Technically, neither of us is coming. Mainly because he doesn’t exist. And me because…well, he doesn’t exist. But man could I use a good bang around the bedroom. My phone dings again.
Katie: Heard you got it good last night. How big is he? Is he coming?
Jesus, my fake love life is becoming the topic of the year.
Me: Sore Sally down below. All I can confess.
I leave out “I wish.” It’s not really lying, more like being too lazy to type out the full sentence. I mean, who even does that anymore? Full-length words are so yesterday.
JuneBuggy: Please tell me you asked him. I’m dying to meet him.
Well, June…me too, girl. When pigs fly and perfect made-up Bob falls into my lap, you’ll be the first to be introduced.
Me: Not sure he can make it. Super busy with work.
I can’t even keep up with all the lies I’ve told about Bob—what he does for a living, his favorite food, his dick size, does he snore, the car he drives, cologne he wears…
Jesus, I can’t even hire a guy to fit all these fake attributes…
Or can I?
I flip my laptop back open and type in a few words that land me on a site for wanted ads. With a few short requirements, and compensation, I hit submit.
BOYFRIEND FOR A WEEKEND and FAST
Looking for boyfriend material. Be one for three days on a weekend trip. All expenses paid.
Rental Time: Friday-Monday.
Requirements: Hot (cute will do), able to lie on a dime (rich, successful, possibly athletic), no priors or police record. Good teeth. (I hate guys with bad breath).
PRICE: $50 (Possibly made through a payment plan if you’re cool with that).
Okay, Bob, come to momma…
Two weeks, six days, and twelve hours later…
“Screw you, Bob!”
I throw my back against my tiny sofa, in my tiny apartment, and sigh. Yet again, I check my ad—and nothing—not a single potential hit.
Well…I got hits—from serial killers, because that’s what their profile pictures looked like. I asked for hot. And like most, my version of hot had teeth. The people who applied to my “Boyfriend for a Weekend” ad were clearly not reading the requirements. I need him to be attractive, fake wealthy, fake kind, fake good in bed, large and in charge—that, he can’t fake—and he needs to pretend to be Bob for three whole days. What’s so hard about that!
Taking another huge sip of my homemade margarita, I start to come to one conclusion.
I’m done for.
The trip is tomorrow, and I’m going to have to show up with no Bob. Even after I made the biggest mistake of telling them he agreed to go! This, of course, was after I submitted my ad thinking it would be a piece of cake to get a guy to be my fake boyfriend, but before I realized no one in the entire state of Illinois wants to be my fake boyfriend!
Down goes more margarita.
I should back out.
Pretend I’m sick.
I have the flu. The shpoops. I’m projectile vomiting resembling the girl from The Exorcist! If I drink anymore of this mix, it won’t be far from the truth. I’m pretty sure these margarita jugs are meant to be shared with more than just one person.
I’m not sure what else to do, and I’m out of time. Re-reading the ad, I don’t understand why I’m not having any luck. All my expectations are easy to meet—hell, most of them have to be lied about!
Maybe I should expand my geographic search…
I change the span out to a hundred-mile radius instead of twenty-five, then sit back and take a few more swigs. Nothing. Every so often, I press my nose against the screen because my eyesight is about as gone as my margarita.
“Eat a bag of buttholes, Scuba Bob! It’s a paid weekend! Who says no to a paid weekend!”
All of Illinois, apparently.
Maybe that’s it. No one wants to do it for fifty dollars.
So, I low-balled it, but hello! I’m poor!
I guess I can spare a few more bucks since it is my dignity on the line. I press edit again. With one eye open, I add another zero, having no idea how I’m going to pay Bob even if he does show up in the next twenty hours, and click “yes” to update.
I go empty out the last dredges of the bottle—just like Bob will be doing to my bank account if he ever shows up.
7:30 a.m.
The sound of my alarm wakes me from my perfect slumber. Just kidding. My slumber consisted of crawling to my room from the bathroom and passing out between my dresser and bed. I really need to invest in a floor mattress.
I lift my head, wiping the lime-flavored drool off my face, and reach up to shut my alarm clock off. Great. Today’s the day. Where I lie and pretend I’m dead or confess I made Bob up and show up alone.
