Lake Redstone

by Hollyfield, J. D.

  The game started off pretty easy, them going over the rules, but once it started to heat up, so did a few tempers and the drive to win.

  “What are those guys arguing about now?” Poppy asks, setting her drink stuffed in a pink “getting white girl drunk” koozie down and sitting forward to peer over the railing at the ridiculous, state of the art, built-in pickleball court.

  After getting kissed like I’ve never been kissed before in the lake, with no top on, might I add, I swam to the boat, and hid in the back the rest of the day. I claimed heat stroke even though we’d only been on the lake just over an hour. Thank God Jim stayed in the water and away from me. I mean, who the hell does he think he is?

  Hot. A good kisser. Hot. Built like a steel rod. Hot. Don’t forget the steel rod below. And those tattoos. Those eyes. That smile!

  Mother of pearl! How is it someone like him is single and available for hire? He has to be a gigolo. Male prostitute. The way he’s causing my insides to go all gooey and warm, he’s had to have had lots of practice. Yes, that has to be it. Guys like him simply don’t exist in real life. Well…they do, but they’re taken or way more expensive than my measly fee of five hundred dollars. I also need to stop being so abrasive and enjoy myself. When was the last time I actually felt this attracted to a guy? Never, girl. Never. I agree with myself. It’s been never since a guy has made my belly do that girl crush swirly thing, causing my insides to feel like they’re being attacked by butterflies. If anything, I should be embracing the fact that this guy, real or not, is showing me the attention I’ve unsuccessfully set out for since I grew boobs and learned what feelings for the opposite sex were.

  “Who the hell knows? Jerry’s probably cheating again,” Katie says, breaking into my thoughts, taking a big swig of her beer shoved in a neon yellow, “I don’t get drunk, I get awesome” koozie.

  “It was fucking out, man! If you’d stop smoking so much weed, maybe you’d be able to see where the actual lines are,” Jason snaps, and we all sit forward. The two men are at the net going at it.

  “I’m not fucking high, man.”

  “Dude, you swung at a piece of fuzz floating in the air.”

  We start to laugh, and they look up, realizing they’re causing a scene.

  Katie stands and leans over the railing. “Why don’t you boys all whip it out and sword fight to the death to see who wins.”

  I spit out my drink, and June giggles next to me. Jerry gives his wife the stink eye, while Jason smiles dreamily at his June. I sigh, sipping my drink as I get lost in their personal moment.

  Gosh, do I want what they have. To get lost in each other’s eyes, no words needed. Love so strong, they feel it through their steely gazes. He’s probably telling her through his telepathic stare that her hair looks beautiful ruffled up in her ponytail and she makes the best sugar cookies on the planet. She’s probably silently telling him he’s an amazing man and father and tonight she’s going to—

  A whiffle ball buzzing past my ear snaps me out of my haze.

  “Fuck it, but next time, I’m not fucking around. Let’s change teams. Jim-Bob, you’re over here on skins,” Jason says, nodding for Mick to change sides.

  “Oh, man, your model hubby isn’t gonna be happy,” I tease Poppy. “He has to put his shirt back on. No more model pecs to distract us.” Poppy laughs, knowing her husband. Indeed, Mick pouts as he throws his muscle shirt back on.

  That’s when Jim takes his off.

  And the four of us choke and spit out our drinks.

  Hot.

  Tattoos.

  Steel rods everywhere.

  “Casey, you’re one lucky girl,” June comments, right as Jim looks up and catches me gawking. He winks at me, causing a row of panties to drop—mine, most importantly—and tosses his shirt to the side. The game continues with more arguing and Jerry swatting at nothing.

  We girls, on the other hand, catch up and drink.

  “So, Case, I have to admit, I don’t remember Jim-Bob from my anniversary dinner,” June says in between sips of her margarita, tucked nicely in a tie dye, “drunk wives matter” koozie.

  “Me either,” I reply, because I’ve had a few too many and honesty is the best policy. I take in the expressions of my friends. Confusion all around. Oops. Maybe honesty is sometimes the best policy. “I meant, I had such a good time, I barely remember the night, let alone my boyfriend.” Phew. Saved myself on that one.

