by Bella Cruise
Tasty
By
Bella Cruise
Copyright 2016 © Bella Cruise
Cover Design: Najla Qamber
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
I'd like to spank and thank everyone who was involved with bringing my dirty thoughts to life. Xo
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter One
My grandmother always said, “Men are like cupcakes. You have to lick a lot of icing to find one worth finishing off.” I think Grams knew plenty about variety (the spice of life!) but fuck-all about love. She was especially no help when it came to staying in a relationship. She had six husbands, and was engaged to be married to a seventh when she passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-two. God bless her. I got her recipe cards and first edition Joy of Cooking when she died. But I have to admit, sometimes I wish she’d passed down the secret of real, honest-to-goodness love, too. Maybe if she had, I wouldn’t be leaning over my laptop on a slow day at my bakery, trying to come up with a dirty metaphor for buttercream.
[email protected]:
You there, muffin?
But fuck it. Maybe Grams had the right idea. I’m pretty finished with love these days, anyway. Sexting and cybering are plenty for me, especially after I went through some traumatic heartbreak a few years ago. It’s healthier, safer, and a hell of a lot more fun. Smiling wickedly, my eyes scan the shop for some inspiration.
Rock n Roll Cakes is a cozy little place, decked out in retro decor, with a checkerboard floor and a fifties vibe. We even have a vintage Wedgewood stove in back, which adds to the charm, even though my shop assistant, Summer, is always threatening to leave it on the curb. Anyway, my shop offers lots of inspiration for poodle skirt jokes, but that isn’t quite what I’m looking for. Not today, and not with this guy. At last, my gaze falls on the icing injector tool on the counter.
[email protected]:
Sorry! I was just cleaning up the icing. Was finishing off a big order and it got alllllll over me. It’s everywhere. I’m dripping in it.
There’s a long pause. I let my eyes linger out the front window of my shop. It’s a beautiful Friday in Key West. The sky has just started to go orange and pink at the corners. The palm trees are shivering in the breeze. The sidewalks are packed with tourists, and while usually that would get me a little bit panicked about the lack of business, today I’m content to sit on my laptop and flirt with my anonymous online paramour. Let Summer finish up the groom’s cake for a client’s wedding. I have bigger cakes to bake.
[email protected]:
. . . where?
[email protected]:
Hidden in some unusual places. You know those icing injector tools?
[email protected]:
Of course.
I feel my wicked grin grow. Of course he knows about icing injector tools. I met this guy on the biggest bakery industry forum on the internet. He was arguing against the proliferation of gluten-free bakeshops in New York City. Those Williamsburg hipsters and their food allergies! I chimed in over direct messages in enthusiastic agreement, and sparks flew from there. We quickly took things off board to g-chat, and I know he’ll always back me up when it comes to crunchy Key West mamas and their disgusting penchant for agave syrup.
Or maybe I should say I “met” cupcakecasanova because I know almost nothing about him. I know that he lives in New York. I know that he hates food substitutions with a passion that borders on demonic. I know that he prefers chocolate to vanilla, strawberry to raspberry, oral to almost everything else . . . but I don’t even know his name.
My hands fly over the keys.
[email protected]:
Ours is just *so* hard and shiny and big. I can hardly get a grip on it.
[email protected]:
How big?
[email protected]:
Twelve, thirteen inches . . .
[email protected]:
Daaaaamn!
[email protected]:
Usually I have no problem handling something that size, but my hands just get so slippery when I’m working. Today I managed to squirt chocolate ganache right up my—
Before I can finish that thought, the bell on our front door jangles. I slam my laptop shut, and look up with a perfect, professional smile. A familiar face greets me: Wes Lansing, a high school buddy of mine. Okay, maybe we were more than buddies once. But he’s got a wife and a gut and a gaggle of kids now keeping him busy. All I have are my innuendos and my cake stands. Still, I’m always happy to see his face.
“Wes!” I say, leaning over the counter to press a kiss to his stubbly cheek. He lets out a low, easy chuckle. When I pull away, I see how he’s blushing a faint red. Some things never change.
“ ’ello Jules,” he rumbles. “How’s business?”
“Slow!” comes a sarcastic voice from in back. That’s Summer. She has two modes: skeptical and extreme eye roll. It would be a real pain in the ass if she wasn’t so damned good at her job. But she can cook a pound cake as rich as a gold brick, shape marzipan into miniature unicorns, and whip up a wedding cake all in an afternoon, so I keep her around. I let out an easy laugh.
“Slow,” I agree. Wes shakes his head.
“Oh. Hoped things would pick up after all that television hullaballoo.”
Wes means Park Avenue Princess, the reality TV show that filmed in our hometown about forty miles north last year. Pixie, the princess in question, almost got hitched to her rock star boyfriend—and I was supposed to supply the cake. But the wedding never happened. Pixie fell for the wedding planner’s dashing assistant instead. Though I saw a small spike in business right around the time their tasting aired, I never got my grand unveiling: the twelve tiered monstrosity of double-chocolate bourbon I’d crafted especially with rock star Clyde Kincaid in mind. Their cake smash was supposed to by my moment in the limelight! Instead, I still have half that thing taking up space in our deep freezer.