Dead it is.
I reach for my phone to send a text letting my friends know I’ve sadly passed and they’ll have to go on this trip without me. When I flip it over, I notice a few missed calls from June, a text from Poppy demanding I be sober and showered because they’re coming to get me soon, and a notification from—
What!
“Holy smokes! No way!” I pop up, using both hands to unlock my phone, scroll through my screen, and open the app.
One new application.
Someone replied to my ad! I swear, if he’s at least half decent and has less than a five-year prison record, he’s in. I open the application, but my phone freezes.
“Oh, Mother of pearl!”
I close the app and reopen, but a call coming through interrupts. Poppy. “Hey, girl, what’s up?”
Okay, maybe less than a ten-year prison record. I can’t afford to be picky at a time like this.
“Um…hey, girl, as in hey, where are you? I’ve been calling. Mick and I will be there in thirty minutes. Are you ready? Is Bob riding with or meeting us?”
Good question.
“Yeah, I’m not sure. He’s finishing up some marathon.” Lies! I lay in a bed of lies—correction, a floor of lies!
My phone dings, and I pull it away to check.
Jim_Strums35: You still need a boyfriend this weekend?
“Wow, running a marathon already this morning? I tell ya, you sure found a keeper. Can’t wait to get to know him this weekend.”
Ha! Me too!
Another ding.
Jim_Strums35: Gotta know soon.
“Anyway, we’re making great time. Traffic wasn’t as busy as we thought. So, hurry and be ready. Our GPS puts us there in twenty.”
Twenty! I need more time than that to stalk this dude’s social media networks and make sure he isn’t going to chop me up and dump me in the middle of a lake.
I put Poppy on speaker and scramble to open the app and respond.
PrtyGrl_Casey: Show me a pic and prove ur not a psycho murderer.
“Did you hear me, Case?”
Jim_Strums35: *photo attachment*
“Oh, give me a break,” I gripe as I stare at a photo of John Wayne Gasey, the biggest known serial killer.
“What? I didn’t know how the roads were gonna be!”
Oops. “No, not you, ugh…Google alerts. News these days. How soon again?”
PrtyGrl_Casey: Very funny.
Jim_Strums35: There’s more where that came from, but humor is extra. What’s it gonna be? I have another opportunity waiting, but this pays better.
Geez! What a pushy jerk. No thanks, pal. I don’t need anyone who’s gonna boss me arou—
“… and if we make it in time, we can go to the couples late-night swim.”
Being bossed around isn’t the worst thing that can happen…
PrtyGrl_Casey: You’re hired.
Oh, Casey, what did you just do?
Got out of couples’ late-night swim alone?
Sure, sure. We’ll go with that. Not that I signed on to hire a stranger to pretend he’s dating me and we’re insanely in love.
He asks me where he should meet me, and I shoot off my address, telling him he has seventeen minutes to
get here or the deal’s off.
Jim_Strums35: See you soon, schnookums.
For real, what did I just do! Oh my god, I just said yes without any background checking, photo referencing, preparation—
“Fudge nuggets!” We didn’t even go over details. How is he going to know what my favorite color is or how I like my feet rubbed when those pack of wolves start grilling him? I open the app again and try to reach out to Jim…whoever he is. He needs to know all the stuff he has to go along with. I send him a message, but it bounces back.
I’m so screwed!
Drowning. Head falling below water. What in the fresh hell have I done? He’s going to be a creepy old guy. The creepiest. With creepy eyes and untamed nose hair. And he’s going to tell everyone how I love yoga and long baths and cuddling and…ew, cuddling. I shake my head, shuddering. I peek at the time. I have fifteen minutes to shower, pack, and hope fake Bob doesn’t dupe me.
What do you mean you didn’t know I was into short, bald guys?
It’s what’s on the inside that matters.
He’s rich. Very rich.
While standing outside my apartment waiting on Poppy, I’m preparing all my reasons for why Bob is Bob.
He’s funny.
He’s got a great dog.
He’s the last man on earth who was willing to pretend date me.
