No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1)

BOOK: No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1)
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No Pink Caddy

 

 

 

By: Layne Harper

 

No Pink Caddy
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

No Pink Caddy

All rights reserved

 

Copyright © 2016 by Layne Harper

 

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without express consent of the author Layne Harper. If you steal this work, I wish you genital fleas.

 

ISBN: 978-0-9960854-5-8 (ebook)

 

Cover Design: Michelle Preast

Editor: Lauren McKellar

Formatting: Polgarus Studio

Cover photo by Christi Kirzner at CKShots Photos

Other Works by Layne Harper:

Infinity Universe:

Falling Into Infinity

From Now Until Infinity

Finding Infinity

Infinity.

The World: According to Rachael

The World: According to Graham

 

Infinity Series Short Story:

Aiden’s Broken Heart

 
For Charlie and Colin . . .

Your story gave MK and Aaron the wings to fly.

Table of Contents
Chapter One

MK Landry
@NoPinkCaddy

About to shoot a new video! Frying oysters and hanging out with my ex. Y’all will love him. Coming soon. #BonAppetit

 

 

“I can’t believe you’ve talked me into this,” Tripp says, squirming a bit on the bar stool which was specifically purchased for this interview. It’s vintage, maybe from the 50s.

“This’s part of the goals I set for my thirtieth year on this planet. I believe the fans of NoPinkCaddy are going to get a real kick out of meeting the interesting people in my life. They’ve heard about you guys for years, and it’s always nice to put a name with a face.”

Prepping the ingredients for the cooking segment, I try to be as professional as possible, like the chefs on the
Cooking Channel
, but who am I kidding? My life is really just a series of prat falls and cringe-worthy moments.

“I want you to answer my questions honestly. It’s okay. No need to hold back. This needs to be interesting for the viewers. By the end of the video, we want to give them a real sense of who Anthony Mason Thibodaux III is.” Tripp may be an ex-boyfriend but he’s still one of my best friends. In fact, he’s my date to Grandmother’s fall charity ball this weekend.

He nods, but looks very uncomfortable as he fidgets with the cufflinks on his dress shirt. He’s the gold medalist of exes. Tripp’s my fallback, go-to, I-need-a-date kind of friend. He’s tall, dark and handsome. Frankly, he resembles a Disney prince.

Tripp, Bella, and I were the three musketeers growing up. Everyone assumed and probably still do assume that one day we’ll get married. And we probably would have because he’s just that great of a guy, except there’s one little problem. Tripp and I have zero chemistry. I’ve known it since I was sixteen and we messed around at his parents’ fishing cabin. We had sex—it wasn’t stellar, but it was our first time. We tried again on a ton of different occasions between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. Every time was so awkward—very clinical. He told me one night that he just didn’t enjoy the act of making love but he really liked me. What teenage boy on the planet doesn’t like sex? We came to the conclusion together that we were much better off as friends.

I’ve introduced him to a few of my sorority sisters, but he hasn’t found any of them up to his standards. In my humble opinion, and if you refer to my college transcript I do have a few psychology classes with bright red As next to them, I think Tripp will be single forever. He’s uncompromising and only sees the world as black and white. To have a successful relationship, you must see shades of grey, at least that’s what I advise the followers of my site.

Bella, my best friend, and ever the professional, looks through the camera lens and then messes with the lighting in my tiny carriage house apartment. She adjusts a lamp we use off-screen to help brighten the shots. She peers through the lens again, sighs in frustration, and says, “It’s just going to have to be good enough.”

She’s a perfectionist. I am not.

I gather my long brown hair off my shoulders and toss the strands to my back. My heart beats double-time in anticipation.

My blog debuted seven years ago, and to this day, I still get a bit nervous and excited right before we shoot a new video. “Great! Okay. I’m going to teach our viewers how to make fried oysters while Tripp and I have a conversation. We need to explain that we’ve dated but we don’t have to dwell on it. I want it to be natural—like we’re just two friends hanging out in my kitchen cooking supper.” My nervousness is evident in my rapid speech.
Deep breath, MK. Remember to talk slowly, watch your Cajun accent, and don’t let your nerves show.

Tripp rolls his large brown eyes and replies, “As natural as pigs flying.”

I clap my hands. “This is going to be so fun. Positive thinking!”

“Alright, guys, I’m on a tight schedule. Let’s go,” Bella says in her normal exasperated tone.

“Ready,” I reply, exhaling, and she points in my direction. I give Tripp’s knee a reassuring pat, will my heart to stay inside my ribs, and begin. “Generally, I’m all for trying my best to eat healthy, but let’s be real. Oysters are just better fried. Yes, I know about the trend to chargrill them. It’s a fad, people. Fried oysters are the only way to go.” I pause for a moment while I reach for my turquoise mixing bowl, egg, flour, cornmeal, salt, and cayenne pepper arranged in a semi-circle in front of me. “I’m going to show you today how to make real New Orleans-style fried oysters that are so good, you’ll swear you’ve tasted manna from heaven, and my friend Tripp is going to help.”
Good job, MK. Personable, funny, and on point.

Cutting my eyes, I see Tripp giving the camera a small wave. It’s so forced that he looks as if he’s performing a parody of himself. My stomach clenches.
Dear God, please let this go well.

