Authors: N.A. Violet
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Spicy Orchid Publishing
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THE BRIDE’S SURPRISE
BY N.A. VIOLET
THE BRIDE’S SURPRISE
She wasn’t going to be able to do it.
No, not in a million years!
Livy Castle looked at the bill she held in her hand and she growled. She jumped to her to bare feet, tossing her robe to the hardwood floor, pacing.
The tidings she traipsed back in forth with were hardly glad. Livy was looking at a row of numbers that could have reached the moon and circled it, twice.
Livy sighed. Her mother had been very ill for years now. Their family Donovan Lee Castle had provided the means to help Livy and her mom, Julia stay afloat.
The only news Livy did know were the things Donovan wanted done while his affairs and his will were being sorted; Livy prayed her mom Julia would be able to continue her globulin treatments.
Now granddaddy was gone and Livy didn’t even know if he’d made any arrangements to keep everything going with her mom.
Which didn’t help the dog walking business Livy was trying to grow.
Livy texted five numbers to her friend Poppy Hepburn. Livy asked Poppy if she could walk some of the dogs for clients. Poppy texted, “Yes,” and Livy breathed a sigh a relief.
She looked at the paper again and she shook her head.
How was she supposed to come up with this kind of money in sixty freaking days..?
Livy turned to window in her tenth story flat. She looked out over the Bay City and at the Golden Gate. Livy wished she had super-genetic abilities like the X-Men so she could to go over and lift it. Then she’d hold it over the Memorial hospice and drop it on it like a ton of bricks. Only this time it would be steel and girders.
Today was her one day Livy had to try and figure out what she going to do. Livy had wanted the day to be all hers, but the bill collectors and the incessant phone calls to her cell, were about to drive her mad.
Livy picked up her cell phone off her oak square table with a short leg and she dialed the Hospice. She stuck her red toenail-painted foot on the table to stop it from knocking while she waited for someone to answer.
“Hello, this Livy Castle. I’m calling to speak to someone about my mother’s stay?”
“The administration office is closed this week and will reopen next Wednesday—.”
Livy stuck her arm out in front of her as she stared at the phone.
This was all she needed.
Livy stood in her Dream Angels lace trim thong panty and Victoria’s Secret Pink Angel bra holding the letter, reading the ginormous hospice balance.
A flock of robins fly past a spiraling plume of mockingbirds. The mockingbirds sailed to and fro by Livy’s window and she shook her head. She knew she should have been thrilled to see birds so blissfully happy.
The plume of Mockings flew straight at her window.
She held her phone up, and she snapped her phone lens at the feathery creatures, with a “flash”.
The birds spun at light speed sailing high into the sky.
me,” Livy said.
Livy went to her hand-painted sienna armoire, to find something to wear. A cream pair of capris and white T and matching wedges and a black belt fit her somber mood.
She held up the ensemble to her breasts, testing her look. “Why can’t I be Magneto, Professor Xavier, or Storm and bend everything to my will?”
Maybe she should have gone for demure. Livy thought it was probably better to dress casual, than try to prove she was queen San Francisco’s weather. Not today, anyway. Livy simply wasn’t feeling like a superhero.
Adding the black leather belt with its silvery buckle to her clothes, she ran to answer the mobile phone. “Yes, this is Livy—.”
Her boy pal Francis Lavoisier screamed into the phone. “Where are you? We’ve got the set with the giraffes, and the chimpanzee, and the photographer. What the H-E double stilettos, did big daddy D do with the client roster, Ms. Liv?
“Oh, no—.” Livy grabbed her purse, forgetting to spritz herself with some cologne.
She searched for some body spray instead to stick in her tote.
Livy picked up her keys to the agency office. “I’ll go through the books and find someone.”
“Girl, I don’t know what to tell you. We have a full crew, and no model to give us face,” Francis was the head of the agency’s creative department.
Livy’s granddaddy Donovan Lee introduced her to Francis when she started working for the Castle Ad Agency. The agency had expanded to become of the top bookers of commercial and industrial clients east of the coast.
“You’re in creative, do another test shoot of the set,” said Livy breathlessly. She found her car keys.
“I’m the head of creative, not our Heavenly Father—,” Livy smiled as she heard her co-worker friend dish.
“I know, I know. Stall them or something, will you?” Livy ran outside her apartment.
“Tell them anything, do whatever you have to do,” Livy said into her phone.
Her granddad Donovan would pick a time to meet the Pearly Gates when she needed him most. He was a feisty man who had a bushy goatee and a savvy head for business. A savvy that continued to amaze Livy. Pappy Donovan had been gone only a couple of days, but he had left instructions with her how he wanted his legacy to be run.
“Mm-hm. You know this is going to cost you.” Francis said.
Livy thought about her friend’s beautiful dark skin and wished she could get a little bit tan.