Another long, dramatic sigh falls from my lips as I squint down the street wondering where the hell everybody is. Poppy told me twenty, and I told Bob seventeen. It’s been twenty-two minutes. Is anyone ever on time anymore?
Heck with this, I’m going back upstairs.
Plans canceled.
I spin around and catch my reflection in the front door. My hair, brown and blah, looks like I stuck it in a light socket. I throw my hands up and run my fingers through it to calm it down. Damn Illinois humidity.
My eyeliner is smudged. “Crap on a cracker.” I lick my finger and try wiping under my eye to fix it, only to make it worse. I scrub a little harder when I suddenly see a stain on my tank top. “Seriously?” I grumble. I pull my shirt away to further inspect. Toothpaste.
“Yeah, party’s off.” I reach for the handle to ditch this disaster vacation when Poppy pulls up.
“Where you going? Get in. Where’s Bob?”
Dammit.
I turn back, a wide smile on my face. “Heeey there!”
She jumps out of the car and gives me a hug. Man, I’ve missed her. Before real life got in the way, we were inseparable. But then she had to go to the academy and become a badass, while I stayed back and just became an ass. She and Mick met while Poppy was on a routine call. Mick had fallen from a trapeze rope during a modeling shoot and Poppy was there to save the day. It was love at first sight, and the rest is history.
“Missed you, girlfriend.”
“Missed you too.” We’re so cute.
“Where’s Bob?”
And then she had to ruin it.
I pull away and stare my best friend in the eye. I should be honest. Confess all my sins and be free with the truth. I go to open my mouth when a guy appears out of nowhere, heading straight toward us. Oh God, my worst nightmare is coming true.
Dirty overalls.
Stained white shirt.
He resembles your typical plumber. And not of the PornHub variety.
My mouth falls open. He couldn’t even put a clean shirt on for this? Just kill me. There’s no way I can go through with this.
“Poppy, I have to tell you something,” I say, staring at Bob as he gets closer and closer.
“What is it? Is something wrong? You look freaked out.”
’Cause I am! “I…I…I lie—”
“This fourteen-thirty-two Cresthaven?” Bob asks.
It’s now or never. Go along with this or pull the plug…
With a deep breath, I take a step forward. “Yes. Actually, it—”
“Schnookums, sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch.”
My head whips to my right and away from train wreck Bob as a set of warm lips cover mine. I become stone-still as a strong, muscular hand wraps around my neck and pulls me into a hard chest. I’m not sure what to do. Weirder things have happened to me, but—a. Man. Is. Kissing. Me. Like, kissing me. I would pull away—I should pull away—but he smells good, and his lips feel nice. Real nice. And man, he can kiss. I find myself relaxing into his hold, and when he uses his tongue to part my lips, I allow it. When in Rome, right? Just as our tongues touch, a zap shoots down to my toes, and I lose my balance.
And the moment is gone.
He pulls away.
Turning to Poppy, he sticks out his hand. “Hey, you must be the best friend. I’m Jim.”
“Oh, you mean Bob?” Confusion spreads over Poppy’s face.
“No. Jim.”
“You mean Bob?” Still confused.
“Nope. Still Jim.”
I’m too busy staring at him to step in. I should step in. He’s singlehandedly blowing my cover.
Which is what again?
Lies. He’s blowing my lie. “It’s Bob.” Holy hot guy, Batman. Is this Bob?
“No, my name is Ji—”
“Jim-Bob! It’s Jim-Bob. I call him Bob for short. But he likes to go by Jim sometimes, right, Jim-Bob?” I give him my crazy eye, silently telling him to go along with it. Then, I stop, because who is this guy? He’s insanely hot! Tall, dark, sexy hair, hazel eyes, tats sticking out of his black t-shirt, and muscles—lots of muscles. I take back my crazy eye and try relaxing into a sexy face. A single brow rises as he slightly tilts his head. Oh hell. Sexy face is…not so sexy. Why is someone as hot as him taking paid dates with online strangers? Back is my crazy eye. If he even thinks about sawing me up for my organs…
“Oh yeah, I forgot. My girl likes calling me Bob in the bedroom. Such a little role player, right, babe?” He glances at me with a fiery smile I bet melts panties off women daily. Then he smacks my ass. “So, we doin’ this?” He aims his devilish smile on Poppy, who is equally as flustered.
