Taming Tyler

Chapter Six

Callum

T his is the fourth year I’m doing this. Working with the Los Angeles County Parole and Probation Office. It was through Mitch, obviously, that I got involved, but it was my idea to include the homeless shelter down the block in the program. I’d already been donating bread and birthday cakes to the shelter for three years when I met Mitch. I suggested cooperating with the shelter one day when he was moaning about how hard it was to get the kids to feel a sense of community. They’d been on the outside for so long that most of them felt disconnected from the world around them. If there was only a way that we could give the kids who came through my bakery a sense of the community they should actually be serving; the community they’re a part of themselves. The people who have nothing and have been left behind.

Solidarity. That’s what I was taught from an early age by Father Reynolds. I was a choirboy, believe it or not. It could have easily gone the other way, though. I was a little out of control back in the day, to say the least. Growing up in a rough neighborhood with my grandmother and younger sister, it was a daily battle to stay on the straight and narrow. So, as a last resort, Gran sent me to church. Father Reynolds took one look at a scrawny, eleven-year-old me and said, ‘Sing.’ And I started singing. And made both Gran and Father Reynolds cry. So yeah. I dodged a bullet and now I try to give back by helping where I can.

When I told Tyler not to be late, I had zero expectations he would be punctual. I always say it for good measure because teaching these kids about accountability is key. Not only to others, but also to themselves. So, when I pull up in front of Bake My Day —yeah, I know, my sister Theresa’s idea—at exactly 3:48 am and Tyler is waiting for me, leaning against the front of the shop, I’m surprised, to say the least. And I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said that he’d be coming straight from a club. Because he does look like someone who’s been partying all night. Well, just another thing we need to work on. Little boys belong in their bed at night and not God knows where with God knows whom.

“You’re late,” he throws at me, as soon as I exit my van. Snarky. Well, I wasn’t expecting anything less.

“Check your watch, kid,” I say, nodding at his neon-orange wristwatch. At first, he frowns, a puzzled pout shaping his lips, then he looks at the clock.

“Oh shit,” he chuckles. “I’m early. I’m never early.” He smiles at me stupidly, like he’s truly surprised by his own punctuality. Then he giggles, brushing at his face, smearing even more mascara around his eyes. His left arm is adorned with stamps from various nightclubs, so I doubt he’s had any sleep. That’s hardly anything out of the ordinary, though. I’ve had my fair share of sleep-deprived kids napping under the counter or in the storage room.

“You better not be drunk,” I sigh. “If you’re drunk, I gotta send you home, and you’ll be marked down as absent.”

“I’m not drunk,” he bats his black eyelashes at me, and briefly, he looks all innocent and untainted by this world. “I promise, Caaal,” he purrs, as he leans in against my chest, the nauseatingly sweet scent of Malibu emanating from him.

“Good. Let’s go then. We’ll start with a tour.” I walk past him, and he wobbles ominously on his feet, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. If I want him to trust me, I have to show him the same courtesy. That’s only fair. I pull out my keys and unlock the glass door to the bakery. Holding the door for Tyler, he steps inside.

“You know, it’s a pretty lame name for a bakery,” he quips, sliding past me and brushing his shoulder against my chest.

“Oh, yeah? Well, if you think of something better, let me know.” He pauses, scrunching his nose, the sprinkling of freckles glowing in the brightness of the overhead lights. When I renovated the place, I had windows installed in the ceiling to give the place an airy feel. Along with the cream-color walls and the cherrywood counter, the place looks spacious and inviting. In one corner, there’s a small seating arrangement of soft chairs and a thrift store coffee table, but aside from that, it’s a bakery and not a coffee shop.

“You’d let me change the name?” he says, his eyes bright and alert.

“Maybe,” I shrug. “If you can come up with something better.” In an instant, his face transforms and he bounces on his feet in front of me.

“Oh, you’re on! You’re so fucking on.” Then he enters the shop, still bouncing in his gray New Balance sneakers. Looking around, he wolf whistles while bobbing his head, black curls blowing all over the place. I don’t think I’ve ever seen hair this color, and we get a lot of Latino kids coming through. It’s not jet black. There’s no blue tint to it. But it’s not brown, either. It’s just… Tyler black, I guess. And why am I thinking about Tyler’s hair?

