The Pretend Boyfriend Page 3

She’s staring at him.

  Great.

  They all do.

  Her eyes flash blue fire as she strides up to him, still seated at the poker table. Everyone’s eyes are riveted upon her.

  “Brian Morton?” she says.

  Behind her, a gaggle of women – including the brunettes who were eyeing him from the bar and the blonde he had just fucked – troop into the room, hanging around the doorway bemusedly to watch.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you go to St. Theresa Academy? Around thirteen years ago?”

  “Give or take a few, yeah.”

  She’s very close to him. He can smell her perfume – a light summer scent that brings daisies and bright meadows to mind. He smiles up at her. That cocksure, predatory smile that renders women, so he has been told, weak at the knees.

  Oh, she wants him. He can tell.

  She says, “Good. Because there’s something I want to give you.”

  With that, she draws back her fist and punches him right in the face.

  4

  “What did you do that for?” Brian splutters, nursing his jaw. He has gotten to his feet, erection notwithstanding.

  She could be some woman he had fucked and left high and dry. But he doesn’t remember fucking her. And hell, he would have remembered someone like that.

  “Because you made my middle grade a living hell.”

  “Middle grade?” Brian eyes the woman warily. His entire middle grade is a blur, especially since he was yanked out midterm to go to another school. “I don’t fucking remember middle grade.”

  Caleb laughs. “And you weren’t even smoking joints yet until you were fifteen.”

  “Typical,” the woman says angrily. “Bullies like you never remember your victims.” She jabs a finger at his chest. “I sat in the second row, two seats away from the window in Ms. Mulholland’s class. You used to scatter sweet wrappers all over my desk.”

  Brian’s eyes go wide. It’s coming to him now. But he just can’t recall her name.

  It’s . . .

  Jenny?

  Janey?

  “Jaws?” Caleb’s mouth is open.

  A startling memory blindsides Brian like an oil tanker slamming into him full frontal. Rapid images of the geeky girl with braces he had teased mercilessly as a rite of middle school passage stream in procession through his churning mind.

  B-but she was stick thin then. Flat-chested. And her hair was short . . . not this glorious wild mane that just begs for his fingers to claw into while she writhes under his hard body and screams out his name.

  And she wore braces to keep her buck teeth in. The biggest, flashiest, brightest braces this side of the sun.

  No, it can’t be.

  And yet here she is, all grown up. With an amazing body to die for. Although she is dressed in officious work wear – a cream blouse over a plaid A-line skirt – he can see that her tits are straining at the buttons. God, they must be 38D at the least. He has had plenty of women with big breasts, but he never tires of playing with protuberant tits.

  But these tits on a skinny, gawky kid he used to know from eight grade!

  The girl he used to call ‘Jaws’ is magnificent before him. All filled out and lushly curved. Her eyes spit blue fire, and he can well imagine them sparkling fire of another sort under him.

  He’s aware that his own jaw has dropped to the floor. Around him, the poker guys are sniggering and even laughing outright. The women at the door wear expressions of delight at his comeuppance. Clearly, this is a scenario plenty of women would like to see him wallow in.

  He knows he needs to say something. The appropriate (not to mention decent) thing to do is to apologize for middle grade. Apologize for everything he can’t remember doing to her.

  Only he’s fucking speechless right now, and the only image torpedoing in his head is that of a grinning great white shark.

  But wait a minute.

  He’s Brian Morton. He doesn’t have to apologize.

  He has never apologized to any woman in his entire life, excepting his mother – when he’s actually speaking to her, that is. He’s not Mr. Nice Guy. That role has already been taken by Caleb. He’s a predatory uber-stud who tells it like it is, be damned with the niceties. He never had to be nice to a woman to get her to spread her legs.

  It’s an image he has cultivated and it has served him nicely all his adult life.

  It’s time to say something snarky. Something like “So how was therapy?” After all, she did deck him a good one for something he did when he was an immature fourteen-year-old who was too angry with his alcoholic father who took out his booze-soaked rages on him by whupping his ass and his mother who stood by and watched the whole thing but did nothing.