  “Who cares. He’s super-hot and really nice. Good catch. So, fill us in. Marriage worthy?”

  I choke and sputter, abusing alcohol for a second time in only minutes. What is happening to me? Treating booze like a redheaded stepchild when I only want to love it. Wait, what is wrong with these women? Marriage? I’m preparing my soliloquy to win my alcohol back and they want times and dates when I’m marrying my fake boyfriend and popping out his fake boyfriend spawns? Should I spill that I didn’t even get his last name? What if it doesn’t sound good with Casey? Can’t be worse than Kasem. The memory of this same conversation comes shooting to the frontal lobe of my brain. Titsworth, Pecker, Quakenbush, Bonerz, Hardick, Wang… Okay, so the conversation was at a bachelorette party. But still—all point to no marriage.

  I wish my friends wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. So, it’s been a while since they’ve seen me in a stable relationship—little do they know—but words like keeper, marriage, and can’t wait to see what your babies are gonna look like instantly come spilling out? I imagine, if Jim were real—figuratively, because, you know, super real and playing pickleball shirtless in a display worthy of all the drool—and we actually had a relationship, and he loved me, if he was kind and supported me for who I was, didn’t judge me for being me…

  A small amount of weight I constantly bear on my shoulders frees up imagining all the ways I wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not if someone like Jim were real. All the horrible blind dates the girls set me up on would be a thing of the past. The lies pretending I’m way more mature and intellectual than I really am. And I don’t need him to be rich or successful, or smart or fit. The fit part definitely helps. As I watch him take a swing at the ball, his body, a shimmering mountain of muscle and flesh, flexes all over. Lord almighty, he’s got it all. I can’t even stop my own mouth from filling with saliva. I lick my lips—shoot, what were we talking about? Jim…I mean, perfect guy. Oh yeah! I merely want him to be honest. And funny. Listen to my dumb stories and maybe even laugh at my lame jokes.

  And don’t get me wrong, I’ve searched high and low for my very own version. I’ve just never had luck with guys. I didn’t have a high school sweetheart or love at first sight encounter at a bar. I wasn’t saved by my prince charming, or, in Poppy’s case, her saving her prince. I just always concluded I was never at the right place at the right time. Let me add in ever. Never ever. I was never ever in the right place.

  I also just wasn’t as lucky as them.

  “Well? Has it been discussed? I wouldn’t let him out of my sight if I were you.”

  Five hundred dollars for seventy-two hours? I’d have to rob all of Illinois to pay him for a lifetime of company. Not that I wouldn’t mind keeping him for longer than the weekend. Swing, flex, sweat, grunt, oh my. Focus! Let him out of my sight? Pfft. Sure, easy for the happily married one to say. And that’s always the downfall. My best friends all have perfect marriages. Yeah, they fight, but in my eyes, it’s all silly nilly stuff. Well…aside from that one time with Poppy. Days before their wedding, she threatened to leave Mick. It wasn’t because he installed a stripper pole in their basement behind her back for reasons I, personally, never want to know—Poppy actually thought it was romantic—but because he was trying to learn a stripper move off YouTube to impress her on their wedding night and ended up breaking his tailbone two days before their two-week honeymoon in Maui.

  “Marriage is the last thing on our minds. Jim is so busy—”

  “Oh, so it’s just Jim now?” Katie busts in. Poppy laughs. I can’t
keep my lies straight.

  “Whatever. You get what I’m saying. It’s just not on the table, and I’m not sure it’ll ever be.” I can’t say it’s because I’ve only known him for seven hours and he’ll be out of my life in less than three days.

  We’re interrupted by hollering, announcing the end of the game. Thankful for the disruption, we all return our focus to the men in time to watch Mick and Jim chest bump. We take the side stairs and walk to the first level to join them. Jim, with a wide smile on his face, catches my eyes on him and aims that crooked boyish grin at me. As if this wasn’t a sham, his reaction to me is so natural as he walks right up to me and plants his lips on mine.

  “Did you see me kick some ass, babe? Man, how come I never knew about this game?” he huffs, wiping sweat off his forehead.

  “Um…because you’re too busy with work,” I lie. A rich business investor wouldn’t have time for pickleball, right?

