Cake

by Carmen Jenner

  Poppy

  I hurriedly press the buzzer for Claire’s apartment, holding it down longer than I should. My stomach roils, there’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow, and anger burns through my veins like acid through flesh. After what seems like an eternity, Claire’s voice crackles through the intercom. “Hello?”

  “It’s Poppy,” I say tightly, and I’m sure I sound like a lunatic, but I have to find out the truth.

  “Oh, hey.” There’s an awkward beat of silence. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come up? I need to talk to you.”

  “Er . . . sure, I’ll buzz you in.”

  The door clicks open with a loud buzz and I push into the foyer and climb the stairs to her apartment. Hushed voices come from inside. Great. It seems Chase is here too. Well, at least I’ll get the truth out of one of them. Fueled by this new thought, I pound my fist on the door.

  Claire opens it with a plastered-on smile. Behind her, Chase stands adjusting his shirt. I push past her into the apartment.

  “Hey, Poppy,” Chase says. He runs a hand through his dark hair and gives me that enigmatic grin that’s gotten him everything he ever wanted—the one I’d always fallen for hook, line, and sinker. This time, it turns my stomach. I glance past them to the dining table set with candles and what looks like the remnants of a romantic meal. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’m not staying.”

  Claire frowns. “This isn’t about my dress, is it?”

  “No, it’s not about that.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Claire says with a pointed tone. Chase rests his hands on his bride-to-be’s shoulders, as if soothing the savage beast.

  “How long?”

  “How long what?” Claire snaps.

  I turn my glare on Chase. “How long were you sleeping with my best friend while we were engaged?”

  I didn’t come here to accuse him. I didn’t know for sure that he’d cheated. Until now. The indifferent expression on his face and the wide-eyed look of complete horror on Claire’s confirms it. “Poppykins, please,” Chase says, as if I’m being a difficult toddler.

  “Don’t fucking ‘Poppykins’ me. How long, Chase?”

  “Poppy,” Claire says. “We weren’t—”

  “You know, all this time I wondered if Chase had fallen out of love with me because of something I did, because I didn’t try hard enough, I didn’t give him enough. I should have realized another woman was already giving him everything he needed.”

  “We didn’t mean to. It was an accident.” Claire sobs.

  Chase’s voice is steely as he says, “We were over for a long time before that, Poppy, and you know it.”

  “Because you fucked someone else. You fell in love with someone else, with my best friend,” I shout, and God, does it feel good to finally let it out. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and swallow hard. “So, I guess congratulations are in order. I hope the three of you are very happy together. God knows you two certainly deserve one another.”

  “Poppy,” Claire begs. Fat tears roll down her cheeks and drip off her chin. “Poppy please, I need you. The wedding is only a few days away.”

  I turn and glare at her—the person who’s been beside me, who’s had my back since kindergarten, my best friend—and it occurs to me that I don’t even know her anymore. I shake my head, and with tears streaming down my face unchecked, I walk out.

  I head outside into the rainy winter night, and I just walk. Several blocks later, I find myself on Leo’s doorstep. I stare up at the brownstone. His lights are on. I have no idea if he’s ... entertaining, but I have nowhere else—no one else—to go to.

  A man exits the building, and I catch the front door before it closes. Sopping wet, I slip inside and trudge up the stairs to his apartment, because even though I despise this man, there’s not another place in this city I want to be. Funny that my enemy should wind up the only person who can console me.

  What is that they say about the ones you love hurting you the most?

  Chapter Seventeen

  The enemy of my enemy is my . . . friend? What-the-hell-ever, just hand me the whiskey.

  Leo

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I should be out at a bar. I should be slipping inside some hot piece of ass right now, or at the very least groping some chick in a cab on the way back to her place.

  But I’m not doing any of those things. I’m sitting on my couch, drinking beer while I consider texting, talking to, or even fucking stalking Poppy. What the hell has happened to me?