  But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because his tongue is still frozen to the roof of his mouth and his vocal chords are locked.

  Caleb breaks the awkward silence.

  He grins as he says, “I guess we’ve found our lucky girl.”

  5

  It’s an extremely awkward situation.

  Brian Morton and Caleb Carr are seated across Cassie and herself in an all-night diner. Sam is unable to take her eyes off Brian.

  When she had stomped into the poker room, her eyes had been riveted to the handsomest man in the room. Actually, he is one of the best-looking men she has ever seen. He’s not conventionally pretty. His brown eyes are large and deep-set, and they blaze with a confidence far beyond his obvious youthfulness. His nose is rough-hewn and broad, like a blade in the middle of his sculptured face. His mouth is wide and generous and extremely sensual.

  The entire ensemble serves to make him extremely arresting. He radiates an aura of ruthless intensity. A devil-may-care, ‘fuck the world and I don’t care what people think of me’ attitude. He is the type of man who walks into a room, and every single head would be averted to watch him.

  Damn. Now she can’t take her eyes off him.

  But how did he get to be so damned gorgeous? She remembers him as that heavyset kid. He was definitely overweight then. But now . . . his body under that leather jacket suggests hours of toning at the gym.

  His hair. She loves his dark hair, especially when hers is so unmanageable. How does he get it that voluminously floppy over his forehead?

  Looks aside, she reminds herself that he is still the bully who made her cry more than once in the privacy of the second floor girls’ bathroom.

  I should hate his guts.

  He doesn’t look too pleased to be here either. And the story Caleb is feeding her is too incredible.

  “So he lost his bet to you?” Cassie says, her eyes gleaming. ‘And he gets to be her slave for a whole weekend?”

  “I call it Atonement 101.” The smirk has not left Caleb’s face all night. Sam remembers him all right. He hasn’t changed all that much compared to Brian. Caleb is dark-haired and terribly cute in a boy-next-door way. He was nice in middle school . . . sorta. When he wasn’t standing around and looking on like a dodo while Brian was up to his tricks. Still, kids go through all sorts of weird issues at that age. God knows she did.

  Brian rolls his eyes. He has a caustic sardonic attitude to everything, even when he’s commenting on the weather – which has taken on a tint of Arctic. But on him, it comes off as highly sexual. Everything about him is highly sexual, even though he doesn’t seem to put any effort into it.

  “OK, OK,” he says, “no need to make such a big deal. You’d think I lost the Alamo by the way you’re going about it.”

  “It is a big deal,” Caleb insists. He turns to Sam. “So . . . what are your plans for the weekend?”

  Sam and Cassie eye each other.

  No fucking way, Sam thinks. She didn’t even really pray for her pretend boyfriend. So why is God granting her a favor and dropping a gorgeous guy on her lap now? But wait. He may be gorgeous but he’s still Brian Morton. God is having a laugh at her expense somewhere in cherubic heaven. Brian Morton is not going to be easy to handle, beholden to her
whims or not.

  It’s still unbelievable how providence has struck for her.

  But still . . . he’s Brian Morton.

  Sam says, “I’m going to Hartford for my sister’s engagement party.” She pauses as she swallows the sudden lump that has bolted into her throat.

  “Go on,” Cassie urges.

  Go on?

  I need a pretend boyfriend. You know, so my sister, mother and their pals don’t think I’m a complete old maid loser.

  Brian says, “Don’t tell me. You need a date.”

  ‘Yes, she does,” Cassie puts in.

  “You don’t have a boyfriend,” Brian states.

  The way he says it puts a flush into her cheeks. You don’t have a boyfriend . . . and you want me to be your showcase boyfriend for the weekend. He gets it immediately, she can tell. He’s a smart cookie.

  She says in a lofty tone, “Well, I’m between boyfriends right now . . . and it’s not required that I bring someone. But I suppose it won’t hurt.”

  Oh crap. The way she said it was so lame. She sounded positively desperate. Can he see through that? Can he tell?

  The side of Brian’s sensual mouth curls up.