“Earth to Poppy,” I speak up, because it looks like she’s in need of a reboot.
“Oh, uh…yeah! Yes. Husband. I have one. Hi, I’m Poppy. My husband, Mick, is in the car. We should get going before we hit traffic. Yes, traffic.” She shakes off her moment of weakness and walks back to the car, leaving me alone with Jim—or Bob.
“A little much, don’t ya think?” I say, annoyed my bestie now thinks I’m a perv in bed.
“Is that not what you’re paying me for? To be your fake boyfriend? Though, why is it you need to pay someone to fill the role again?”
Now I see why he’s single. He’s a jerk. “For your information—”
“You two lovebirds comin’?” Poppy yells from the car window.
Not willingly.
“Yeah,” I grumble while Jim—Bob—laughs. Grabbing my bag off the ground, he starts walking, and I’m left with no choice but to follow. Before he makes it to the car, I shout after him.
“Yeah, sugar plum?” He stops, turning back to me. Long lashes and eyes bright with mischief steal my breath as he gazes at me like I’m the only one who matters—the only one he sees.
My mind blanks.
I have no idea what I was going to say.
I stand, like a goldfish gaping in water.
“Gonna spit it out, babe? Or you gonna stand there and stare at me like you want to eat me for lunch?”
A horny goldfish apparently. My cheeks blaze as humiliation courses through me. This guy has some nerve. “I am not staring at you like that,” I snap.
“Yes you are. Like you’re picturing me naked. If we weren’t already madly in love, I’d almost feel violated.” He takes two steps toward me to eliminate the space and speaks softly. “Wait, are we in love?”
My heart thumps at the sound of his deep voice. His expression tells me he already has me naked, and I’m pretty sure I’m okay with a “clothing optional” weekend.
“You two can make out in the backsea
t. We won’t watch. Let’s go!” Poppy yells, breaking the weird moment.
Jim’s backpack slides off his shoulder, and my eyes shift to his inked bicep as he tosses it back over. I’m not sure why I’m acting like I don’t know how to function. One foot in front of the other. I’ve been doing this since before I could talk. I’m thankful when he grabs my hand, sending a shockwave up my arm. “No worries. We’ll work out the kinks on the ride,” he says, then pulls me toward the car.
I’m thankful for the quietness—all thirty seconds of it before Poppy starts firing off question after question. I instantly panic, debating on causing an accident. Fake choking to shut her up. Screaming “spider!” since she’s deathly scared of them.
Instead, I nudge Jim.
“Ouch.”
Okay, maybe I punch him in the thigh. Either way, I get his attention and point to his phone. He drops his eyes to his lap, then back up. Leaning closer, he whispers, “Babe, I get they said we can make out, but asking for that is not cool. We’ll be there soon, I’m sure, and you can have it all you want.”
Good grief, this guy is infuriating!
Stupid attractive but infuriating. Great lips too. Geez, mine are still tingling from the way he swooped in like my knight in shining armor, rescuing me from Plumber-Bob with those chivalrous lips. My heart stopped when I saw the disaster of Plumber-Bob playing out in my head. But it jolted and skipped a beat when the real Bob came in, turning me into some punch-drunk swoony teenager. Kind of how I’m eyeing him now—a hazed over gaze. Stupid, stupid attractive.
Okay, pull it together!
I roll my eyes, and mouth, “No, not that. Our app.” I wink a few times until he gets it. He finally obliges as Poppy asks another question.
“So, Jim-Bob, Casey’s told us a lot about you.”
Jim smirks at me and winks. “Has she now? That’s sweet. What exactly has she told you?”
“Oh, the basics. You’re successful, great taste in food. How was that new steak restaurant you two went to?”
Fiddlesticks! I start firing off a message.
PrtyGrl_Casey: We went to the Hildebrandt’s. We both had steak. You fed me dessert.
“Hildebrandt’s, yes. It was delightful. The service was impeccable, and dessert was my favorite part. Up until the last bite.”
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