry McDermott

  Tapout by Rich Gang

  Blowin’ Smoke by Kacey Musgraves

  Don’t Think They Know by Chris Brown

  Crystal by Stevie Nicks

  Save Yourself by Sense Field

  Nothing Left To Say by Imagine Dragons

  Hot Boyz by Missy Elliott

  Madison has been rapping for the last hour.

  Her country twang spits out every rhyme perfectly in sync with her boy-toy’s new rap songs which pump through the state-of-the-art sound system in her blue Mini Cooper. My eardrums are mortally wounded by the bass that reverberates through the tiny car, initiating a rhythmic pounding in my head. As much as I would like to duct tape her tone-deaf mouth shut, I can’t help but to roll my eyes and smile.

  “Oh yeah, bend it over. Let me see that ass drop...,” she raps, bouncing in her seat while driving.

  “You are killing me, you know,” I say, laughing at her gyrations that really mimic a small seizure of some sort.

  Stopping mid-song, she turns and grins back at me, “C’mon, Kylie. His voice makes me want to take my panties off and beg for mercy.” Looking over at me, she wiggles her dark eyebrows and cheekily continues, “With Lil Rip, of course. You’re not my type. You have to admit, his voice gets you wetter than a cucumber in a women’s prison.”

  My snort of laughter is so un-lady like that it takes a minute to realize it is coming from me. “God you are awful,” I say, popping her arm playfully. “Uh, I don’t think so. My opinion though,” I comment, holding my hands up. “I’m still blushing about the song before this one. I even had to mentally bleep out certain parts. That boy gets to talking nasty.”

  “Kylie, quit being a pussy prude. You need to start letting the beaver out to play more. If not, it’s going to dam your shit up. Then what?”

  “Madison Reid! Do you kiss my momma with that mouth?” I act offended, but the truth is, it’s a long standing joke between us. She is much closer with my mother than her own.

  “Yes, and she probably likes the taste of Lil Rip as much as I do,” she says, blowing me a kiss with the hand that is not on the steering wheel. “You know what you need, Kylie?”

  “I’m afraid to know.”

  Not listening to my reply, she carries on, “You need a good ole freaky sexing. Someone who doesn’t care to bend you over, lick it wet, and whisper dirty nothings in your ear.”

  “Yeah…. because like the songs says, I’m sure having someone call me their bitch and then describe how they are going to do me doggy style, would turn me on.” Shaking my head back and forth, I continue, “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “Your loss. I could introduce you to some of Rip’s friends?”

  “Mmmm, didn’t we try this already?” I question, sarcastically acting as though I would actually consider it. “I like my guys to be able to carry a conversation without referring to me as their ‘ho’ and then threatening to ‘fuck them bitches up’ for talking to me.”

  “Look, my bad for that choice of a blind date.” She looks intently at the road, as if driving takes all of her concentration now.

  “Mads, they were nuns,” I say, shaking my head at her.

  “They terrorized him as a child. He tried to explain this to you,” she states with a straight face. “Well, all I can say is that you don’t know what you’re missing.” This time, she sends a sly wink while nodding her head at me and then, thankfully, returns her attention back to the road. I turn my gaze out the window to look out at the beautiful Georgia scenery passing me by as Madison speedily winds her way around some twisty roads. The fierce July sun beats down through the open sunroof, scorching the top of my nose.

  “Dammit,” I say, reaching in my bag for my sunscreen. We are heading to a summer cookout at a mutual friend’s house. Rubbing the lotion across the slight sunburn, I take another peek over at Mads who is still jammin’ to her music. God, I love this girl, but I worry about her constantly.

  Mads is probably one of the most intelligent women I know. We met freshman year in college as roommates. Two people couldn’t have been more poles apart, but you know what they say about opposites. Physically, we both have dark shoulder-length hair, but hers is solid black while mine is more of a rich brown. We both have eerily similar pale-green eyes. Her skin is this light brown hue that always has a natural glow, a fine trait of her mixed black/white heritage. I, on the other hand, have to tan my pasty white ass to keep from looking like the walking dead. I tower over her five-foot five-inch frame, by an additional six inches, and I’m way more curvaceous, to my utter dismay.

  In college, I was the studious one that struggled constantly with my grades while Mads was the boy-crazed party girl. I don’t remember her ever opening up a textbook, but she always had a perfect grade point average. She comes from music royalty; her dad, Brian Reid, is an R&B legend and, now, a super successful music producer. She, however, doesn’t have a musical bone in her tight little body. Instead, she’s a brainiac who graduated with honors, followed through with graduate school, and currently works as a Bio-Medical Engineer at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta.