  He smiles again, gives me another kiss, then smacks my booty. I jump at the unexpected gesture. “Well, looks like I’m gonna have to cut back on work. This game’s awesome.” With a wink to die for, he transfers his attention to his new besties.

  “What is it with guys?” Katie says while staring at the bromance we’re all observing. “They can just meet for the first time, and within minutes, soulmates. I basically hate everyone I’ve met since third grade. Except you guys.”

  June and I laugh. Her statement couldn’t be truer. “Who knows, but it looks like we all might be sleeping together so those four can cuddle,” Poppy says, grabbing some empty beer cans to toss in the trash. “Which is fine with me. Mick has his shoot tomorrow, and he gets cranky before ’em. He can have his diva attitude with his new boyfriends instead of me.”

  I take a peek back at the guys as Mick flexes and Jim feels his muscle. I shake my head with a smile. Guys are ridiculous. They jab at us girls and our love for lip gloss and wine, but put a group of men together and they will complement each other’s armpit hair when enough liquor is involved.

  “Let those two feel each other up. Let’s start dinner.”

  With that, I follow Poppy inside, leaving my fake boyfriend with my best friends’ husbands in hopes they don’t exchange blood vial pendants during the next sixty-four hours.

  “No way, man! Pearl Jam’s acoustic set is way better than Nirvana’s bootleg tapes.”

  Everyone has migrated onto the upper deck, all hands occupying koozie stuffed drinks. Jerry is manning the grill while he and Jim talk music.

  Jim practically falls over his chair, knocking over the small table full of empty bottles. “Are you insane! Nirvana’s bootleg sold a shit ton more than Pearl Jam’s, first off, and second, the acoustics are pure mint. He played them all on a specially made Callahan. There’s no way it tops Vetter’s Rutter guitars, even though they are mint pieces. No way.”

  Jerry stares at Jim in awe. “Man, how do you know so much about music?” A few seconds pass before he answers. “Just a hobby…” He shrugs and gets quiet.

  “Jerry! You paying attention to those burgers?” Katie barks from inside the house.

  “Yes, woman! Get off my back.” He grunts, returning to mind the grill.

  Katie walks out holding a tray of dip and chips. “He’s gonna burn those burgers. He always does this. He starts yappin’ and burns the burgers.”

  “Dammit, I’m not gonna burn the burgers—shit,” he cusses as a flame explodes from the grill.

  “He’s gonna burn the burgers.” I laugh, taking the tray from Katie and placing it on the outdoor table. The sun is going down, giving a beautiful orange cast over the lake. Down below, you can see the boats lined up with a few still out, and hear the laughter of kids playing and music echoing across the water. I lean back in my chair and sip on my cocktail, admiring the view and secretly admitting to myself I was wrong for putting up such a stink about this place. It certainly is beautiful. I’ve always wanted to own a home on a lake. Have that escape when you need it. The quietness of the water. Peacefulness when life gets a little overwhelming.

  “What’s got you all quiet?” Jim takes the empty seat next to me.

  I turn to him, ready to give him some award-winning lie, but the truth falls out. “Just thinking about how beautiful it is out here. Wish I had more of that in my world.”

  He doesn’t mask his questioning stare. “You wanna elaborate on that?”

  “Nope. It’s exactly what it means, JB.”

  “JB now?” He chuckles. “You’ve given me more nicknames than all the jaded girls in high school. I found myself in the girls bathroom stall with Sara Henderson once and saw all the nasty names they wrote about me—hey, where you going?”

  I stand mid-sentence and walk inside. I thought maybe if I was honest, I could get an honest answer back. Always a joke with everyone. “Hey, what’d I say?” Jim follows me into the kitchen. Ignoring him, I drop the empty plates and walk into the back of the house to the bathroom. I go to shut the door, but he’s behind me, slipping in and shutting it with him inside.

  “Uh…I’m going to the bathroom. Can you please get out?”

  “No, I want to finish our conversation. Plus, you said I stay over at your place all the time. I’ve clearly watched you pee.”

  Jesus!

  “No, you said you stay over. And news flash—you’re fake and have never seen me pee! So, please, get out.” And people wonder why I hit. My hands are feeling restless. I’m fighting the urge to tackle him through the door to earn back my privacy.

