Fiercely Emma: Cake Series Book Three Read online

  I held up my favorite light gray pantsuit, the one I’d rocked at the hospital Christmas party the year before last – seriously low-cut and clinging to all the right curves. I recalled feeling incredibly sexy that night. I also remembered the males loving it; so much so that I’d been rewarded with a steamy night in the arms of Logan, our hospital’s Dr. McDreamy. All I can say about that was, with a few drinks in me, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. I should have known better… on so many levels. Logan was one of those guys who knew he was hot and wanted the rest of the world to appreciate his scorching awesomeness right alongside him. And that night, after he’d rolled off of me for the final time that balmy winter’s evening, we both immediately realized our mistake, and neither one of us could get away from the other fast enough.

  He’d spent the following week trying to hide from me. It really was quite humorous to watch him morph from a mature professional into a commitment-phobic adolescent the moment our tryst was completed. Avoiding me seemed his only mission, even going so far as to duck behind the nurse’s stations or escape into storage closets when our paths would invariably cross. What Dr. Chickenshit hadn’t realized was that he’d met his fornicating match. I didn’t want a relationship any more than he did, and once he figured that out, the randy physician was more than happy to keep reaching out for snacks… or asking for tickets to my brother’s concerts. As if. Asshole. That’s what I got for picking the winners. I scrunched my nose in protest of the memory… yeah, maybe not the pantsuit.

  So that was my last coitus, not that you probably cared. Not that I even cared. When it came to men and sex, I could take it or leave it. And more often than not, I left it. It wasn’t that I was some hardcore feminist who reveled in pummeling men in their nether regions just for the sake of it, although that did sound strangely entertaining. No, my reasons were far simpler and less violent. I’d found over time that the only men with balls big enough to approach me were cocksure dipwads. And despite what my appearance and demeanor obviously said about me, I wasn’t used to men like that. All the guys in my life, my father and my brothers, were dynamic and sincere. Sure, they made mistakes, and could at times be giant walking, talking assholes, but at least they tried to do the right thing. I liked to think my brothers treated women with as much respect as could be reasonably expected, given they were of the male species and thought primarily with their frontal genitalia.

  Even if the nice guys were to come hither, it’s not like I’d know what to do with them. I’d spent my adulthood avoiding congenial men. The fact that I didn’t want what nice guys wanted – namely, marriage and a family – pretty much excluded them from my rather empty playbook.

  So, what should I do? my sister Grace texted. She was having boy problems and naively believed her big sister had all the answers. Ahh, bless her. Honestly, she’d have better luck asking some middle school hussy than me but, sure, I’d pretend for her. Why the hell not? Okay, so let’s see, the guy in her English class just told her he thought she had a thick ass – thick, for all you pre-Kardashians out there, now meant deliciously scrumptious. Does she a) engage him in conversation; b) ignore him and make him want more: or c) rub her thick ass all over the douche to give him a taste of what he’s been missing? Okay, seeing as this was my baby sister, c) was most definitely off the table. Selection b) would be my standard protocol, and we certainly didn’t want Grace to be anything like me, so there was really only one option...

  Find someone else. This guy sucks.

  Emma! He’s one of the hottest boys in school.

  All the more reason.

  You’re not helping. I really don’t know what to do. Does he just like me because of my last name or does he like me for me?

  It sounds like he likes you for your ass, which means my earlier advice stands.

  Ugghh… you’re impossible sometimes. I’m going to ask Amber instead.

  Fine. I didn’t want to be her Oprah anyway. Relieved, I shifted my focus back to the pile of clothing and begrudgingly acknowledged that it really didn’t matter what I found in my closet; nothing was going to get me out of a shopping date with my brother’s fiancée, Casey. I’d been putting her off for too long, and now it was crunch time. Somehow I’d agreed to let her help me pick out two ‘music festival appropriate’ outfits for the coming weekend. My brother Jake was headlining the three-day line-up and, because it was our father’s birthday, had invited the entire clan out for some fun in the desert sun. But although I’d been looking forward to the event for weeks, finding something to wear was another story altogether.