“Tripp’s my best guy friend.” Turning in his direction, I touch his shoulder. His smile tells me just how much that title means to him. “He’s a year older than me and has never been married.” Pausing, I give the camera a wink. “We met when I was eight-years-old and his family moved in down the street.”

Laughing, he adds, “I was so disappointed that the only kid my age in the neighborhood was a girl.”

My hand goes to my hip and with sass in my tone, “But not after you found out I liked to fish, ride bikes and watch wrestling on Saturday nights.”

“You’re so right.”

Turning back towards the camera, “Tripp and I dated in high school after being friends for years. And guess what? We’re still just as good of friends as we were before we started dating.” My smile is more natural—I hope. That sounded so dumb.
And guess what? We’re still friends.
Am I thirteen again? Is it really so crazy that two kids who dated can be friends as adults? Ugh . . . I remind myself that I can edit.

“He’s a well-respected businessman here in New Orleans.” With pride in my eyes, “He took a ten-thousand-dollar loan from his dad to buy a run-down car wash and turned the dirty car business into a million-dollar venture.”

Blushing, “Wow. Thanks, MK.” His hand touches the small of my back. Nothing. It evokes the same feelings as when my dad uses this tactic to steer me in another direction.

Bending over the mixing bowl, I begin gathering the smaller bowls of ingredients and placing them in front of us. My bangs, which are in the process of growing out, slip from behind my ear and fall over my left eye. I don’t know why I cut the damn things. Even though I hate to admit it, my mother was right. The only time anyone likes their new bangs is the moment their hairstylist cuts and styles them. After that, you spend the next three months finding ways to try to blend them with the rest of your hair.

Blowing out a puff of air, I hope to move the awkward brown strands to the side so I can at least see a bit out of my eye. Of course my plan fails. Tripp, seeing me in need, stands up, reaches across my face, and tries to tuck the short pieces of hair back behind my ear. In the process he knocks me off balance, and I stumble into the shiny white refrigerator. We both get a terrible case of the giggles.

“Cut,” Bella announces as she rests the camera on the marble counter. Her dark mahogany eyebrow cocks in annoyance. “Just wear a baseball hat until you can do something with those.”

Her hand gesture says it all. My poor choice in hairstyles is now affecting her world. She’s cameraman, producer, and advice guru out of the kindness of her heart. When she’s willing to share her time on my behalf, I feel like I can’t waste it—like if I do I’m being rude.

I wipe my hands on my apron and tuck the offending locks behind my ear. “Ugh! I’m sorry, guys. I thought they were finally long enough to stay put. Let me grab a hair tie and clip and we’ll start again,” I call as I walk to the bathroom. Tripp’s laughter still rings through my tiny apartment.

“Hurry. Schedule,” she barks as I dig faster through my hair drawer for a burette.

Trying my damnedest to rein in the bangs, I finally admit defeat. Giving up, I wear the rubber band as a bracelet and put on a New Orleans Saints baseball hat.

When I walk back into the kitchen, Tripp is sitting on the stool with pink cheeks from our giggle fit. How many other thirty-plus-year-old guys would work a full day and then come over to a friend’s house to record a get-to-know-you segment for her blog? Not many. I’d give anything for there to be some sort of attraction.

I brush an innocent peck on his cheek, catching him by surprise.

As his head turns, one of his eyebrow raises. “What was that for?”

“For being such a super-duper-uper good guy.”

A small smile plays across his lips. “Thanks for noticing, MK.” His eyes catch mine and for a split second I think maybe there’s a flicker of something. But, alas, my body warms with unabated like for this man.

Turning back towards the camera, I shake my head to clear the confusion. “Ready,” I announce as I adjust the pan of oysters.

Tripp and I begin again. This time when I bend over the mixing bowl my hair stays put but my favorite turquoise shark-tooth necklace, with a South Sea pearl, rock, and horn on crochet string slips the confines of my white silk blouse, but luckily, I’m able to tuck it back in without missing a beat.

Mentally, I count to three and toss this grenade into my kitchen. “So you and I’ve had sex,” I state as I add a pinch of salt to the mixture. “Can you dump one of those cute little bowls into this one please?” I gesture refusing to see what expression Tripp is wearing.

“God, MK,” he says as he pours the cayenne pepper into the one that already has flour, cornmeal, and salt in it. “Do we really have to tell the world all of this? Let’s share when I taught you how to paddle a canoe.”

His tone indicates he’s as uncomfortable as a pre-teen having to change in the boy’s locker room for athletics.

You’re playing a role

an actress. This is what your viewers want. It’s a lifestyle and relationship blog after all.
I wink at the camera. “Yes. But me winding up stuck in the middle of the lake isn’t near as interesting as our relationship.”

I peer up at him past the brim of my baseball hat.

“Fine,” he replies squirming on the stool. “We lost our virginity to each other.”

“See? Not so hard. Very bad pun but oh so intentional.” I laugh, wishing I’d never had this idea to begin with and then hadn’t promoted it to my followers.

I grab the pan of raw oysters which have already been shucked. “Now I make sure the oysters have a good coating but not too much. Usually, I tap off the excess. Tripp, please demonstrate.”

He does as he’s told and places the prepared oyster onto a white plate. His jaw is tight and his shoulders raised. It’s evident how uncomfortable he is.

“Why don’t you tell everyone why we broke up?” I continue coating oysters. I’m trying to move us past our dating history and fortunately, this is a topic that has been discussed ad nauseam.

BOOK: No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1)
8.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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