Under the Stars: Bright Lights Duet #2

by Louise, Tia

  “Still… you haven’t been with a guy in what? Five years?”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “I’m just saying. That’s one well-constructed penis.”

  “Again, it’s cake.”

  “I wish Liam was black.” Instantly her green eyes go round, and she leans closer, whispering, “Is that racist?”

  “Depends on what you say next. Why?”

  She falls back on the stool, her eyes fluttering shut. “Because your Devil’s food cake with the coconut pecan buttercream icing and dark chocolate ganache is better than sex.”

  “Then you’re not doing it right.”

  “You’re not doing it at all!”

  Cutting my eyes at her, I set the sharp knife aside.

  She sniffs. “Well, you’re not.”

  Choosing to ignore her jab, I return to her original statement, reaching for the bowl of vanilla pastry cream. “Liam is white. His penis has to match him.” Pausing in my filling, I study the bisected cake in front of me. “I was planning to use all this cream for the inside, but maybe I should save some for the tip…”

  “Oh my god,” Tabby snorts. “Mousey little Donna White has totally knocked my socks off. This is the tackiest order in the history of Ember Rose Cakes!”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “Donna didn’t order it.”

  Red-velvet lips part, and Tabby’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Who did?”

  “Help me.”

  She lifts the opposite end of the top layer, and together we slowly place it over the cream-filled bottom.

  The little bell over the door rings, and I step back, crossing my arms, admiring the lifelike almond-sponge penis cake with vanilla cream filling. “She doesn’t like fondant, so I’m thinking I’ll cover it in beige marzipan—”

  “You’re working late tonight, Ember.” My mother’s stern voice echoes through the large, empty store (a.k.a., my future bakery-slash-home).

  With a hiss, Tabby spins beside me, blocking the cake with her body. I freeze, my heart thudding frantically in my chest. Oh, shit.

  “Uh…” Tabby walks fast to meet my mother halfway between the front door and the large table at the back wall where I do my decorating. “We got a last-minute cake order for Donna’s shower.”

  I frantically look for anything to cover the oversized male member—as if that could possibly save us from the shit-storm about to erupt.

  “That’s nice.” Condescension is thick in her voice. “Donna’s mother has been a faithful member of the church since you were little girls. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your talent…”

  My mother stops, and a knot lodges in my throat. Seconds like hours tick past as she steps around my best friend, arms crossed, frowning down at the phallus. Thank God I haven’t added the extra cream to the tip yet.

  “What is this?” Her voice is hard, disgusted.

  “Just what the doctor ordered!” Tabby calls out. “A little taste of what’s to come!”

  It’s no use. My mother is impervious to humor.

  “God gives you a talent, Emberly Rose, and this is how you thank him? By making porn?”

  My mind drifts to a list of questions, the way it always does when her lectures start: Would God really be angry about a cake shaped like Donna’s future husband’s penis? Doesn’t God have bigger fish to fry? Does God even fry fish? Jesus ate fish…

  “Are you listening to me, Emberly Rose?”

  I blink back to attention. “It seemed like an interesting challenge.”

  The sweetest little voice cuts through the tension in the air. “Mommy’s cake! Mommy’s cake!” Everything is forgotten as I dash forward, scooping my little girl into my arms.

  “Coco bean!” I spin her around and kiss her velvety cheek. The entire world is suddenly brighter.

  “The purple monster says tres!” she chants.

  “Tres?” I pretend to be confused. “What is tres?”

  “Three!” she cries holding up three small fingers.

  “That’s right!” I hug her body snug against mine.

  All the shame and fear are gone when I hold Coco, but she starts to wiggle. She wants to get down.

  “I want cake! Mommy cake!”

  My mother is quick to interrupt. “Colette, come to Grandmother.”

  “Cake! Cake! Cake!” Her little eyes sparkle and two dimples punctuate her cheeks as she cheers for cake.

  Happiness rises in my chest with every pump of her cute little fist over her head.

