Chapter 14: Lauren's New Project
The morning after the restaurant meeting, dawn was a grey suggestion at the windows when Lauren finally stirred. The idea that had been seeded at dinner now fully blossomed, urgent and clear. She carefully extracted herself from under Travis’s heavy arm. He murmured in his sleep but didn’t wake.
Lauren padded naked to the kitchen, her body pleasantly sore, marked by his possession. The morning light was pale and forgiving through the bay window. She started coffee, the routine mechanical, while her mind churned. David’s hollow smile at dinner haunted her. He needed salvation. He needed the clarity she’d been given.
She pulled her phone from her discarded purse, its screen cool in her hand. Scrolling to Sofia’s contact, she typed with quick, decisive taps. Good morning, gorgeous! How is the honeymoon treating you, Mrs. Nelson? When you have a minute between fuck fests with your studly hubby, how about you give me a call? I need your expert advice on the best way to guide David into his own loving relationship.
She sent it, then cracked eggs into a bowl, the whisking sound loud in the quiet house. The reply came not as a text, but as a ringing call two minutes later. Sofia’s voice, bright with amusement and a background of ocean breeze, filled her ear. “Darling! I’m on the balcony. Tony’s fetching mimosas. Your message made my morning.”
Lauren leaned against the counter, lowering her voice. “I just… I see him hurting, Sofia. It isn’t right. He deserves what we have.”
“Of course he does,” Sofia purred, the sound like silk over glass. “And it’s so sweet of you to think of him. Really, it’s touching.” There was a pause, and Lauren could almost see the cunning smile. “I’ll have a box of Liquid Trust vials sent to your house immediately. Overnight. Discreet.”
“Thank you,” Lauren breathed, relief washing through her. “But… the woman. Who? He’s so steady, so… good.”
Sofia’s laugh was a light, melodic trill. “Oh, Lauren. You’re thinking about it all wrong. You don’t find someone who matches his dreary stability. You find the polar opposite. Someone who will… unwind him. Permanently.”
Lauren was stymied. She stared at the sizzling butter in the pan. “The opposite? I don’t even know what that looks like for David.”
“Take your time, love. I have faith in you.” Sofia’s tone was breezy, but held a sharp edge. “Once the deed is done there’s no going back, so you need to find the perfect woman for him. Think… chaotic. Uninhibited. A force of nature. David needs a hurricane, not a gentle rain.”
The line clicked as Sofia ended the call, likely returning to her mimosa and her Tony. Lauren stood motionless, the spatula in her hand. The polar opposite. The words swirled in her head, a puzzle with dangerous edges. She served the eggs onto a plate, added toast, and arranged it all on a tray. As she carried it back to the living room where Travis still slept, her mind scrolled through a rogues' gallery of every woman they knew. None fit. None were a hurricane.
Travis stirred as she set the tray on the coffee table. He opened his eyes, and the immediate, focused warmth in them dissolved her anxiety. “Hey,” he rasped, sitting up, the sheet pooling in his lap.
“Hey yourself,” she said, smiling, climbing back onto the couch beside him. She fed him a forkful of eggs, her own dilemma temporarily forgotten in the simple, perfect act of caring for her mate. He ate, his gaze never leaving her face. After he swallowed, he took the fork from her hand and set it down.
He pulled her into his lap, his mouth finding hers, tasting of sleep and salt and her. The kiss was slow, deep, a languid exploration. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the robe she’d donned back open. “Breakfast can wait,” he murmured against her lips, his fingers finding her already damp and ready from the night’s exertions and the morning’s thoughts.
As Travis moved his kisses down her neck, Lauren giggled, "Travis, baby, we still have to get showered, dressed, and go to the Johnsons' cookout today!" Travis laughed, "Well, we can shower together, and we still don't have to be there the minute they start the party." They arrived fashionably late.
They arrived fashionably late. The Johnsons’ backyard was already pulsing with the din of two dozen conversations and the scent of charcoal and citronella. Lauren felt the collective gaze swing toward them as they stepped through the gate, Travis’s hand a firm, possessive anchor on the small of her back. Polite smiles were offered, but the air tightened perceptibly; David’s absence was a quiet, aching void in the familiar crowd.
“Lauren! So glad you made it,” Barbara Johnson called, her tone warm but her eyes flicking nervously between Lauren and the large, scarred stranger beside her. Introductions were a cautious dance. “Everyone, this is Travis.” Lauren’s voice held a defiant pride. Handshakes were offered, names recited, the usual neighborhood banter now layered with unspoken questions. “Travis, what is it you do?” asked Greg Johnson, handing him a beer.
Travis took the bottle, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Security consultancy. Mostly threat assessment and executive protection.” He took a slow pull, his gaze scanning the yard with an unconscious, analytical coolness that made Greg blink. “Retired Army,” he added, the simplicity of the statement doing nothing to soften the intensity he carried.
A delicate woman from two houses down, Clare, leaned in. “And how did you two meet?” The question hung there, loaded with the collective memory of David helping her plant tulips last spring.
