Good old mom. Here for a surprise five a.m. visit after—what had it been this time—a year and a half of blissful absence? She looked like shit. Two inches of grown-out, dirty-blond roots contrasted with brassy red. Black liner ringed her over-bright eyes, and her tight, low-cut dress in an extremely unbefitting white showed signs of a few spilled drinks. Chapped lips pulled into an artificial smile, and she waved enthusiastically before opening her mouth to speak.
Laurie shook her head, and pressed a finger to her lips. Loaded or not, Denise got the message. She made a zipping motion across her mouth and tossed the imaginary key over her shoulder.
Hilarious. Laurie held up her hand and mimed, Five minutes. Then she pointed to the left, silently telling her mother to go around front. Denise nodded, executed an unsteady pivot, and meandered off the patio, leaving the wooden gate hanging open. Laurie let the curtain fall back into place as soon as her mother disapp
eared from view.
Five minutes. A quick glance at the bed confirmed Booker remained asleep. Maybe there was a patron saint of put upon daughters because the third drawer of her dresser barely made a noise as she carefully slid it open. She stepped into a faded pair of cut-offs, breathing in as denim dragged over newly sensitive skin. Her eyes tried to drift to the cause of the tender spots, but she denied the detour by pulling on a white hoodie with Babycakes’ trademark—a silhouette of a pinup girl wearing a short, frilly apron and holding a cake—emblazoned across the front in periwinkle blue. Calling herself dressed, she headed to the door. Halfway out of the room, however, her eyes won the tug-of-war. She paused and looked back at the bed.
Booker had rolled into the space she’d vacated, and lay stretched out on his stomach with his dark, rumpled head nestled in her pillow. A massive shoulder blocked the lower half of his face, but the long, tapered lines of his back remained on display—all the way down past the dimples at the base of his spine. The comforter covered his hips, but as she watched, a sleepy kick sent the covers to the end of the bed. Then he settled, one knee drawn up toward his elbow, unknowingly treating her to an awe-inspiring view of his ass, the endearingly vulnerable cushion of his balls, and the root of his cock. Under different circumstances, she might have snuck her hand into that unprotected crevice to give him a good morning squeeze before wrapping her fingers around his hard-on and putting it to good use.
But the circumstances right now involved her mother on her doorstep, wanting money for sure, and likely to wake the whole neighborhood if Laurie didn’t get out there and manage the situation. She started to walk away, but…dammit. Even as the two-minute warning bell rang in her mind she hurried to the bed, soundlessly opened her nightstand drawer, and withdrew a pen and sticky note. She squandered another quarter of a minute biting her shredded cuticle and trying to figure out what the hell to say. Finally, she scrawled, Happy New Year, Booker. See you around.
Lame.
Yeah, well, the whole thing was lame, she acknowledged as she walked through her apartment. Leaving a note for a one-night stand? Lame. Thinking she actually had her shit under control? Lame. Having her mother show up before dawn, stoned or drunk or just plain crazy? Very lame.
The remnants of last night’s party littered the kitchen and living room. Glassware and small plates took up every available surface, along with cocktail napkins, noisemakers, and party hats. Confetti and streamers decorated the floor. Picked over trays of food sat out on the counter separating the two rooms—some of Babycake’s trademark mini-cakes, but also a selection of flatbreads and canapés. She’d wanted to remind people she could do more than sweets, and judging by the meager leftovers, she’d succeeded. She picked her way through the mess and opened the hallway closet where she kept her flip-flops and purse. The hinge squeaked when she opened it. She froze, and listened.
Nothing stirred in the apartment as far as she could tell. Relieved, she shoved her feet into the flip-flops and grabbed her purse. Drawing a fortifying breath, she pulled the front door open, stepped out, and quickly closed it behind her. No point giving the woman any ideas about coming inside for a visit.
“Lauralie! Happy New Year, baby!”
The staggering embrace accompanying the loud greeting nearly knocked her off her feet. She struggled for balance and breathed through a surge of nausea brought on by sour breath and sharp angles of a body too accustomed to a liquid diet. “Denise, it’s five in the morning. Keep your voice down.”