  “How about this…” I go to her and kneel, putting my hands on her tiny waist. She puts her hands on the tops of my shoulders, her dark eyes suddenly serious. “I’ll make you a special cupcake with a purple monster and a big three on it.”

  “I’m four now.”

  “This isn’t a birthday cake.” I smooth my fingers in her hair, moving a cluster of silky brunette curls behind her ear. “It’s a special cake, and I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

  “You won’t spend the night?”

  My heart sinks with her question, but I can’t spend another night in my mother’s house. I just can’t.

  “I have to fix this house for us. Remember? We’re going to live upstairs. And I’ll be over first thing tomorrow with your cupcake.”

  I carry her to the door where my mother waits, disapproval lining her thin lips. “Church tomorrow. I expect you to be there.”

  “I will.” I give Coco another hug, taking a deep inhale of her sweet little girl scent. “Go with Granny now.”

  “Grandmother.” My mother corrects me. “Come, Colette.”

  “Let’s go, Granny!” Coco wiggles out of my arms to the floor then hops out like a kangaroo.

  Tabby snorts behind me, and my mother’s eyes narrow. “We’ll finish this tomorrow.”

  With that she strides out, and I push the door closed behind them, resting my forehead against the glass.

  “I swear, if that little girl were any less stubborn, I’d be worried about her,” Tabby says from behind me.

  I watch them a few seconds longer—my mother trying unsuccessfully to hold Coco’s hand while they walk the four blocks to her house, the old house where I grew up.

  “She’ll be okay a little while longer,” I say, feeling like my heart is hopping away from me, batting at her grandmother’s hand with every bounce.

  “Old battle axe. I guess you survived living with her.”

  “She wasn’t like this before Minnie died.” My voice is quiet, repeating a memory.

  “Says who.” It’s not a question. It’s a skeptical retort from my bestie.

  “Aunt Agnes. She said my mother used to know how to have fun.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “To be honest, I’ve never believed it either.” I don’t even remember my older sister.

  “You’re too independent for her. She can’t handle it. She almost lost her mind when you took up with Jackson Cane so young—”

  Cutting my eyes, I stop that line of conversation. “We don’t talk about him.”

  “We should.” Tabby studies my face. “He’s the only guy you were ever serious about.”

  He said he’d come back, and he never did…

  Exhaling deeply, I return to my phallic creation. “Ancient history. Now let’s finish this thing before it’s too late.”

  I ditch the marzipan idea and opt instead for a skin-toned buttercream. Tabby starts cleaning up, and I’m almost finished frosting when the bell over the door rings again.

  “What is this, Grand Central?” Tabby mutters.

  “How’s it hanging, girls?”

  “Jesus!” Tabby jerks around with a gasp, running to meet Betty Pepper, Oceanside Village’s busiest of the ancient busybodies.

  “Hi, Miss B!” she calls too loudly, intercepting the old woman. “What brings you to the store this evening?”

  Betty glances around. “You should have items to sell if it’s a store.”

  “Soon, Miss B… Just you wait,” I call o
ut. I’ve finished frosting the balls, and I reach for the bowl of dark chocolate shavings to sprinkle over them.

  “How’s my order coming?” Betty asks, and I’m pretty sure Tabs swallows her gum.

  “Just finishing now,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Wait!” Tabby holds out her hand. “Hold the phone. Betty Pepper ordered that?”

  The squat octogenarian pushes my rockabilly roommate aside and joins me at the massive, weathered-wood table where I work.

  “Oh,” she gasps. “Emberly Rose!”

  Tabby’s right behind her. “You ordered the penis cake?”

  “Oh, yes!” BP clutches her chest.

  “Well, don’t have a heart attack,” my friend snarks.

  Stepping back, I survey the raunchy masterpiece. “I think it needs a vein.” I pinch a bit of fondant and roll it into a long, skinny column, laying it along the shaft.

  Once it’s in place, I add the last bit of vanilla cream at the tip.

  Miss Betty’s voice is thick with lust. “It’s so good!”

  My friend arches a perfect, black eyebrow. “How long has it been since you’ve seen one of these?”

