No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) Read online

  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

  Other Works by Layne Harper:

  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

  Epilogue

  About Layne Harper

  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.

  “Because you said we had no chemistry.” He makes air quotes around chemistry as the sour expression continues to mar his handsome features.

  Bella sets the camera down. “And that’s obvious with this video. MK, put the boy out of his misery. This’s cruel.”

  Turning around, I wash my hands in the sink and dry them with a dish towel. And suddenly, just as clear as the flecks of red pepper in the flour mix, I see that Bella is correct. What was I thinking? Poor Tripp. I thought we could brush the topic of us dating and then move to fun college stories. I didn’t realize talking about our sexual history was really that upsetting to him. “I’ve promised the people who follow my site an interview with the important people in my life. Can we please try again? Maybe Tripp will get more comfortable each time we practice. And I’ll not bring up sex again.”

  “No time, MK,” she says checking her watch. “I’m meeting Nyall in thirty minutes to tour St. Anne’s Catholic Church.”

  “Yay,” I squeal, so happy for my friend. “Tripp and I can maybe skip the cooking part, and I’ll just film him sitting on my couch. It’ll be more like a Barbra Walters interview.” Turning to Tripp, I show him my big eyes and sweet smile.

  “Sorry, MK,” he says, kissing my cheek as he rises to his feet. “I have to check out a location for a new car wash. Want to see the surrounding area at night.”

  “Everyone is leaving me?” My head turns from one to the other. “Y’all are supposed to be my friends.” My arms cross in a mock pout. When I scheduled this recording session, I had promised an exciting evening at Eddy’s Bar as payment for their time.

  “Yeah. I can’t say it’s been fun, MK. I’ll meet you at your grandmother’s on Saturday, right?” he asks as he bolts for my door, probably afraid I’m going to ask him about the time we tried oral sex and he barfed all over me.

  “Yup.” I shrug.

  When the door shuts, I look at Bella. “Was it really that bad?”

  “Dis-ass-ter.”

  “So don’t make him try again skipping the sex part of our relationship and focusing instead on being friends with your ex?” My smile is hopeful and eyes wide.

  “Only if you’re a sadist. That boy’s not meant to be on camera.”

  Wrapping up all the ingredients, I put them in my fridge so they don’t spoil. “Tell me something to make me less depressed. Give me a wedding update.”

  Bella sighs and plops her behind on top of the kitchen island counter. “I just want to be married. I don’t understand why Nyall gives a damn about a big church wedding. Isn’t that normally a girl-like request?”

  “We should do a video about it. It would be interesting to see what other girls have to say.” I lean against the sink and cross my arms as ideas race through my brain. “You
can be on camera for once and be the important person in my life that I interview.”

  She ignores me, probably because she’s stated that the thought of being featured in one of my videos makes her queasy, and continues her rant. “I asked for a Justice of Peace wedding; he countered with St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. I offered a destination wedding; he replied with getting married in his hometown outside of London. As if. Gee, not only would I be getting married in a foreign country, but I would be surrounded by a bunch of strangers who talk funny.”

  A giggle escapes my lips. I love seeing her this happy. Yes, she might be complaining about this part of the wedding process, but she’s glowing. Nyall invaded her life at the right time and has brought her more joy than she ever dreamt was possible. Bella and Nyall are the happily-ever-after at the end of every fairytale.

  She hops down and grabs her purse. “You are laughing why?” Her words are harsh, but her body language isn’t. If the Academy of Motion Pictures gave out an Oscar for Best Over-Acting in any category, Bella would be a shoo in. She is dramatic in the best kind of way. I’ve been trying to talk her into a role in front of the camera for years, but she refuses. She says her talents lie behind the scenes.

  I step forward and wrap my arms around her neck, giving her a kiss on top of the scar which used to define her, but no more. “Because I’m so happy my Bella Boo has found someone else to micromanage.”

  “Don’t worry, MK. I’ll never be too busy running Nyall’s life to neglect yours.”

  She’s my best friend, but Bella is so much more than that. She’s my lifeline, my support system. She’s loved me when I was unlovable and kicked my behind when I needed it.

  “Is your dress ready for Saturday?” she asks as she shrugs on her coat.