  I used to be a god, a legend. Now I’m just some pathetic schmuck sitting alone on a Sunday night with his dick in his hand, contemplating jacking off to the image of a woman he can never have. It’s a fucking travesty.

  Even my little brother the bum isn’t sitting home alone. He’s out scoring pussy at a gig with his latest shitty band. He’s a monumental fuck up, and yet he’s still having more sex than I am. The only consolation is that I have my apartment back, even if it’s just for a few hours.

  The peace and quiet is shattered with a knock at my door. I tuck my flaccid cock inside my pants and groan.

  “Jas, if you’ve lost your fucking key again I’m going to get another cut, and then I’m going to jam it up your ass,” I shout as I thunder over to the door and yank it open.

  “Not Jas,” Poppy says. Holy shit, what the hell is she doing here? She’s soaking wet, her eyes are puffy and red, and she’s shaking violently. “And boy am I glad, because that sounds like it would really hurt.”

  My brow creases. “What are you doing here, Pop Tart?”

  “Funny enough, I’m not sure, but Claire and Chase asked me the same thing when I showed up on their doorstep just a half hour ago.”

  “Oh, shit.” I roll my gaze over her from head to toe. Her coat hangs from her body like a wet rug. She has no gloves on, no scarf, and no hat, and her boots appear to be soaked through. “Did you walk from there?”

  “Yep.” Her teeth chatter. “Can I come in? I’m freezing.”

  Flustered, I move back from the door. “Yeah, of course.”

  She enters my apartment and glances around. She’s been here a handful of times with Chase, but I’m suddenly self-conscious that it’s so messy. I stand there staring at her.

  “I shouldn’t have come here, but I didn’t want to be alone. I need to go—”

  “Stay. I’ll get you some clothes.”

  I expect her to protest and race out of my apartment as fast as her dainty little feet will take her, but she just nods and whispers, “Thanks.”

  I head to the linen closet and grab her a couple of towels, and then I pull a pair of drawstring sweats that I know will be far too big for her narrow waist and a cashmere sweater from my closet, and hand them to her. “You should probably have a hot shower. I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “That sounds good, but not coffee. Just fix me a stiff drink?”

  “You got it.”

  “Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Use the one in my bedroom. You never know what kind of state Jas has left the other in.”

  “Okay.” She disappears down the hall, and I scrub my hands over my face. Jesus Christ. Get it together, asshole. I can’t even talk to her now that I know . . . I can’t be around her without wanting to touch her, which is just so fucking wrong. This is Pop Tart. She’s anal-retentive, OCD, wedding obsessed, and a believer in true love, love at first sight, and . . . fate. Worse still, seeing her standing on my doorstep with nowhere else to go makes me a goddamn believer too. I’m fucking head over heels. Screwed every which way from Sunday, and something tells me I’d love sharing my life with this woman as much as I love fighting with her. And I really love fighting with her.

  While she’s showering, I use the time to tidy my apartment a little and when she comes out of my room her wet hair sticking to her neck and shoulders, her face fresh but somehow even more vulnerable, wearing my clothes and smelling l
ike my soap, I just stare at her. I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, and I know my dick is hard. Thank God for the kitchen counter blocking it from view.

  “Am I that terrifying with no makeup on?”

  “No. You’re perfect.”

  She scoffs. “Perfect. So perfect that my fiancé fucks my best friend and gets her pregnant while we’re still planning our wedding.”

  “He’s an asshole, Poppy. He doesn’t deserve you. Never did.”

  I know she thinks that I had something to do with talking Chase into breaking up with her, and she may be right. Once he told me he was thinking about fucking someone else, I couldn’t hold my tongue. Fuck, Poppy deserved better. She’d put up with his shit for far too long, and he made it sound as if screwing another woman was the same as cheating on your barber. It pissed me off. Really fucking pissed me off. So naturally, I told him he should cut her loose. I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it, and at the time I didn’t understand why it made me so mad. Now, I understood all too well.

  She studies my face, and her brow furrows. Any second now she’ll call me on my shit. She’ll ask why I’m being nice to her.