Lauren’s smile was beatific. “Through mutual friends. It was just… instantaneous.” She felt Travis’s thumb stroke her spine through her sundress, a silent signal. He launched into a story then, about a consulting gig that went sideways in Manila, cleverly sanitized of bloodshed but full of enough chaotic detail about navigating foreign bureaucracies and unreliable local contacts that it was compelling. He spoke with a rough charisma, his dry humor punctuating the tale. Slowly, the guarded expressions began to thaw.
He helped Greg flip burgers, his movements efficient and self-assured. He listened more than he spoke after that initial story, his attention making each person he spoke to feel momentarily fascinating. Within the hour, the stiffness had evaporated. He was just Travis, Lauren’s formidable new partner, who apparently knew a shocking amount about barbecue sauce pH levels and had a deep, rumbling laugh that made people smile.
Lauren relaxed, accepting a glass of sangria from Barbara. This was working. They were being accepted. The ghost of David was being respectfully, gently laid to rest in the neighborhood’s communal memory. As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn, the party found its easy, drunken rhythm. That’s when she heard the laugh.
It was a loud, brass-belled shriek of mirth that cut through the melodic chatter. Lauren turned. There, by the oversized fire pit, holding court with three visibly uncomfortable married men, was Marge Hildebrand. She was poured into a leopard-print bandage dress that strained over her celebrated curves, the neckline plunging to a daring depth. Her blonde hair was big, her makeup dramatic, and a cigarette dangled from her fingers, defying the yard’s ‘no smoking’ policy.
“So I told him, if you can’t find it with a flashlight and a map, darling, you don’t deserve the treasure!” Marge crowed, slapping the knee of the red-faced man beside her. Her laugh echoed again, raucous and unapologetic. She took a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the twilight sky. “Honestly, men today are so timid. All bravado on the apps, then they show up and don’t know which end is up.”
Lauren watched, mesmerized. Marge held her glass of straight bourbon aloft, telling another story involving a jet ski, a politician, and a dare that broke several maritime laws. She was everything David was not: blatant, crude, gloriously messy, and utterly devoid of subtlety. Sofia’s words echoed in Lauren’s mind: A hurricane, not a gentle rain. A slow, wicked smile spread across Lauren’s face. The puzzle pieces slammed together with perfect, catastrophic alignment.
She excused herself from Barbara and wove through the crowd, her target now locked. Marge saw her coming and offered a wide, lipsticked grin that didn’t reach her shrewd, assessing eyes. “Well, if it isn’t the runaway bride! Heard you traded up, honey. Good for you.”
“Hi, Marge,” Lauren said, ignoring the jab. “You’re in rare form tonight.”
“Sugar, this is just my warm-up,” Marge winked, ash tumbling onto the patio stone. She looked Lauren up and down. “You look… satisfied. That new model treating you right under the hood?”
“He’s everything,” Lauren said, her voice dripping with sincere bliss. She leaned in, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “I’m actually glad I ran into you. There’s a huge party next Saturday. A welcome-home bash for Tony Nelson and his new wife, Sofia. Very formal, very upscale. Open bar, live band, the whole thing.”
Marge’s interest, previously performative, sharpened into something genuine. “Tony Nelson? That handsome architect with the cute brother? I heard his first wife ran off with some football player. Messy.”
“It’s all in the past,” Lauren said smoothly, waving a hand. “He’s deliriously happy now. The point is, it’s the event of the season. And David will be there.”
At the mention of David’s name, Marge’s entire demeanor shifted. The loud, performative mask softened into something hungry and starkly focused. She took a final drag and stamped the cigarette out on the patio, ignoring the disapproving glance from across the yard. “David Jensen will be there?”
“He’ll definitely be there,” Lauren promised, her smile innocent. “I know he’d love to see you. He’s… been through a lot lately. He could use some fun.”
Marge’s laugh was lower now, a throaty, knowing sound. “Honey, fun is my middle name. The fun I could show that man…” She let the sentence hang, her eyes gleaming. “Formal, you said? I have a little black number that’ll make a preacher forget his prayers.”
“I bet you do,” Lauren said, her mission accomplished. She felt a thrill of giddy success. “I’ll text you the address and time. Don’t be late.”
“For a shot at David Jensen in a tux?” Marge purred, plucking another cigarette from a sequined clutch. “I’ll be the first one through the door.”
Marge lit her fresh cigarette, the flame illuminating the predatory gleam in her eyes. She blew smoke to the side, her gaze locking onto Lauren’s. “David Jensen. God, I’ve wanted to peel that polite, proper shell off him for five years. Watch him come undone.”
Lauren sipped her sangria, the fruit soaking in the silence. “What would you do?”
A slow, filthy smile spread across Marge’s lips. “First, I’d get him good and drunk on something expensive. Then I’d take him somewhere quiet, maybe a balcony, and I’d get on my knees. I’d suck his cock until he forgot his own name. Deep, messy, no-holds-barred throat. I’d make him fuck my face until he was pulling my hair and seeing stars.”