  The biggest bone of contention, for both of us, is our choice in men, aesthetically and intellectually. Madison likes her men gritty, blinged-out, wannabe gangsters who can barely carry a coherent conversation where my choice of men is summed up in two words: Trent Moss, a kind, caring, loyal, humanitarian with a tortured past that gives him depth and understanding. Okay, so his looks caught my attention first, as I’m sure it does every female. His shoulder-length curly brown hair is always pulled back, highlighting his soulful brown eyes and a lean muscular build that any female would want to wrap her body around. But in all honesty, it was what was on the inside that made him my first, and so far last, love. Mads thinks I’m crazy and a sadomasochist, because he, obviously, doesn’t feel the same way. Ugh, not going there.

  At the squeal of tires and the sound of Madison’s loud cursing, I automatically brace myself against the car’s dashboard. My whole body jerks harshly forward, but my seatbelt snaps me back against the seat and into the present.

  “Fuck me. I missed the turn
,” she says, whipping the car around in the middle of the road.

  “Slow down, Danica Patrick,” I comment, sarcastically referring to the famous female racecar driver.

  “We are late again. Damn it! Dray will have a field day. That man and his big mouth. And I don’t mean that in a good way.”

  A small laugh escapes me at her remark. The only person that hates Dray Savage more than me is Mads, simply because of the condescending way he always treats me and the sexual innuendos he loves to shock me with.

  I can’t think of Trent without thinking of Dray. It’s funny when I think about it. I met Mads the day before I met Trent Moss and, subsequently, the bane of my existence, Dray Savage, star college running-back and now NFL star. Arrogant asshole would be an apt description. I cringe when I think how the womanizing whoremonger just had to be associated with the one guy, who is the epitome of everything he is not. These three have been the closest to me, other than my own family, for the last seven years. Since Trent and Dray were foster brothers, Trent would drag him everywhere he went, and Mads was usually left alone since her parents were never home. As a result, they all spent nearly every summer and holiday with us. That is until, luckily, Dray was drafted to the NFL after his junior year. I had Trent mostly to myself that last year of college. Too bad he considered me more of a valued sister figure than a girlfriend.

  Pulling up to our friend Tamara’s lake house, we park behind a multitude of costly vehicles, mostly belonging to the Atlanta Eagles football team. Tamara’s husband, Gavin, is the star quarterback of the team and an all-around really great guy. Tamara and I met two years ago when she was debating over buying a Fendi beaded bag in my boutique, which she smartly did because it was fabulous, and since then, we’ve become close friends. Grabbing the bottles of wine from the backseat, Mads and I make our way to the front door.

  We hear the old school rap pulsating through the front entrance as both of us stroll up to the doors. Inviting ourselves in, we see scores of people hanging about. Most are lounging around talking with a large group playing video games on a giant screen. Mads and I smile as we say our hellos and make our way to the kitchen. We almost make it unscathed before the unfortunate sound of Dray’s deep voice lands in my left ear.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Kylie Lord who has come to bless us with her presence. All hail the holy crotch.” Drays smiles, his dark brown eyes twinkling at me.

  Slowly turning around, I plaster a fake smile on my face and reply, “I am holding a full wine bottle in each hand. I would really think carefully about your next words before speaking to me.” I finish narrowing my eyes directly at him.

  Moving up on me, he softly states, “I’m all down for licking some wine off of you. I’m sure the ice-princess can keep it chilled for me.”

  “You wish, Asshole.”

  Grinning like an idiot, he stares back. God, he gets off on our verbal sparring. He’s sick and needs professional help. And why does he have to be so damn good looking? It infuriates me to no end to notice this. Today he is wearing a white t-shirt and red board shorts, emphasizing his immaculate physique. His African heritage gives him the most beautiful brown skin which compliments his short black hair and thick eyebrows. He stares me down, and I can’t help but notice the most interesting dark eyes and his machine-like body with muscled arms, a strong neck, thick barrel chest, hard thighs, and perfect backside. And dammit! He has a lone left dimple in his cheek and black ornate tattoos decorating both arms, the two most deadly sins for a woman to have to fantasize about. Damn! Him!

  Glancing over towards Mads, he starts in on her, motioning his head backward saying, “Your new man, Lil Rip, is out back on the boat. I believe he is giving everyone a preview of his new rap song, My Bitch’s Brain is Bigger than her Booty.” He turns his back to us and starts shaking his butt dancing while spanking air. Winking at her, he finishes, “It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Mads smirks back and turns her middle finger up, giving him a not so nice hand gesture. “Yeah, it’s follow up song, Dray has a Dinky Dick, is going to be a top 100 hit. All the women agree.” Turning around, we high-five before heading to the kitchen with laughter following us.

  “Oh yeah, Mads,” I comment, laughing at her.

  “I hate that, Fucker!” she yells.