“What can you do?” I say, forcing a cheerful shrug. I don’t like to let people know that I’m struggling, especially not my high school ex. He doesn’t need to know that I’m barely in the black most months.
“I’ll tell you what I can do,” Wes says, and he pulls out his wallet. “I can order a few cupcakes from you—”
“Wes,” I say, doing my best not to cringe. It feels weird to take money from him. For one thing, he’s a cop, and they usually eat free in my shop. For another, I once gave him a handjob on a science class field trip. What can I say? We were in a planetarium. It was dark. Stars are sexy.
But Wes won’t take no for an answer. “No, no. They’re not for me. The
y’re for Camille’s soccer fundraiser. We’ll need six dozen, black and gold icing. I want them to say ‘Go Poodle Moths’ on them, and if you can draw a poodle moth, too, that’d be great. The kids would love that.”
I stare at him a minute, hoping he’s joking. But then he gives me his best cop glower.
“What are you waiting for?”
Hastily, I reach for a pad and begin jotting down Wes’s order. “Black and yellow, you said?”
“No, black and gold.”
I do my best not to roll my eyes. I’d forgotten why Wes and I had broken up. He always seems so sweet in my memories, like a Floridian Clark Kent with manners and muscles to match. But he can also be a real prick sometimes.
“When do you need them by?”
“Tonight before I head back up to Pelican Key. Don’t want to have to be driving down the Overseas Highway at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow before Camille’s meet just to pick up some cupcakes.”
Wes chuckles again, like he’s made a real clever joke. But I only glance at the Felix the Cat clock that hangs by the door. It’s almost three—just two hours until closing. We’ll have to work fast, but I’m not about to turn away an order for six dozen cupcakes.
“Sure!” I say cheerfully. I ring him up. Wes pays, then slips a single into the tip jar with a wink.
“See you at five,” he says, then lets out a low, tuneless whistle as he saunters out the door, the bell jingling behind him.
There’s a moment’s silence before Summer’s voice lifts up from the back, dry, as always.
“What the fuck’s a poodle moth ?” she asks.
#
By some miracle, Summer and I pull everything together. She Googles poodle moths on her phone (terrifying creatures, like something from The Island of Dr. Moreau), I whip up some chocolate raspberry batter that’s sure to please the pickiest eater on Camille’s team, we get to baking and cooling and icing and spraying gold frosting spray all over the store. By the time Wes has returned, we’re just boxing up the last of the cupcakes. Summer looks dirty, tired, and gold at the edges. I’m sure I don’t look much better. But Wes is smiling broader at me than he ever did on prom night. I guess some things beat even motel room cherry popping—like making your kid happy.
“Camille will love these. Thanks, Jules,” he says. I tell him it’s nothing and usher him from the store.
“I’m going to go home,” Summer says. She doesn’t even offer to help clean up, but then, she never does. “Put on some pajamas, drink some whiskey, have nightmares about those poodle . . . things.”
“Sweet dreams,” I tell her, waving her out. Honestly, I can’t wait for her to leave. It’s not that I mind Summer’s company. She’s sparkling, as always. Tonight, you might even say she glitters. But once I get the store locked up, I can sit back down at my laptop in peace to finish my conversation with cupcakecasanova.
But as she leaves, Mrs. O’Gilligan shuffles in. I wince. I’d almost forgotten our nightly regular. Mrs. O’G is about ninety years old, but she’s not your ordinary old lady. She rides a pink vespa, has a fluffy pink beehive of cotton candy hair, and is never seen without the vintage Hell’s Angel’s jacket that belonged to her old man. And every. Single. Night. She stops in to get the same thing.
“I’ll have the Pink Surprise, dear,” she says, waiting patiently in front of the register. I concocted the Pink Surprise just for her. It’s red velvet with pink frosting inside—incredibly rich and incredibly sweet. I guess the sugar doesn’t bother Mrs. O’G. All of her teeth are artificial, anyway.
“Sure thing,” I tell her, sliding off my stool behind the counter to fetch her the last cupcake of the day. I place it carefully in a box and begin stapling it shut. Then I tie my signature black and white checkerboard ribbon around the box.
“Such personal service,” she says. “I’m sure you won’t find that at that new bakeshop down the street.”
My hands go cold as I go to hand Mrs. O’G the cupcake box.
“New bakeshop?”
It’s impossible. I know everything that happens in this end of Key West. If there was competition, I would have heard about it.
Or would I? I glance out the window, at the tourists coming and going. Business has been so slow that lately, we’re even bleeding regulars. I haven’t caught half the gossip I usually do.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Mrs. O’G says. She’s confused my dismay for something else. She thinks I’m scared of losing her rather than my hard-earned cash. “I’m very loyal.”
“Well,” I say, smiling kindly at her as I ring her up, “that’s good to know.”
“Hos before bros. Is that what the kids say?”
My eyes go wide. I wish Summer were here. I can almost hear her dry, sardonic laughter ringing in my head.
“It is.”
