Fake Fiancée Can’t Get Enough

by Hamel, B. B.

  “I’m not working. So whenever you want.”

  “Fine.” He turns away again, staring at the floor.

  I stand up. I don’t want to push my luck and stay longer than I need to. “Anyway. I’m, uh… I should shower. I’m sweating.”

  He looks up and his eyes flash again, looking at my body. “Yeah. You are.”

  I hesitate. I almost want to ask him if he wants to join me…

  But I get the sense that he doesn’t want that kind of intimacy.

  He just wants to fuck.

  Not that I mind. Or, well, maybe I do. Honestly, I’m too confused about this to know what I want.

  “See you.” I walk to the door.

  “Grace.”

  I turn to look at him. There’s a little smile on his face.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous when you come. Did you know that?”

  I turn bright red. “You’re a dick,” I say, and I get the hell out of there before he can say anything else.

  I don’t know what we’re doing. He seems like he despises me most of the time, but then he shows up and wants to fuck me. It’s confusing, and right now he’s not acting like he hates me.

  I head to the shower, trying not to think about the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  10

  Nathan

  I wake up early and go for a long, brutal run.

  I need to get my mind off Grace. I keep seeing her body every time I close my eyes, her creamy thighs wrapped around my cock, her tight pussy soaking wet and clinging to my shaft as I fuck her hard. The way her body sweats, works, comes, it makes me absolutely insane with lust.

  I need to remember why I fucking hate her.

  But it’s getting harder to stay angry. I know a lot of this anger is misplaced. I know she didn’t kill my mother. I know she doesn’t control her brother. And she’s doing everything in her power to try to make it right with me, including going through this fake marriage shit.

  And yet still. Every time I look at her, I think about my mother’s dead body, lying still and cold and unmoving.

  It’s some confusing shit.

  I’m exhausted when I get back. Grace is up, wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt. I’m out of breath as I come inside.

  “Coffee?” she asks.

  I just nod and get some water, drinking it down. She starts making a pot.

  “Didn’t know you were a runner,” she says.

  “A lot you don’t know about me.”

  She shrugs. “Guess so. We should probably learn this stuff, you know. They’re going to ask questions.”

  I hesitate. “All right then. Do you run?”

  “Nope. I bike.”

  I roll my eyes. “No kidding.”

  “I mean, I do it for exercise too.”

  “Yeah? How far usually?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll go for fifty-mile rides sometimes.”

  “That’s pretty decent.”

  She just shrugs a little. No wonder she’s so fucking fit and gorgeous.

  “What else do you do? I mean, for fun.”

  I hesitate a second and watch the pot of coffee brewing. I don’t feel like telling her about my stupid hobbies. But she’s right, if we’re doing this, we’d better do it for real.

  Besides, she looks pretty this morning. No makeup on, her hair in a messy bun, and yet she’s still practically glowing. Her skin’s a nice honey brown, slightly suntanned, and her lips are full and pink. Fuck, I want to kiss her, and it’s taking all my strength to keep my hands to myself.

  “Normal stuff,” I say. “Watch football. I do some online betting sometimes.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. It’s just about probabilities. I used to do online poker and I won a lot of money back when I was a teenager, but my mom made me quit.”

  “How much did you win?”

  I shrug, trying to remember. “Like ten grand. That was a ton for a fifteen-year-old.”

  She laughs. “That’s a ton for anyone. I don’t get why you’d stop though, if you were good at it.”

  “I think she saw a little bit of my dad in me, the way I was obsessing. So she made me quit.”

  “Huh.” She bites her lip a little. “I get that, I guess.”

  “I was a part of a men’s league soccer team for a while, but that broke up. Uh, we had a company softball team, that was fun. Oh, I collect leather-bound fantasy novels.”

  She stares at me. “You collect… what?”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s super nerdy.”

  “Leather-bound… fantasy novels.”

  “My dad gave me one for Christmas when I was like eight. It was the only nice thing he ever gave me, actually. I guess that started the habit. I don’t even read half of them.”

  “Huh,” she says. “That’s kind of cool.”

  “You wouldn’t think it’s cool if you saw them. Super, super nerdy.”

  “I’d like to see your place,” she says. “I mean, your actual apartment.”