“Cool place, old man,” he does a twirl, taking it all in. “It’s okay if I call you old man , right? I mean, since you’re married to my good ol’ Stepdaddy Mitch and all? Or do you prefer Daddy?” he smirks, nibbling his bottom lip, cinnamon eyes staring me down challengingly.

“I prefer Cal,” I say. I know his spiel. If he can get a rise out of me, he thinks he can add me to a long list of people who’ve had enough of him. Who’ve decided he’s not worth the hassle. That he’s a lost cause. Shit, this kid is so far from a lost cause. He has no idea what being a lost cause even means.

He sighs, playing with his cuticles as he tilts his head, mumbling something that sounds like ‘ bummer.’ Then he stretches lazily, yawning loudly, and it’s then I notice the front of his baby-blue top. Creampie . It’s splayed across his frail chest in shimmery pink lettering. For fuck’s sake. He must notice my frown because he looks down at his shirt.

“Oh yeah,” he laughs, but not like he laughed yesterday when Bree was loving on him. It’s more forced. Rehearsed. Almost as if he intentionally tries to sound carefree. “You like, Cal-Bear? It was the most professional bakery attire I could find.”

“You can wear whatever you want,” I swallow, keeping my voice steady. “As long as it’s clean.” I scrunch my nose, taking him in. It looks clean enough.

“Jeez, Cal-Bear. What do you take me for? Of course, it’s clean,” he smiles endearingly. “I was a good boy and made sure to swallow.” He searches my face for any sign of annoyance or disapproval, but I know for a fact that he won’t find any. He can come at me all day and I won’t play along on his little game called ‘ Get Cal to throw me out on my ass .’ He can even call me fucking Cal-Bear for all I care.

“Good,” I tip my chin. “Follow me.”

“Sure thing, Cal-Bear,” he skips after me. Shit, this is gonna be a long-ass day. As we walk past the counter, I stop, nodding at the fancy espresso machine Theresa insisted I purchase. The Rancilio Silvia . It’s a goddamn devil machine, is what it is. I swear the thing has it out for me, spewing warm milk at me whenever possible.

“You need a coffee?” I ask, praying to God that he says no. The kid looks more like a Red Bull type of guy, anyway. I usually avoid going anywhere near the machine until Theresa comes in for her shift at 6. We open at 6:30 and while I make deliveries and stop by the shelter, Theresa runs the place. She doesn’t have classes until early afternoon and we’re closed by then. Bake My Day is not a fancy coffee shop where the TikTokers hang out, plotting to take over the world. This is a place for the early risers. The working crowd who’s looking for a quick caffeine fix and a buttery sugar boost before work. My clientele are the construction workers and the nurses. The mechanics and the secretaries. The average blue-collar Joes and Janes. And I like it that way.

“Nah, I’m good,” he smiles, sweeping his slender fingers along the countertop. His light blue nail polish is chipped, and for some reason, that gets to me. It looks sad and neglected. A beautiful boy like Tyler shouldn’t be wearing chipped nail polish. He just shouldn’t.

I give him a quick tour of the kitchen and the different machines and storage rooms. To my surprise, he stays quiet as he appears to take it all in. No smart-ass remarks, deep sighs, or bored eye rolls. From time to time, he’ll ask a question, but they’re relevant like what types of flour I use or how many cinnamon buns I bake a day. By the end of the twenty-minute tour, Tyler looks wiped out and ready to fall flat on his face.

“Let’s get you something to eat before you tip over,” I say, squeezing his shoulder as I walk past him to the pantry. It’s where I keep the bread we didn’t sell the day before, so Theresa can bring it with her to her study group if she wants. “What’s your poison?” I ask over my shoulder and nearly smack my face right into Tyler’s. Standing right behind me, he grabs my waist to keep his balance.

“Holy shit,” he says, a glazed-over look in his eyes. “Did I just die and go to fucking heaven?” I can’t help laughing. He does kind of look like this is his idea of heaven. Sliding toward a shelf, he takes in the baskets of bread, frowning before he moves on to one with donuts. “How many can I have?” he whispers in visible awe.

“As many as you want,” I say, swallowing behind a lump building in my throat. The kid looks like he’s ready to drop to his knees and worship the glazed donuts.

“Yeah?” He turns around, looking straight at me. “Really?”

“Sure,” I shrug. “We can’t sell them anyway, so knock yourself out.” He quickly grabs one with a chocolate glaze and then one with rainbow sprinkles. Stuffing an entire donut into his mouth, I notice the exact moment when the flavor hits his tongue.