  This woman hates me. I’m under no illusion about that. She came here because she had nowhere else to go. Maybe she came for a fight, or maybe she needed a familiar face—no matter how despised. Either way, I’m not a nice guy, and Poppy knows it.

  “About that drink,” she says.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Did you know he was cheating?”

  “What? No. Fuck, do you really think I would have kept that from you?” I grab a couple of glasses from the cabinet on the wall and open the bottle of whiskey.

  She leans on the counter, and buries her face in her hands. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve known you my whole life, Pop Tart. This may come as a shock to you, but I don’t relish seeing you in pain.”

  Slowly, she raises her head and her eyes meet mine. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Leo?”

  “I’m serious.” I pour us both a stiff drink. Poppy swallows hers down in a matter of seconds. I watch her throat bob, and can’t help but think of other things I’d like to see her swallow.

  She winces and beats her chest with a gasp. “If that was true you’d stop calling me Pop Tart.”

  “I said I didn’t relish seeing you in pain, not that I’d turned into a saint. You gotta allow a man a little fun.” I refill her drink, grab my glass, and head over to the couch. Poppy follows and sits beside me. Immediately, she picks up the remote, turns on the TV, and starts scrolling through my channels. She settles on some Hallmark-looking shit and I snatch the remote back.

  “Hey! I was watching that.”

  “Not on my TV you’re not. Besides, this is sharing and caring time.”

  “I don’t want to share, and I certainly don’t want to care anymore.”

  “Too bad. You stepped into Dr. Nass’s office. Out with it.”

  “Dr. Nass?” She screws up her perfect little nose. “Jesus, why do you sound like a porno doctor?”

  “How do you know what porno doctors sound like?”

  Poppy rolls her eyes. “Women watch porn, you know.”

  “You make an excellent point and we’ll come back to that, but for now, you need to tell me about Chase and Claire.”

  She takes another sip of her whiskey. “Well, let’s see. It all started when my fiancé forgot he was already engaged to a woman and decided to stick his pin-dick into my best friend.”

  I chuckle at the mention of Chase’s pin-dick. It’s true; he does have a small penis. We’ve been friends a long time, and between the locker rooms in school, suit fittings and holidaying by the beach in the Hamptons, I’ve seen enough to validate Poppy’s claim.

  “What about that is funny?”

  “Nothing, just that maybe you chose the wrong guy to obsess over in high school. Spoiler alert—my dick is huge.” I expect her to hit me, frown, and feign disgust, but she doesn’t. She laughs. So, like a complete dick, I continue because I’ve always been a sucker for a woman with a sense of humor. “It’s true. I can show you if you like?”

  I unzip my fly, as if I’m really going to take out the beast and just flop it down on the table.

  This time she does react the way I expect. She throws a cushion at me. “That is literally the last thing I want to see.”

  “Oh come on, you’re not even the slightest bit curious?” I ask. “I’ve thought about your grumpy cat a lot.”

  “Sure you have.”

  “I have.”

  Poppy shakes her head. “Whatever. We are not having this conversation.”

  “Fine, but we do need to talk about something. Are you still going to this wedding, or can I eat your cake?” I mean for that to come out nothing like it sounds, but of course because apparently I’m now a teenage horn bag, it comes out low and sounds just like cake is a metaphor for her grumpy cat.

  “Yeah—”

  “Yeah I can eat your cake?” I ask, somewhat breathlessly. Jesus, fuck. When did I grow a pair of ovaries?

  “Yeah, I’m still going. My job is on the line, and no, you can’t eat my cake. Don’t think I don’t know that was a metaphor. You’re not going anywhere near my cake.”

  “Damn. I’m excellent at eating cake. Everybody says so.”