  “Get a life, Tabitha Green. I see what I want on the Internet,” Betty says before turning to me. “I can’t believe you did this without a mold.”

  “The frosting helps.” I walk to the wall of cabinets and take down my vanilla extract and a small paintbrush. “I thought about putting a square cake around the bottom and molding jeans with the fly down… Painting it blue, like it’s rising out of his pants?”

  The old lady’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”

  Using the paintbrush, I lightly dab the dark-brown vanilla around the ridges, giving the cake more dimension. “It would take a few hours.”

  “Forget it, then. I need it for Donna’s shower now.” She carefully steps around me. “It’s absolutely thrilling! Hopefully it’ll loosen her up some.”

  Tabs and I exchange a glance. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  Tabby starts to speak, but I cut her off. “Two hundred.” I don’t miss my best friend’s glare, but I’m not going to charge an old lady full-price, even if she is annoying as hell half the time.

  I also know the old biddies gossip about how much I charge for my cakes. They might call me a genius, but they won’t pay genius prices for something they think they can do at home.

  “Two hundred dollars?” Her lust turns to shock.

  “I’m sure you took up a collection,” Tabby snaps.

  She still hasn’t gotten over Betty Pepper ratting her out for skinny-dipping in the Holiday Inn pool last year with Mayor Rhodes’s out of town nephew. It was a pretty tame stunt for Tabs… until we found out the kid was only seventeen.

  In my friend’s defense, the boy had a tattoo, rode a Harley, and we all thought he was at least nineteen.

  BP digs in her wallet and shows us a few twenties. “This is all I’ve got.”

  “Make it a hundred and fifty, then,” I sigh.

  “You can write a check,” Tabby adds, irritation in her tone.

  The old lady is huffy, but she pulls out her checkbook and starts to write. I lift the foil-covered cardboard tray and place it in a waiting gift box on the opposite counter. Her next words stop my breath.

  “Bucky can’t wait until your date next Friday.”

  Tabby gives me a horrified, I smell sour-milk face, and I cringe. “Whaaat is this about?” she asks.

  “Emberly is such a dear.” Betty pats my forearm. “Bucky said after that brat Cheryl Ann dumped him last week, you talked to him for an hour at the Tuna Tiki.”

  “How could you stand it?” my roommate says. “And what were you doing at Tuna Tiki?”

  “I wanted sushi,” I say.

  Betty pushes on undeterred. “Then she agreed to have dinner with him.”

  “You did not!” Tabby grabs my arm.

  “It wasn’t… quite like that.” I step away, untying my apron and wiping my hands with it.

  “He said you were. Are you not going to dinner with Bucky on Friday?” Betty cries.

  “No. You are not going to dinner with Bucky on Friday,” Tabby says.

  “Why would you say something like that, Tabitha? Just because my Bucky isn’t some pot-smoking, Harley Davidson riding—”

  “I’ll have you know, Betty Pepper, I’ve only dated three guys who smoked pot—”

  “You know what?” I shout before those two start throwing punches. “It’s just dinner. I’m glad to do it if it helps Bucky get over Cheryl… or whatever.”

  “You are not glad to do it. Bucky Pepper is a—Ouch!”

  I release her flesh from my sly pinch and pull the pin out of my dark hair, letting it fall down my back. “Thank you so much, Miss Betty.”

  “It’s too bad you won’t be joining us for cake.” The old lady prances to the door, and I lean against the counter. The bell tinkles, and she’s gone.

  Tabby turns, arms crossed to glare at me. “What. The fuck. Bucky Pepper smells like formaldehyde!”

  “He’s a taxidermist.”

  “He’s the shape of a coke bottle, and he’ll probably give you a stuffed squirrel!”

  I can’t help a laugh. “It’s better than herpes.”

  “Jesus, don’t even joke about sleeping with him.” Tabby does a full-body shiver. “His breath is like… like…”

  I think a minute then it hits me. “Deviled eggs.” Nodding, I collect my ingredients and carry them to the shelves, where I arrange them neatly in order. “I just realized it smells like deviled eggs.”