  The Sun Desert Music Festival was known as much for the fashion stylings of its concertgoers as it was for the music. And that’s where Casey came in. Since saying yes to my brother four months ago, my future sister-in-law had been trying her best to bond with me. I was fine with our friendly arrangement of seeing each other only when Jake was around – after all, I wasn’t known for having female friends – but apparently that didn’t fly with girlfriend-centric women like Casey. She wanted a deeper connection with me, and even though I had trust issues with other women, I’d promised Jake during our last phone conversation that I’d try harder to get to know his soon-to-be bride.

  I mean, how difficult could it be? Casey seemed fairly straightforward. I couldn’t imagine there being some hideous beast hiding under all that smiling. Normally I didn’t trust anyone whose lips were perpetually curved upward, but with Casey, I truly believed she couldn’t help herself. Don’t get me wrong – I didn’t dislike Casey or her bubbly personality. On the contrary, I found her a breath of fresh air in my brother’s previously stale life. She’d found a way to pierce his steely surface to find the person inside – not the rock star or the crime victim, just the man I knew and loved. And for that I bowed down to her. But becoming best buddies? That didn’t seem likely.

  I guess selfishly I’d always just pictured Jake and me, lonely and unloved, living out the later years of our lives together in some swanky old people’s home in Florida, complaining about the freezing temperatures and arguing over whose walker was fastest. But with Casey in the picture, that lofty dream was all shot to hell. It was now looking like I’d be getting a table for one in old folks’ heaven.

  Obviously, the issue I had with Casey was more a reflection on me. I simply couldn’t keep up with the girl. The last time we’d hung out, she’d done 90% of the talking. At some point I’d retreated to a safe place in my mind far, far away from the endless words. Again, my fault, not hers. No doubt my reserved demeanor had made Casey extra chatty that night.

  The phone calls for this current round of attempted bonding had started last week. Of course, Casey initiated each and every call. There’d been three in all, if you didn’t count the ones I’d let go straight to voicemail. She wanted to set up a shopping date with me, which required a trip to the mall or something equivalent. Noise. Lines. People. Yuck, double yuck, and shoot me now. All my go-to excuses were depleted after call number one. I dipped into the reserves for call number two. But by call number three, I was weak and defenseless, and in no position to refuse. Yep, there was no way out of the trip to the mall.

  The only type of shopping I enjoyed was done from the comfort of my own home… and in a pair of colorful pajamas. Almost everything I desired could be ordered through the click of a mouse. The painless efficiency of online shopping sent happy flutters through me. Nothing was more satisfying than coming home from a long day of work and finding brown packages waiting for me on my doorstep. It was like Christmas every day.

  My aversion to the mall came at the onset of puberty, when I grew to my full and ridiculous height. Pushing six feet tall in seventh grade, it was a challenge to find flattering outfits that fit my long, pencil arms and Stretch Armstrong legs. And don’t even get me started on my size ten flipper feet. That’s why I stuck to the brands I could trust, with the online stores specifically tailored to beanstalk girls like myself.

  Casey didn’t have to worry a
bout such things, as she was the south to my north pole. Her cute little personality was matched by her cute little body. She could rock any outfit and look cool doing it. Add to that her flowing brunette locks and easy smile, and Casey was hard to resist. She definitely had a way of growing on you, sort of like a staph infection – you didn’t even know she was invading until you had a full-blown case of her.

  Honestly, I just didn’t want to be embarrassed when I went into stores for normal-sized girls. Although I liked being able to reach items on the top shelf, there were times I thought life would be easier if I was short enough to fit inside a smart car. Certainly it would be simpler when it came to men. I was no troll, but my height definitely complicated matters with the opposite sex. Guys over a certain length generally found me attractive – hell, even the shorter ones had no problem flirting with me – until I stood up. Then came the sweaty foreheads and awkward excuses. Even the big guys seemed to be calculating in their heads how much taller I’d be in a pair of stilettos before committing to an evening out, not that such a scenario came around all that often.