  “No.”

  “No?” He clearly enjoys being hit. A sadist gigolo. That’s who I’m dealing with.

  “Yeah, no. What got you all upset back there? I thought we were having a moment?”

  A grumble deep in my throat releases, and I cross my arms over my chest. “Having a moment? Me confessing I wish I had something more real and honest in my life and you following up with how you were a whore in high school and talking about all the chicks you hooked up with isn’t having a moment,” I huff.

  “There you go.”

  “There I go what!” Oh my god, this guy is so exasperating.

  “Finally, you let me see a piece of the real you.”

  I sigh so loud, I wake the dead. “Jim, what are you talking about?”

  He steps forward, and my breath catches. “You want something real. Right?” I think about his question, then offer him a silent nod. “And honest, right?” I nod. “Okay, answer this honestly and I’ll give you something real.”

  I’m losing my cool with every second he doesn’t give in and leave me alone. “Answer what?”

  “Why’d you really need to hire me?”

  Shoot! He catches me off guard with that one. I open and close my mouth, trying to search for the right answer. But there isn’t one that doesn’t portray me as deceptive. I was a fraud and wanted my friends to see me in the same league they all played in. When I set up that ad, I never thought about having to explain myself to someone. “What kind of question is that?” I throw back at him.

  “A simple one. Answer it.”

  Drats! I want to take my fist to his nuts. Wasn’t it obvious in the ad? “Because I lied to my friends about having this great guy, and when push came to shove, I had to produce him.”

  His smile grows. “You think I’m great?”

  Oh, son of a… “No, but I’m paying you to be.” Which he’s failing at. Since he’s spending less time being great and more time being on my damn nerves.

  “Why does he have to be rich, working a boring job, and doing god awful boring things to be great? Is that what you define as great?”

  All his fact pointing is grating on my last nerve. And it’s because he’s hitting the one nerve that’s making me realize how right he is. Why did I make my fake boyfriend all these things? If that guy truly showed up at my door for a date, I’d set myself on fire to get out of it. Even now, hearing him replay all the attributes I demanded, he sounds like this super boring, stuffy guy. Yuck! And he
re I am getting offended when he’s right! What is it I thought was so great about the person I made up? Am I high maintenance? Is he insinuating I am because of the lies I told? Realistically, I don’t have a strict checklist. Only a few must-haves. He must be faithful, kind, true, fun, not smell bad… Okay, maybe this is getting long. Whatever. But I am not a snob who only wants a man with money and prestige. My army of defenses kick into high gear and my wall goes back up, me on top with my metaphorical pitchfork jabbing down at him.

  “You know what? Yes. That’s the kind of guy I want. Rich, super smart, and snobby as can be.” I choke on my next rant of words when he moves in closer, my head lifting to keep eye contact. He towers over me, waiting for me to finish, but I can’t even remember what we were talking about. “So there. You got your answer. Now, get out.”

  “You didn’t give me a chance to return the favor.”

  “Oh yeah? What possible favor do you have for me?”

  Bending down, he covers my mouth with his and kisses me so passionately, the tingles down to my toes threaten to buckle my knees. He grabs me with vigor, snuggling me into his arms, and whispers, “Damn, you’re sexy when you’re worked up.” My cheeks burn when he tells me he wants to take me right in this bathroom, not caring who hears our passionate screams of—

  “Hello? Earth to Casey.”

  “Huh?”

  I snap back into reality. Did I just…?

  “Where’d you go?”

  Crazy town?

  “Casey, did you just fantasize about me kissing you? You’re licking your lips, and I think you may want me to—dammit!”

  I’m normally not this violent. But I need him to stop. I’m also not very good at being called out since I punch him in the thigh and push past him to avoid any realization that I may actually be attracted to my fake boyfriend.

  Fudge.

  I can do this. Sixty-two hours to go.

  Jim/Bob

  I walk back outside with a smile on my face. What isn’t smiling is my stinging thigh. Damn, she has a strong punch. I probably should have gotten a background check before I agreed to do this. Possibly a police record. If I make it through this weekend alive, I’m gonna suggest anger management.