I’ll pick up the pieces and start over.
Two
Ember
It’s a penis.
I stand in front of the table looking down, and there is no mistaking what it is.
Hours of online courses, too many YouTube videos to count (so many YouTube videos), correspondence courses at the community college, and this is what it comes down to…
Penis cakes for money.
Tabby rocks forward on her stool, leaning on her elbows watching me carve the corners off the beige sheet cake. Her jet-black hair is smoothed into thick curls, and a red handkerchief is wrapped around her head. Severe bangs, arched brows, and velvet-red lips. My best friend is punk rock Bettie Page.
“How can you make these and be so unaffected?”
I continue carving two round balls at the bottom of the long, almond-colored shaft. “It’s cake.”
“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.