Lauren felt a strange thrill, cold and clinical. “He’s not… used to that.”
“He will be.” Marge’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial rasp. “I’d take him home. My place. I’d strip him naked and tie him to my bedposts with my silk scarves. Just to start. I’d ride his mouth until I came so hard I screamed, then I’d slide down on his cock backwards so he could watch everything. I’d teach him how to really fuck a woman. How to use his hands, his teeth, everything. No inch of him wouldn’t know my taste.”
“You think he could keep up?” Lauren asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Marge leaned in, the smell of bourbon and tobacco sharp. “Honey, if he can, I’ll put a ring on it myself. I’m done with boys. I want a man. A loyal, steady man who can build a damn house and then wreck me in the bedroom. I’d marry him. Make him husband number four. I’d fuck him every morning and suck him off every night before bed. I’d let him take me any way he wants—hard up against the window, bent over the kitchen counter, slow and deep in a bath so hot it steams. I’d be his perfect, filthy wife.”
Lauren’s heart hammered against her ribs. It was perfect. It was the exact chaotic, all-consuming force needed to obliterate David’s grief. “You sound sure.”
“I’ve got a feeling.” Marge stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette. “He’s the one. My Mister Happily Ever After. And I’ll make damn sure he never looks back.” She finished her bourbon in one swallow. “Just get me in that room with him. I’ll handle the rest.”
Lauren nodded, a serene certainty settling in her bones. “The party starts at eight. Wear the black dress.”
She turned and walked back across the lawn, the noise of the cookout fading behind her. Travis was waiting by the gate, his expression unreadable. He didn’t ask. He simply took her hand, his calloused thumb stroking her knuckles. The plan was set. The hurricane had been summoned.
The hurricane had been summoned. David stood before the polished steel door of Confections Bakery, the industrial hum from within vibrating through the soles of his shoes. He checked the address Walters had scrawled on a napkin again, the smell of vanilla and baked sugar thick enough to taste. He pushed inside.
The kitchen was a flood of controlled chaos. Racks of finished croissants cooled near towering industrial mixers, their bowls spinning clouds of pale batter. A young man with flour in his hair pointed a piping bag at him like a weapon. “We’re not open to the public.”
“Lincoln sent me,” David said, his voice cutting through the mixer’s drone. “I need to see Marco.”
The guy nodded, jerking his head toward the back. “Office. Through the blast chillers.”
David navigated the maze of stainless steel, the air growing cooler as he passed wide refrigerators. The office was a glass-walled cube overlooking the main kitchen, messy with invoices and catalogues. The man inside stood up—Marco, late fifties, with thick forearms covered in old burn scars and a watchful, unsmiling face.
“David,” he said, not offering a hand. “Lincoln’s message was vague. Said you had a special delivery for the Nelson-Kim wedding cake.”
“I do.” David set his leather satchel on the cluttered desk, unsnapping the clasps. He withdrew two large, tightly sealed pharmaceutical vials filled with a clear, viscous liquid. “This gets integrated into the batter and the frosting. Every single cake that will be served to guests. The five-tier showpiece and all the serving cakes.”
Marco picked up a vial, holding it to the fluorescent light. “What is it?”
“An enzymatic stabilizer,” David lied smoothly, the story Walters had crafted feeling alien on his tongue. “Severe, rare nut allergy for a high-profile guest. Undetectable, tasteless. It neutralizes the protein. Lincoln said you were the only one he trusted for a job this sensitive.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a slow nod. Lincoln’s name was a key that turned heavy locks. “The timeline is tight. The main cake is being assembled tomorrow for the Saturday event. The serving cakes are already baked, frozen, ready for final frosting and decoration day-of.”
“That’s fine. It needs to be in both elements—cake and frosting—for full coverage.” David leaned forward, his knuckles white on the desk edge. “Listen, this is critical. When Tony and Sofia cut the main cake and take their first bite, the server needs to immediately begin distributing the pre-sliced guest cakes. Every guest needs to be eating their piece within fifteen minutes. Can you guarantee that?”
“My staff handles high-end event service twice a week. They’re drilled.” Marco set the vial down with a soft click. “The protocol is already in place. The show cake is just that—for show and the photo op. The guests are served from identical sheet cakes we portion and plate in the kitchen. We can have two hundred plates passed in ten minutes, start to finish.”
David exhaled, a fraction of the tension in his shoulders unraveling. “Good. That’s perfect.”
“This guest,” Marco said, his gaze unwavering. “The one with the allergy. They must be very important.”
“They’re family,” David said, the truth of that word grounding him. He slid the satchel across the desk. “All the instructions, including sterile mixing protocols, are in there. No one else can know.”
Marco took the bag, his scarred hands handling it with a baker’s care. “It’s done. The Nelson account is my biggest of the year. Nothing gets compromised.” He paused, looking at David not as a client, but as a man. “You look like hell. Wedding stress?”
“Something like that.” David turned to leave.