  “No, I suppose it won’t hurt,” he drawls.

  Smug and sanctimonious bastard. Her eyes narrow. Is she reading too much into everything he says? It’s just that they had such an awful history together. If her wounds didn’t still chafe at the weight of her pre-pubertal experiences, she wouldn’t be feeling this way.

  It’s like Pride and Prejudice. One chance remark, and she’ll hate him forever. Or in this case, there had been plenty of off-putting remarks. Too many to count. Caleb is fine. She doesn’t have too many bad memories of Caleb, other than he stood there while Brian did the dirty to everyone.

  Brian says, “So let me guess. You want to stick it up to your sister and her friends who are going to be there? And you need a good-looking guy who will suck up and play loving boyfriend to your adoring audience?”

  How did he ever get so conceited?

  She says, “I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere then because I don’t see any good-looking guys at this table.” She cranes her neck to Caleb. “No offense intended.”

  Caleb whoops with delight. “None taken. You tell him, Jaws.”

  “Shut up.” Cassie shoots him a glance that can vaporize concrete walls.

  Brian says, “Well then, I guess this discussion is at an end. Samantha doesn’t need a ‘boyfriend’ and I don’t need to be here when I can be out there fucking somebody who doesn’t sock me in the chin.”

  He rubs his jaw as he says this even though it is clearly unmarked.

  “Good, it’s a done deal then,” Sam says.

  “No, no, no, no. This is not over,” Cassie interjects. “Sam . . . a word, please. In private.”

  She drags Sam out of the dining berth. Brian lights a cigarette as he watches her amusedly. Oooh, if only she can wipe that smirk off his face.

  They go outside into the cold.

  “Brrrr,” Sam says, shuffling her feet, “whatever you’re going to say, you’d better say it before I lose a toe to frostbite.”

  “You’re not going to get frostbite, don’t be a drama queen. Now listen to me. This is opportunity to kill two birds with one slingshot. You get to – ”

  “ – I know, I know, sock it up my sister – ”

  “Yes, and – ” Cassie grabs her shoulders and stares deep into her eyes, and continues very slowly, as though to a child who is soft in the head “ – take your revenge on Brian Morton. As he deserves.”

  “You mean spend a whole weekend with him?”

  “Yes . . . with him as your slave. You heard the terms of his bet. He has to do anything you want.”

  “Ewww, I don’t want to sleep with him.”

  The moment Sam says it, she knows it’s not true. Brian Morton possesses an extremely masculine sexuality that leaps out at you, even if you’re utterly blind and sworn to the nunnery.

  “Who says you have to? No.” Cassie’s features turn crafty. “But you can make his weekend a living hell.” She grins. “I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have that . . . ” Sam struggles for the word.

  “Sadistic streak? Meanness? Don’t worry. I do. Remember all those times in middle grade when you swore you’d get your own back at him? Well, he left our school before you got the chance. Now’s your chance.” Cassie grabs her arm. “Say, is your sister going to invite me to her engagement party?”

  6

  They are in Brian’s black Ferrari, the four of them, on their way to Hartford. Brian is at the wheel. Caleb is seated beside him and Sam and Cassie are at the back.

  “Don’t drive so fast,” Sam says nervously.

  Brian turns his head heavenward. “Yes, Mom. You’ve said that for the sixteenth time already. I’m within the limits, OK?”

  He was right. She’s driving him batty, hot body or not. No wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Now, if only he can get this weekend over with and everything would be normal again. He’d go to clubs with Caleb, pick up girls and fuck his brains out. And no one is going to tell him, “Don’t drive into me so fast.”

  Christ, what a waste of a weekend. Especially when she made it clear he isn’t to have any sex – not with her, not with her friend, and not with anyone else at the party because they are supposed to appear as ‘a couple’.

  Hell, he’ll find his ways.

  “Hey, asshole, you’re supposed to be her slave.” Cassie knocks the back of his head with her fist.

  “Ow. Doesn’t mean I won’t bitch and gripe my way through it. There isn’t a rule against bitching, is there?” Brian glares at Caleb.