“Fruckin’ hwell, Cal,” he moans around the sugary goodness. “Tis’ the bwest frucki’ donut I ever hwad!” I chuckle as I nod because, yes, I make a pretty mean donut. Smacking his lips, a smear of chocolate glaze across his chin, he looks at me like I’m the second coming of Christ or hung the goddamn moon. “Cal, you’re my hero,” he purrs, wiping non-existent tears from his eyes.

“Right, kid, don’t go stroking out on me now. We’ve got work to do.”

“But seriously, Cal-Bear,” he blabbers on as I search the stack of aprons for one that’ll fit him. “That’s fucking magic. It’s like… like a mouth orgasm, man.” He shakes his head in disbelief, his eyes blazing from the building sugar high. “Shit, Cal-Bear, you’ve ruined me for all other bakers. A donut will never just be a donut again.” I burst out laughing because this kid is ridiculous.

“Easy now, kid,” I laugh, placing one of Theresa’s aprons in his hands. “Try this on. If it’s too big, we’ll have to order some for you, but they won’t get here until Wednesday.”

“I get an apron?” he beams. “Do I get a hairnet too?” he bats his lashes. My gaze zeroes in on the smear of chocolate across his cheek.

“You’ve got a little…” I gesture to my own cheek.

“Yeah?” he continues to stare at me. “Can you get it for me, Cal?” he breathes.

“Sure,” I say, searching the shelves for some paper napkins. Grabbing one, I lean in and wipe his cheek carefully. His skin vibrates beneath my fingers as he stays motionless while I clean the chocolate away.

“All done,” I croak, exhaling.

“Thanks,” he whispers, his fingers sweeping along his cheek where mine just were.

“No worries,” I murmur. “Let’s get you dressed. I mean, put on the apron and follow me.” Shit.

“Aye-Aye, Mr. Baker Boss!” He quips as he starts battling with the apron, managing to get his right arm tied together with his neck.

“For Pete’s sake,” I groan as I pull at the ties, beads of sweat breaking across my forehead. Tyler holds still while I untie a knot that’d make any Boy Scout green with envy, his warm breath hitting my neck in warm little bursts. As I finally manage to get his apron adjusted around his slim waist, I’m ready for a nap. Or a vacation. Or both. Mitch owes me one.

“So, what are we baking today?” Tyler claps his hands together with evident glee. He appears to be over the hurdle, full-on beaming with adrenaline, his eyes bursting with energy. At twenty-one, he’s seventeen years my junior, and don’t I feel it right now?

“We’ll start with the baguettes,” I say. “We use them for grab-and-go subs. They’re high in demand. Especially those with Theresa’s egg salad.”

“What’s a baguette?” he frowns. I look around the shelves and find a stack from yesterday. We usually use the leftovers for cheese and turkey sandwiches that we drop off at the school down the block. You would be surprised at how many kids go to school with an empty stomach and no lunch in sight. I pick one up and hand it to him.

“This is a baguette,” I say. Grabbing it, he holds it up in front of him while he looks between the baguette and the donut clasped in his other hand. Mischief flashes across his face.

“So, which one are you, Cal-Bear?” he says, all sugary sweet, a devilish fire in his eyes. When he attempts to stuff the baguette into the donut, I gulp once before gulping some more. Then I shake myself.

“Cute, Tyler. Real cute,” I say. “C’mon.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun!” he complains.

“This ain’t supposed to be fun, kid. This is community service,” I growl unintentionally. Where the hell is Theresa? I need a coffee. Jesus, I need a coffee IV, that’s what I need. The things you do for love, right? There’s nothing I won’t do for Mitch, but he owes me for this one. He owes me big time.

“We should make a bagnut ,” Tyler pipes up as he munches on what looks like a bite of baguette and half a donut. “It’s gonna be fucking epic, Cal-Bear.”

“ Bagnut ?”

“Yeah,” he licks his lips, a few rainbow sprinkles stuck to his chin. Jesus, this kid is a walking, talking nightmare. “A baguette shaped like a donut. With glaze, of course. A little more substance for the beefy dudes. It’ll be a sure sale for the construction type of guys. A bagnut. It’s catchy. ‘Here, grab a bagnut!’ Just give me a cut of the profits, Cal-Bear. Let’s say… 25% and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Right.