  “There are my girls,” Tamara says as we walk in. Her red hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she looks more like the girl next door, which endears her to me even more. Setting the wine on the counter, I reach over to give her a hug.

  “Sorry we are late. I was in the middle of a bidding war on a John Galliano pink backless gown that I have been salivating over.”

  “And did you get it?” Tamara asks. This time a genuine smile covers my face as I nod.

  “My aunt is going to love it! I can’t wait to show her.”

  Patting my arm, Tamara replies, “I’m sure she will.”

  Right after we graduated, my favorite aunt, Leigh, who had been in remission with breast cancer, received the news that we all dreaded to hear. It had returned. Around Atlanta, she is known as this avid wearable art collector and historian of fashion. All the Southern genteel want a peek at her closet.

  Twenty years ago, after her husband died, she opened an upscale resale boutique named Decadent Darling in a trendy neighborhood in the northern suburbs of Atlanta. Having never had children of her own, she would let me travel with her to purchase from predominately private collections. In turn, igniting my own love for fashion. Her reputation of being able to procure couture pieces designed by Dior, Versace, Valentina, and Givenchy made her shop an immediate success.

  Having been a part of Decadent Darling all my life, it was a no-brainer for her, when she could no longer physically handle the store, to deed it over to me. In college, I had initially thought to pursue some type of career in biology, but after a year, I switched programs and received my Bachelor of Science in Business Administration. I’ve continued to uphold the shop’s status and have made it even more successful in this bad economy thanks to online shopping. Actually, Mads is also a large part of my success because, since college, we both wear inventory which boosts sales.

  “Speaking of…” Tamara says, “I love this white eyelet mini dress you are wearing. Very vintage and very you. Sex and innocence all wrapped up in a nice bow. I want it!”

  “Thanks. I thought it would be perfect for today. It just arrived, and I love it too!”

  She pours Mads and me a huge glass of wine and hands them to us. For about half an hour, we catch up on local gossip and events.

  “Excuse some of my guests today, mainly the football players. This is their last hoorah before preseason camp begins. Things may get a little wild out there tonight. The boys work hard but play even harder.” Tamara grins at us. “You know, I’m sure you single ladies can find one of these lucky guys to work hard for you, if you get my drift. Damn, I’m jealous,” she says, joking because she loves her husband.

  Mads looks at me and then Tamara, “For the moment, my fine ass is spoken for.”

  Rolling my eyes at her, I look over at Tamara, “Her newest bad boy rapper. She says you can actually have a conversation with this one, unlike the last, so she’s moving up in the world.”

  “You’re heartless,” Mads states, acting offended. “He couldn’t help that he had a slight speech impediment. I would be ashamed if I were you.”

  “Mads, he didn’t have speech issues. He said everything twice and mumbled, ‘You feel me’ after every sentence. Be honest. Was there ever a meaningful moment between you two?”

  Devilishly grinning, she answers with a twinkle in her eye, “Oh yes. He meant it every time he was ten inches deep in me.”

  “Ten, huh?” Tamara asks wide-eyed, actually pondering the fact.

  “Mmm-hm. And let me tell you, there is nothing little, about Lil Rip.” Leaning in closer, she whispers, “A solid twelve.”

  “Ouch! That just sounds painful. I’m going to have to s
tart a save the va-jay-jay campaign.” I jokingly reply, making Tamara laugh.

  Looking at me, Madison says, “Kylie Lord, you are a jealous little ‘ho’.” Turning to walk outside, she calls, “Later, my bitches,” as she tries to pinch my chest on the way out.

  I slap her hand away, “Go find Long Duc Dong to play with.”

  Tamara laughs at our antics. Glancing back at me, she says, “What about you? Anyone special I should know about?”

  That is such a loaded question when it pertains to me. Is there someone for me? No. Yes. Maybe? How do I explain how much in love I am with someone who doesn’t love me back? Other women look at you like you are the scuffs on their Jimmy Choos. Worse actually, the bubblegum that is stuck on the scuffs of their Jimmy Choos. They call you “wishy-washy” or echo the most hated words of the South, “Bless her heart.” Everyone knows, that bless her heart really means that stupid bitch. So I answer, what I always do.

  “No. Hopefully one day.”

  I mean, that is the truth. I’m young and allowed to live my life how I want. The only thing worse than being a single woman in love, is being a single woman who, God forbid, wants to get laid outside of a relationship. What century are we in? I should be able, since I don’t have a ring on my finger, to go out and flirt or fuck without question. In fact, women of this world should support this instead of calling each other petty names. The only name calling that should be allowed is if they are hysterically funny. That’s why Mads doesn’t piss me off. One: she doesn’t mean it, and two: well, she makes me laugh.