  “Nope, forgot to make that a condition,” his best friend says.

  Sam says, “I think we should go over the list again.”

  Brian groans. “I remember everything, OK? You like Zumba. We met at the gym. You were wearing this two-piece outfit and I thought you were hot.”

  She is hot, but he’d rather eat thumbtacks than to ever admit that.

  “Go on,” Sam says tersely.

  “So . . . I asked you out. And we found out . . . during our ridiculously romantic date – ”

  Christ, he doesn’t even do dates.

  “ – that we went to the same school together.”

  Cassie interrupts, “I still can’t believe you never told your Mom about Brian.”

  “What’s there to tell? It was hideously embarrassing.”

  Brian sighs. OK, so he was a handful as a kid. So his folks had to pull him out before he got expelled. But he did get expelled from two schools anyway and he had to have psychological counseling.

  “Look, I was a kid, OK?” he says in a conciliatory tone. Semi-conciliatory, since he doesn’t do full-out conciliatory. “We were all kids. We did things. Stuff kids do. You’ve just got to let all that stuff go or you’d be a nutcase.”

  He certainly did, and look where he is now.

  “Wow, and that’s supposed to be an apology?” Cassie says.

  “Butt out. I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Hey, be polite. Sam, make him grovel.”

  “Groveling’s not in the deal,” Brian remarks. He’s still not clear about what is and what isn’t in the deal, but Caleb promised to make it up as they went along.

  Oh shit. That’s exactly what he should be afraid of.

  Still, he’s glad Caleb has managed to make the payment to the bank before the foreclosure. He would hate it if Mrs. Carr, proud woman that she is, would be out in the streets. Especially when she has been practically a mother to him when he was growing up.

  The Carrs. Damn their fucking pride. There was many a time he wanted to go to a fancy restaurant or order a bottle of Dom Perignon when he and Caleb were out together. But nooooo, Caleb had to insist on paying his fair share. Which would set him back a week’s wages. So Brian just gave up, and they did stuff more attuned to the size of Caleb’s wallet �
� such as going to clubs and bars and gyms and bowling.

  Sam lets out an audible whoosh of breath. “So you remember everything,” she says.

  “Yeah, and you like your vibrators turned up to the max.”

  Sam gasps in horror.

  “I do not have a vibrator! Where did you come up with that?”

  “Yeah, asshole!” Cassie slaps the back of Brian’s head again.

  “Seeing that you are between boyfriends, I’m reckoning you’re probably sexually repressed.” Brian turns to Cassie. “You do that again, and I’ll write ‘ASSHOLE’ in chalk on your seat.”

  “Oh, so you remember.”

  “It’s all coming back to me through hypnotic counseling.” Brian glances at Caleb. “Light me a cigarette, will ya?”

  “You shouldn’t smoke while you’re driving.”

  “So send me to detention.” Brian sighs. He figures he’s going to have to go through a whole carton of cigarettes before the weekend is up.

  *

  They arrive at the boutique hotel in Hartford which is rented by Lori Fox, soon to be Mrs. Lance Buchner. The blood starts to roar in Sam’s ears. This is a mistake. She shouldn’t be trying to delude anyone. What was she thinking about, letting Cassie talk her into this sham with Brian Morton of all people?

  Still, the black Ferrari gets stares from the doormen as it revs up the driveway. It’s like Brian – sleek, dark, shark-like. It was Cassie’s idea to make Brian drive them to Hartford in his car. Well, one of his cars, anyway. She had even handpicked the most polished and flashiest.

  Whoever would have thought that Brian would turn out to be one of the reclusive Mortons of Chicago? It never registered with Sam in middle grade that Brian was a rich kid. He certainly never gave off that silver spoon vibe, and he certainly didn’t talk about it in school.

  Still, he was someone she never wanted to get to know in school. And as irony would have it, she knows plenty about him now.

  She hopes she remembers everything.

  No one she knows is at the hotel lobby to greet them. Not her sister, not her mother. That’s a good thing, she consoles herself. At least she wouldn’t be bombarded with awkward questions right off the bat.