  “Good lord, Ember.” My friend lowers her gaze. “I cannot in good faith let you go out with that… that…”

  Reaching out, I squeeze her arm. “So I go out with Bucky the stinky taxidermist. He gives me stuffed road-kill. It’s one night.”

  “I heard he tried to grab Cheryl Ann’s cooch on their very first date. That’s why she ditched him. She should’ve slapped him into next week.” Tabby puts a hand on her hip and does her best Jane Russell glare. “What will you do if Bucky tries to grab you?”

  “I’ll throw ice water in his face and go home.” Stepping forward I kiss her cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

  “There’s no shame in pretending you don’t hear him knocking.”

  “Goodnight, Tabs.”

  She grumbles as she leaves, and I walk slowly to the back of the old store where stairs lead to my loft apartment above. After my aunt died, she left this old five and dime store to me. Tabby helped me sell or trash all the shelves and retail furnishings, and I’ve been scrubbing and painting ever since.

  Weathered wood painted white makes up the walls of shelves where I keep my meager baking ingredients. Two vintage chandeliers, fake branches, and driftwood arranged in vases are the start of my interior design. One day I imagine having a garland of multi-colored spring roses like Peggy Porschen’s at the entrance.

  “One day,” I say softly, dreaming of the lavish London bakery and the lady who owns it.

  The only piece of furniture I’ve been able to buy is the heavy wooden table where I do all my mixing, kneading, arranging, decorating…

  I kept my aunt’s register and checkout counter for front reception. Slowly, slowly I’m saving up to add a refrigerated case. Last month, I was finally able to buy a second oven so I can cook two cakes at once.

  “Just keep swimming.” I push open the heavy door leading to the upstairs where Coco and I will live.

  When Mr. Lockwood developed that old stretch of sand, all the tourists moved away from our little village down to the beachfront property. I hope my cakes lure them back here—at least to shop—and if they do, I’ll be a small-town hero pulling tourist dollars back into Our Town.

  I walk over to my small table and pick up the photo of me on the beach, looking up, holding my little girl. “That’s the plan, Coco Bean,” I whisper.

  I’ll have my daughter and my cake shop, and th
at’s all I need. One foot in front of the other, and before I know it, my dreams coming true.

  * * *

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  The Prince & The Player

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  (Dirty Players Duet, #1)

  © TLM Productions LLC, 2016

  Zelda Wilder

  My legs are wet. Thunder rolls low in a steel-grey sky, and the hiss of warm rain grows louder. I lean further sideways into the culvert, closer against my little sister Ava’s body, and grit my teeth against the hunger pain twisting my stomach. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping tonight.

  Reaching up, I rub my palm against the back of my neck, under the thick curtain of my blonde hair. A shudder moves at my side, and I realize Ava’s crying. We’re packed tight in this concrete ditch, but I twist my body around to face her.

  Clearing my throat, I force my brows to unclench. I force my voice to be soothing instead of angry. “Hey,” I whisper softly. “What’s the matter, Ava-bug?”

  Silence greets me. She’s small enough to be somewhat comfortable in our hideout. Her knees are bent, but unlike me, they’re not shoved up into her nose. Still, she leans forward to press her eyes against the backs of her hands. Her glossy brown hair is short around her ears and falls onto her cheeks.

  Our parents were classic movie buffs, naming her after Ava Gardner and me after Scott Fitzgerald’s crazy wife Zelda. We pretty much lived up to our monikers, since my little sister wound up having emerald green cat eyes and wavy dark hair. She’s a showstopper whereas I’m pretty average—flat blue eyes and dishwater blonde. So far no signs of schizophrenia (har har), but you can bet your ass I can keep up with the boys in everything, which brings us to this lowly state.

  “Come on, now,” I urge. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

  Her dark head moves back and forth. “I’m sorry.” Her soft whisper finally answers my question. “This is all my fault.”

  “What?” Reaching for her skinny shoulder, I pull her up. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who looks pretty even when she’s crying. “Why would you say something like that?”