  Perhaps to offset the shock of my lofty, slim frame and bee-sting sized boobs, I had been graciously blessed with the gift of light hazel-gray eyes, high cheekbones, and lustrously long, thick tresses, which at the moment were dyed a platinum blonde, courtesy of my fashion-obsessed sister Grace. While she’d done a great job, I was currently rethinking my color choice after overhearing someone at work call me the White Witch.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only unfavorable nickname I’d earned at the hospital. I was also routinely referred to as Nurse Nasty and The Rock Star’s Bitch Sister; always behind my back, of course. For whatever reason, women didn’t particularly care for me. It wasn’t that I was ever outwardly rude to other people, but I wasn’t touchy-feely, either. I had a tendency to keep my emotions firmly in check, and apparently that rubbed people the wrong way.

  When I’d first started at the hospital, I really had tried to fit in, but my brother’s reputation preceded me. A leak from the administration outed my identity, and upon arrival I was bombarded with questions about Jake. Being the fiercely protective sister I was, I immediately shut down the intrusive inquiries, and in doing so, set the course for social obliteration for the next four years.

  Of course, it hadn’t helped my cause that male coworkers occasionally hit on me in front of the other nurses. Even openly rebuffing their advances to appease my female colleagues didn’t get me off the hook. In fact, it only seemed to incite them further. The Rock Star’s Bitch Sister thinks she’s too good for our doctors. I figured out pretty quickly that I couldn’t win no matter what, so I stopped trying. In fact, I had only one friend among the nurses, and that was really just by default. Everyone hated her, too.

  No, I was used to not being liked by other women, and it hadn’t bothered me too much until Jake asked me to try harder with Casey. I’d never been able to say no to him, and his concern for her happiness tugged at my heart. His was a request I couldn’t ignore. Nor did I want to. I owed as much to Casey. Her commitment to my brother gave us something very important in common. And if, like Jake had said, she didn’t think I liked her, well, that was definitely something I could change.

  At least I had a better chance of making things right with Casey than of fixing the other issue Jake had with me. According to him, I suffered from a condition referred to as Resting Bitch Face, otherwise known as RBF. Apparently even when I wasn’t annoyed, my expression said otherwise. As if I didn’t have enough to be self-conscious about, now I had to worry that my very aura was displeasing to others. Talk about pressure. The moment I was made aware of the fact that I was indeed suffering from the chronic pinched-lipped disease, it was all I could think about. Feeling the need to prove I was more than just a facial expression, I practiced ‘resting’ my face in front of a mirror, adopting a more pleasing wide-eyed, clueless look. If it worked for puppies, it could work for me.

  Once I had my most adorable look down pat, I tried it out at work, greeting my co-workers enthusiastically. Instead of being thrilled with my delightful new outlook on life, my sudden friendliness had the opposite effect, and for the remainder of the day, I had to endure long sideways glances from women worried I might show up at their homes and boil their pet bunnies. In hindsight, it might have been best to ease them into the new me.

  I hadn’t always been the odd woman out. Once upon a time, I’d had plenty of female friends; in fact, dare I say, I was a popular girl. Back then, if females hated me it was because they wanted to be me. Now they just hated me with no strings attached.

  It’s not difficult to pinpoint the moment in time when everything changed for me. In fact, I could tell you the exact minute of the exact day. When tragedy stuck, it was all-consuming, and I was wholly unprepared for the aftermath. I collapsed inward, clinging to my parents and siblings, the only people who truly understood the magnitude of what we’d survived. I would have gladly stayed inside that bubble, us against the world, had the inevitable not happened and we’d all grown up. I went off to college and started my life, but emotionally, I stayed behind, watching from the sidelines as one by one my little sister and my four brothers began to spread their wings. It was beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Letting them go left a void in me that I’d never been able to fill back up. As my brothers fell in love, they added new members to our tight knit group, making me feel pushed out and unnecessary. Maybe that’s why I’d never embraced Keith’s ex, or Jake’s fiancée or Kyle’s girlfriend. Tears filled my eyes. I needed to try harder.