  Poppy rolls her eyes. “That’s the problem.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”

  She smiles tightly, but doesn’t say anything. A beat passes between us. Her gaze locks with mine and her cheeks turn the sweetest shade of pink. “This truce will be over in the morning, right?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Can I stay here? I don’t really want to be alone.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  I smile, but then I quickly lose the grin as Poppy sets down her drink and crawls across the couch toward me. I raise my hands as if warding off a dangerous animal. Poppy tosses a cushion over my crotch and lays her head down. “Woah, what just happened?”

  “Shut up,” Poppy says. “I’m tired, I’m sick of crying, and tonight I just need to feel someone’s touch.”

  “Well, hell, baby, why didn’t you say so?” This earns me a sharp slap to the thigh.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this to you, but I need you to hold me, just for tonight. Do you think you could do that?”

  “Hold you?” My voice is barely a whisper.

  “Please?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I clear my throat, and shift my hips beneath her head. “No problem.”

  No problem? What the fuck? This is a huge problem. A huge fucking problem. The girl I want to bone is two inches from my cock and instead of asking her to blow me, all I want to do is just as she asked. Hold her. Comfort her. Make her see that Chase is a fucking idiot for cheating on her and letting her slip away.

  After a beat, I relax and rest my hand on her waist. She grabs it, threads her fingers with mine and pulls it into her chest. In this position, I’m inadvertently poking her face with my dick and copping a feel of her boobs, and I’ve never been more sexually frustrated in my whole goddamn life. I’m so fucking screwed.

  “This truce ends in the morning. Just so we’re clear,” she reminds me.

  “Pop Tart, you can bet your life on it.”

  “Good.”

  Good. Great, even. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Douchebags who wander

  Poppy

  I race toward the terminal, the garment bag with the gown inside thrown over my arms and shoulder. Many times on the cab ride here I’ve thought of slashing it, throwing it out the window, accidentally puking on it, or putting it up for auction on eBay. I haven’t done any of those things, obviously, but I sure as hell want to. I’m going to miss my plane. God, I do not want to get on that plane, but my job is at stake.

  I saw the disappointment in Jacinta’s gaze when I told her I c
ouldn’t attend the wedding. I also saw the delight in Katherine’s. After that meeting I went home, consumed a bottle of wine, ate a whole baker’s dozen of Magnolia Cupcakes, puked up the contents of my stomach, and resolved to put on my big-girl panties and see this wedding through ’til the end. Plus, Katherine had been gloating all week at the office, and she was not getting my promotion.

  I will not miss my plane.

  I will not miss my plane.

  I will not miss my plane.

  Though, would it really be the worst thing if I did? It’d mean I’d get to go back to bed with my new friend the head cold. I could curl up with Sam, Dean, and Cas, and watch Supernatural from start to finish, and I wouldn’t have to look at Claire and Chase’s lying faces ever again. Not the worst thing ever—though there would no doubt be questions. My mother would be calling me every five seconds until I answered. I could always get a new phone? But despite Jacinta giving me a free pass, I’d lose my shot at that promotion, and as much as I love my job, I cannot work under Katherine again. Ever. Besides—thanks to Katherine forgetting to pick it up—I have the wedding gown, and as tempting as it is to throw it onto the tarmac, I have a job to do.

  I dash up to the gate just as the hostess is gathering her things. Beyond her, the doors to the jetway are closed, despite there being another twenty minutes until departure. “Please,” I pant collapsing against the counter in a heap. I really need to work on my cardio. “I have to get on that flight.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, they’ve already closed the doors.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” I sniff, digging around in my pocket for a Kleenex. I hold my finger up to indicate that she should wait as my body is wracked with one sneeze after the other. “If I’m not on that plane I lose my job, Katherine will get that promotion, my family will never forgive me, and neither will my so-called best friend, not to mention that it will look deliberate because my ex-fiancé is marrying my ex-best friend, and the groomsman is a jackass who I’ll be forced to see every holiday when our parents get together, and I really can’t afford to miss that flight.” Sneeze. Cough. The woman glares at me as if I’ve lost my damn mind. “My whole life—and Sam, Dean and Cas’s lives—depend on you letting me on that flight.”