Page 27 of Naughty & Nice

“Wait. Mrs. Robinson? It can’t be her birthday. I just made her a cake for that,” I blurt, confused.

“Um, no.” Jason stands looking at the ceiling like he has lost his tongue.

I give Trevor a blank stare.

“Apparently, it’s Purdy’s. She’s upset because her doctor told her to stay off her feet because her rheumatism is acting up. So it’s now become a town emergency.”

“Town emergency? Please tell me she didn’t-”

“Call 911? Yep. I would’ve loved to have been sitting next to Darlene when that call came in.” Jason changes the pitch of his voice to sound like one of the town’s veteran dispatchers. “911, what’s your emergency? Oh, you need a birthday cake for your chicken? Let me send the fire department with lights and sirens.”

I almost laugh until I realize the boys are all stone-faced. Heck, Sycamore doesn’t get that many calls where it would be an imposition. But I suppose it is demeaning to have your profession reduced to such nonsense. The poor woman is a little off her rocker.

“That one,” Dave says, pointing at a small round chocolate cake.

“Are you sure Purdy likes chocolate?” Alden pretends to ask in earnest, failing miserably.

“This whole thing is ridiculous. The woman probably just wants an excuse to light candles and sing happy birthday.” Dave snorts.

“Can we stay to watch it blow out the candles?” Trevor chuckles.

“Sure. We’ll leave you there to party with them,” Jason says, grabbing the cake box from Alden.

“Come on, Trev,” Dave calls.

“Bye, sass.” Kiss. “I promise not to check out any hot chicks at the party.” Kiss.

“Oh my, god. Get out of here, you goof.”

As they all meander to the engine, Alden stares wordlessly at me. “So?”

“So, what?” I grin as I pick up my piping bag and continue to place a decorative buttercream border along the bottom edge of the cake.

“Is this the real thing?”

“It’s so new I don’t want to get my hopes up. I think Trevor was hurt pretty badly, so he keeps his guard up. But I’m so happy, Alden.”

“I see that. Did you tell him you’ll be out of town this weekend for a modeling gig?”

“No. He has friends from Virginia coming this weekend. He’ll be so busy he won’t even know I’m gone.”

CHAPTER21

Addy

“Ugh,I really can’t wait to be done with this gig,” I say to no one in particular. Multiple girls are here under this tent, giggling and waiting for their turn to flirt and take pictures with the race car fans. Most are younger than I am, many with artificial breasts and hair, all trying to use their physical appearance to get ahead. This isn’t for me anymore. It wasn’t bad in the beginning. An easy way to make ends meet. But now, it just feels degrading.

I don’t judge anyone who wants to make a career in modeling. It isn’t easy. Most of the girls I know have ‘aged out’ by twenty-four. I’ve been blessed to have had the opportunity for this long. But I want more. I want to own a business I can be proud of instead of earning a living selling a piece of myself, so some other entrepreneur can benefit.

Clutching my bottled water, I look down at my outfit. Ugh. Wearing the tiniest shorts and tightest T-shirt on the planet, I don’t know if I’m modeling or filling in for someone at the local Hooters restaurant. I’d booked this promotional modeling job for the Richmond International Raceway Nascar season before acquiring the job with the fashion house in Paris. Boy, I’m going from one extreme to another. But they both bring in more money than I can make at Honey Bunz in a month.

Looking about the area, I spot some career models I’ve known from prior gigs. The Richmond and Washington D.C. markets are small. Those of us who’ve been around this business a while tend to know each other. But my relationship with Mildred’s chicken, Purdy, is less superficial. I’ve yet to meet another girl who wouldn’t stab me in the back to secure a modeling job she wanted.

“Addison? Is that you?”

Looking up, surprised to hear my name, I lock eyes with the most superficial of all the girls here. “Hi, Ashley. You working today?” I notice she’s wearing an equally skimpy outfit, but hers appears to be by choice.

“No. Marty managed to get comp tickets to the race because he was willing to sign some autographs for all of thirty minutes.” She giggles, trailing her manicured hand along the linebacker’s chest. I’d heard tales of Martin North. A friend from high school was a Washington football cheerleader and had stories galore of his indiscretions. All with a family at home.Yuck. No, thank you.As if he’s heard my inner monologue, he stares at me as if his mere presence would entice me to fall at his feet as Ashley has.

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