  “I can always count on you, can’t I, buddy?” I said, bending down and giving my fur baby a good scratching behind his ears. Forgetting about his butthole, if only temporarily, Cynthia purred and rolled around on the floor in frenzy as if my fingers had been dipped in catnip just for his petting pleasure.

  The ding of the doorbell put an end to the cat worship. There’d be plenty of time for that later. Oh, yeah, there was always ample time for the cat.

  “All right, all right, hang on,” I called, as I padded my way to the front door. Pulling out my phone, I clicked on the electronic doorbell app to confirm who I already assumed was there – my lunch date. He came around at least every other week after trips to LA, and although I’d never admit it to him, his visits were the highlights of my month. The camera on my doorbell app finally activated, and I gasped at the image that popped up on my screen. An ass. And not just any ass… my brother Keith’s. I wished I could say it was the first time I’d seen it so up close and personal, but sadly I couldn’t. Despite myself, I laughed at his juvenile behavior. My penchant for frat boy humor was an unfortunate side effect of growing up with brothers.

  “Damn, Keith,” I said into the speaker, “you’re looking so handsome today. Did you get a new haircut or something?”

  “Well, actually I did do a little manscaping. Thanks for noticing.”

  “You know, I didn’t buy this doorbell so you could have your way with it.”

  The naked ass that had been greeting me on my screen disappeared and was replaced by Keith’s eyeball.

  “EMMMAA,” he said in a crazy voice, his giant orb rolling around in its socket. “Open up.”

  “Stop,” I laughed, unlocking my front door. “You’re going to freak out the neighbors.”

  Keith stepped in, a bag of oranges in one hand and the other adjusting his shorts back into place. “Have you seen your neighbors? You live in the Valley, for god’s sake.”

  I pulled him into my charming yet snug, three-bedroom condominium.

  “Shhh,” I snickered, and shut the door. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  I lived on a quiet tree-lined street in the Valley. Yes, that valley. Also known as the New Jersey of Los Angeles, the San Fernando Valley had long been considered the place to go if you weren’t beautiful enough, cool enough, or rich enough to live in the city. Many Angelenos wouldn’t even consider stepping foot on this side of Mulholland Drive
without a full set of shots on file. Home of porn stars and Moon Unit Zappa’s Valley Girl song, one might think the area had no redeeming qualities, but in recent years it had become a mecca for young families. The rents were cheaper and the vibe was considerably more laid back.

  Although it was far from what others might consider a dream home, for me it was perfect. Having the finest of all things had once been my goal, but that was a long time ago. I’d long since stopped valuing the measure of life through opulence. The people I chose to surround myself with, my family, were all the treasure I needed. Sappy, I agree, but in my case, true. Yes, I was proud of my little condo. It had been through my hard work that I’d earned enough for the down payment. Because my brother was a millionaire musician, people just assumed I routinely piggybacked off his fortune and fame. That could not be further from the truth. My life was mine, far removed from my brother’s crazy, rock star existence, although that’s not to say that if I’d wanted to live vicariously through him, I easily could have. Jake was liberal with his money and never thought twice about sharing his wealth with the ones he loved.

  Case in point was the owner of a skate and surf shop who was standing before me now. The money for Keith’s business had come from a very rich and very generous musician, one who just happened to share his last name. Keith might not have minded taking handouts, but I did. I liked my quiet little existence, but more importantly, I liked paying for it on my own. That didn’t mean I wasn’t open to bonuses from time to time, generally in the form of plane tickets, hotels, and all-expenses-paid family trips like the one I was about to enjoy this weekend.