“Good night, sweetie,” she says, dropping a few coins into the tip jar.
“Good night!” I call back, and add awkwardly, “sweetie,” just as the door shuts behind her.
But it’s not a good night. Not at all. I grab my keys and lock up the store, then head out into the perfect, beautiful Key West night, my stomach in knots, eager to scope out my competition.
Chapter Two
The sea air is fresh and clean tonight. The sidewalks are lively and crowded. The sky overhead is liberally speckled with stars. But none of that makes me feel any better as I stand outside the storefront of my new competition, just three blocks from Rock n Roll Cakes.
I swear, just yesterday, this building housed one of my favorite local dives, one of those trashy tourist bars that served alcoholic brain freezes in plastic cups shaped like toucans and flamingos. Shops come and go in Key West all the time. It’s the nature of the business. But this bar was gutted seemingly overnight. Now the space inside the shining glass windows is crowded with workers in hard hats. Here on the sidewalk, a foreman is directing two workers in hard hats in placing a neon-lit sign: MECCA CAKES it says, and there’s a cupcake beside it in glass tubing. I grit my teeth. I bet it’s going to look fantastic when it’s all plugged in.
“Would you like a flier?” asks a sharp voice behind me. I turn. There’s a woman standing on the sidewalk in a black pantsuit and high heels. It’s a ridiculous get-up for the Keys, but she’s hardly broken a sweat. Her blond hair is pulled severely back, and despite the heat, she doesn’t have a single flyaway.
“Are you the owner?” I demand, in a harder voice than I’d hoped. But she doesn’t even flinch. She’s got delicate features, and they’re perfectly cool as she clutches the fliers against her chest.
“No, I’m the shop manager. Angelique Sutton. And who might you be?” She offers me a long delicate hand.
Your worst nightmare, is what I fantasize of saying, but instead I just take her hand and shake it firmly. There’s no need to let her know that I’m rattled. If she can be chill, I can, too. I think.
“Jules Rockwell. I own the cake shop down the street.”
“Oh, yes.” She gives me a small, efficient smile. “Rockabilly Cakes. You have quite the charming outfit.”
I tick up an eyebrow and glance down at my flour-dusted work clothes. But then I realize she means the shop.
“Um, thank you. It’s Rock N Roll Cakes, actually—”
But she goes on like she hasn’t even heard me. “You’ve got an interesting retro theme at Rockabilly. We did quite a bit of research on you before we selected our location. We understand that you draw a great deal of business.”
“Yes, well.” I’m not sure what to say. It’s been true, until recently. The store used to be packed. But the public’s adoration has apparently been waning in the past few weeks, if my books are any indication. And then I hesitate. “Wait, who’s ‘we’?”
“My business partner and I. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. His name is Callum McKenzie.”
Oh god, Callum McKenzie. Of course I’ve heard of him. The internet forums and gossip rags are always buzzing with his latest kitchen exploits. He�
��s one of those obnoxious celebrity chefs—think a mean Jamie Oliver with better teeth. He’s even got his own show, The Cake Nazi or something like that. I’ve never watched it. Since my experience on Park Avenue Princess, reality TV’s gotten too real for me. I’d rather watch professional wrestling these days. It’s much more soothing.
“Never heard of him,” I say quickly. I don’t need this Angelique, with her perfect, delicate features and tightly pulled bun, to know how unsettled I am. Because if a TV baker’s opened a shop on the Keys, I’m going to be mincemeat.
“Oh?” she says smoothly. “Let me guess: you don’t own a television. You’re strictly an NPR and Netflix kind of girl. That surprises me, Jules Rockwell. I didn’t take you for one of those. Why, there wasn’t a single gluten-free muffin in your store.”
“I’m allergic to quinoa flour. It’s a real tragedy.”
The corner of Angelique’s mouth rises, just slightly. “That’s not a problem. You won’t find a speck of quinoa in Mecca Cakes. You should come to our grand opening. Scope out the competition. Or isn’t that what you came to do?”
She holds out a flier. I set my jaw, but take the page, giving it a quick glance. Callum McKenzie has spared no expense—it’s full color, with spot UV and raised text. A far cry from the xeroxed fliers Summer hands out on our sidewalk on days when business is slow. Clip art and Kinko’s, that’s my style. But Callum McKenzie’s outclassing me already, and his store isn’t even open yet.
“Sure,” I say cheerfully, “I’ll see you there.”
I give her a wave. But as soon as I’m around the corner, I ball up the flyer and throw it in the trash.
#
Some chefs cook when they’re angry. Some scream at their kitchen workers. Some slam pots and rattle pastry pans. Me? I rage-clean. Forty-five minutes after I leave Mecca Cakes, with its hard hat crew and pert, perfect manager, Rock N Roll Cakes is sparkling clean. I’ve scrubbed the display cases until you can see my face in them, finished the day’s dishes, and mopped the floor. I even start scraping the gunk out of our ancient Wedgewood. By the time I hear a knock at the locked front door, there isn’t a single crumb in sight. I pull my head out of the oven, push back my ponytailed hair, and go to let my best friend Ginny inside.