“Right. Sorry. Shhh… Don’t want to wake your company.”
“I don’t want to wake my neighbors. What are you doing here?”
“Why, sweetheart.” She pressed her hand to a still ample chest, though it looked to be getting some help from a push-up bra these days. “I came to see you. Who’s the lucky guy? Anyone I know?”
Oh, hell no. They were not indulging in girl talk. There’s be no stopping Mommy Dearest if she thought her daughter offered an in with a man of Booker’s resources. “No one special.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth. She set off down the walkway, toward her carport at the back of the white stucco and red-tile-roofed building. Montenido boasted newer, grander examples of Southern California Mediterranean architecture, but she liked the classic 1930’s style of the small complex, not to mention the comparative affordability of the rent. “What do you want?”
“To see my baby girl, silly. I’ve missed you.” The clomp-clomp of narrow heels against concrete confirmed Denise followed. While Laurie fished her keys from the inner pocket of her purse, she looked down at the silver sandals strapped to her mom’s feet. Yikes. The sandals bore an uncanny resemblance to the ones she’d worn last night. An old saying about apples and trees sprang to mind—insulting when applied to her—and she made a mental note to get rid of the blasted shoes. They hurt her feet anyway.
Booker knows a cure for aching feet. Remember?
Yeah, well, fun was fun, but she couldn’t rely on Booker to save her from the uncomfortable aftereffects of every questionable decision. Though he’d done so more than once in the past ten years. She preferred to stand on her own two feet, and tacky silver sandals didn’t advance that goal.
“Mission accomplished. You’ve seen me.” She stopped at the bumper of her new black Ford Expedition. New to her, at any rate. She’d needed something bigger and more reliable than her old Explorer for deliveries and had negotiated an end-of-year discount on a certified pre-owned model, fresh off a four-year lease. Between upgrading her vehicle and the bonuses she’d paid to her employees, she’d drained the little cushion in her finances, but she considered both expenses an investment in her business. She also had six grand in custom cake deposits sitting in her safe at the bakery. April, May, and June were busy wedding months in Montenido and thanks to some favorable write-ups and good word-of-mouth, her upstart little bakery had nabbed half a dozen large orders. She tapped the unlock button on her key, and then activated the power liftgate. The beep echoed in the cool morning air, but the trunk door lifted almost soundlessly.
“Lauralie, don’t be so freaking literal. I meant talk to you. Catch up. Nice car. Is it new?”
She ignored the question and walked between the SUV and the wall until she reached the rack at the back of the carport where she and a few of her neighbors stored their surfboards. A three-digit combination unlocked the rack. She slid her board out, re-locked the rack, and walked back to the SUV. Denise jumped out of the way when she swung the board around and loaded it into the trunk alongside her wetsuit and a straw tote containing her bikini and towel. “I’m headed out, and I won’t be back for hours.” A press of a button shut the truck. If only she could shut Denise out as easily, but the woman specialized in difficult. Turning, she faced her mother. “If there’s a point to your visit, now would be a good time to get to it.”
“I need a teensy loan.”
“No.” She straightened, mentally kicking herself, because even though she’d seen the request for money coming a mile away, some stupid part of her had secretly hoped Denise had come to apologize for being such a shitty mother, and—what the hell, as long as she was dreaming—maybe give her something for a change.
“Have some compassion for your mother. I need a little help, and I don’t think it’s too much to expect my own daughter to be there for me.”
“Just like you’ve been there for me?”
“I did the best I could by you. I was gone a lot on account of my career. I didn’t have the luxury of hanging around the house all day taking care of a kid.”
What career? Denise had been a “personal assistant” to an endless string of guys who wanted to fuck her, invariably did, and then walked away when they realized no fuck was worth the accompanying drama. She walked to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. “I can’t take care of an adult. Sorry.”
“But you’re doing so well. You can afford this big, shiny car. I think you can afford to give me a loan to remove a tumor from my uterus.”