Livy hailed a cab.
“When doesn’t it,” Livy said wryly. “Do what you can. I’m snagging a cab.”
Her perfume she couldn’t find slipped from her tote and spilled over her wedges and her capris.
“Crap,” Livy piled into the taxi and she gave the driver the agency address.
“There’s a twenty dollar tip if you get me there in 10—.”
Livy shrugged while the driver stared at her in the rear view mirror. “What..? Okay, here’s a fifty,” Livy reached inside her purse and she threw her tote to the side. “Make it fast and you can keep the change.”
The cab driver sniffed at the back seat. “What did you spill in my cab?”
“What?” Livy stared. She saw her body mist roll around the floor as she clicked her seat belt. “Nothing,” Livy lied. “I like to smell fresh.”
The driver whiffed at the interior of the cab and frowned.
“I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be,” Livy said brushing her long blond curls off her shoulders and tying into a ponytail behind her face. “Come on, driver. Let’s go!”
Livy got to the photo shoot in minutes. That was nice. Because when she stepped out of the cab, her heel broke.
“No!” Livy leaned against the taxi, hopping on one shoe. “Not today, not now!”
Livy did her best impression of a contortionist, reaching in her tote. She dug out her American Express and she handed it to the taxi driver.
The driver looked at the card and he made a face. “This is expired.”
” Livy looked at the card. She realized she had brought the wrong wallet.
“Hey, pretty lady, get out of the street. Don’t you know what time in the a.m. it is?” A rotund garbage worker rode by on a garbage truck wriggling his eyebrows.
Livy angled her bent leg, straightening so she looked like a stork. “Know what you can do..?” Livy puckered her pink lips and she blew the worker a big fat
!” The worker applauded as the truck drove up the street.
“Look lady, I got a living to earn. You want I should let my kids go hungry?”
Livy pulled out a crisp Ulysses S. Grant.
“Here,” Livy saw she was still blocks away from the photo set. “Get me five blocks north and to fire station and this fifty is yours.”
Livy spied her shoe that was now split and lying on its side playing possum.
“Oh, these were my best Stuart Weitzmans,” Livy whined.
“It took me sixteen months modeling panties in the mall to afford these,” Livy’s shoulders sank as she slumped, pouting.
The cab driver rolled his eyes. He got out of the cab, opened up the rear door for Livy and he sighed.
Francis Lavoisier stood under a plastic palm tree with a coconut in his hand. He was in a stare down with one of the giraffes and he had the coconut aimed at the giraffe’s lips.
“You get within one inch of me and my Montecristi Panama hat, and I’ll knock you back into the Sahara—.” Francis bobbed the coconut, ready to strike.
The giraffe gnawed on a mouthful of shrubs and stared.
“Aren’t they supposed to have a wrangler for these things?” Francis turned to the crew with his hands spread out, and with the coconut, scrunching his face.
The makeup artist and the wardrobe girl shrugged their shoulders.
Livy came around the corner from the side street, wobbling.
“Oh, thank Mary,” said Francis.
Francis scurried to Livy and he helped her walk up the garden steps. The photo shoot was at a local garden Livy had Francis book. The permits they’d to finagle were over the moon in fiscal tape. “Girl, where have you been,” he whispered conspiratorially.
“The model still isn’t here and the photographer is threatening to poison the chimpanzee’s banana with Triple Sec” Francis looked over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me the super model had a rider for an open bar?”
Livy leant on Francis’ 6’3” frame. “I got her on loan from another Agency.”
“Ooh, girl. You know why the model isn’t here then. That is sabotage, girl—.” Livy let Francis pick her up and he set her on a dais above the crew and beside a Jib crane next to the photographer.
“Everybody, I want to thank you for being here,” said Livy.
‘Our super model seems to be MIA,” Livy said. “Rest assured, we’re going to have a model. All of you will be paid, I need a little more of your patience.”
The photographer Jacques leaned around the Jib. “Why don’t you do it?”
The crew turned to Jacques.
“Who is he, anyway?” Markie Salamon, the 20-year old makeup artist said.
“That’s Jacques, photographer extraordinaire. He’s done all the top covers,” Francis gushed.
Markie pinned her Edith Head style spectacles onto her nose. “Oh, has he?”
“Mm-hm. He’s done Sports Illustrated to Paris Vogue. Word is, he still has a thing for Miss Liv,” Francis said.
Markie tied her blue-black hair into a chignon, her freckles poking out under the sun. “He doesn’t look like much.” Suddenly Markie frowned. “Doesn’t he have a last name?”
“No. Just Jacques. Apparently looks aren’t everything,” Francis pursed his lips.
Markie saw Francis drop his eyes down after he looked up at the crane. Markie covered her mouth when she saw Francis was staring at Jacques’ jean-clad crotch. “
,” Markie said, her eyes wide.