  I shrug a little. “You will. It’s subleased right now but eventually I’ll sell this place and move back in there. I guess you’ll come with me.”

  “I guess so.”

  We lapse into a short silence. I glance at the clock and sigh. “I gotta shower. Be ready in an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  I hesitate a second. That was the longest, most pleasant conversation we’ve had. I’m almost tempted to tell her to go fuck herself, just because.

  But instead, I smile at her. She smiles back.

  And I actually like it. She has a pretty smile, her whole face lights up. Her teeth are white and straight and it’s genuine, just a really genuine smile.

  “See you,” I say, turning away before I can go all soft on her.

  Fucking hell. What’s wrong with me?

  I glance back at her as I head up the stairs. She’s lingering in the kitchen with a strange look on her face.

  It’s confusing. I’m guessing she feels the same way that I do.

  I harden my expression and stomp upstairs.

  Can’t go soft now. Can’t forget why we’re doing this and what we’re trying to accomplish.

  * * *

  We drive out to the northern tip of the city, right on the edge of the suburbs. “He’s around here somewhere,” I say, taking a left on Germantown Avenue. We drive over old trolley tracks until I spot the law firm, tucked into this old as hell brick building right next to a brand-new CVS.

  Harvey, Garcia, and Corcoran is a little boutique law firm specializing in real estate. From what I understand, my mother is friends with Oscar Corcoran, which is why he’s the lawyer for her estate.

  We park and get out. “What do you know about this guy?” Grace asks me.

  I shrug a little and glance over. She’s wearing jeans and a nice sweater now, her hair down and swept back. There’s a touch of makeup on her lips and eyes, and I almost wish she hadn’t worn any.

  She’s prettier without it.

  “Not much,” I say. “Never heard of him until the accident. I guess he was friends with my mom.”

  “Do you… trust him?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “He’s been good so far. Except for the company, mostly everything has gone to me, like it should.”

  “Have you spoken to him much?”

  “Not really,” I say. “Which is why we’re coming in person.”

  She just nods and we head inside.

  The reception room is small but nicely furnished and quiet. The soft hum of the air conditioning fills the space and the receptionist looks up with a little smile. She’s young, blonde, and average-looking with a flat nose and wide-set eyes.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Nathan Palmer for Oscar Corcoran.”

  She types into her computer and nods. “He’ll be with you shortly, Mr. Palmer.”

  We sit down. Grace’s knee is bouncing like she’s nervous and I shoot her a glare. “Cut it out,” I say.

 
She frowns, realizes what she’s doing, and stops. I don’t know why she’d be nervous, but whatever. We sit and wait until Oscar himself shows up.

  He’s an older man, somewhere in his sixties. His hair is black and gray, slicked back and starting to thin out. He has a small mustache, small round glasses, and a decent-looking suit. He’s getting round in the middle, but otherwise in decent shape.

  “Nathan,” he says. “How are you?”

  “Good,” I say, shaking his hand. “Oscar, this is Grace.”

  “Hi,” Grace says.

  “We got married.”

  Oscar looks surprised. “Oh. Married? Oh, wow, well, congratulations. I didn’t… I didn’t know you were—”

  “Let’s go talk,” I say before the man can shove his entire shoe into his mouth, chew it up, and choke it down.

  We head back to his office. It’s a large room with a big desk against the far wall. There are papers, books, and folders everywhere. Grace and I sit down on chairs facing his desk, and he settles himself in.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?”

  “The business,” I say, getting right to it.

  He sighs. “Nathan—”

  “You say you were friends with my mother, correct?”

  “We were friendly,” he answers, a little evasive.

  “Then you know my father never should be involved in this. Did she ever mention him?”

  “No,” Oscar admits. “But it doesn’t matter. The law is the law, and he was the minority stakeholder. The way the company was structured meant that ownership automatically went to him.”

  I grind my teeth and before I can speak up, Grace cuts me off.

  “What about Nathan?” Grace asks. “Didn’t he own some shares in the company?”

  Oscar frowns. “Well, yes, and he still does. Didn’t I tell you all this?”

  I shake my head, but I honestly can’t remember. We went over a lot of information.

  He clears his throat and gets out a folder. He skims it until he gets to a thick document.

  “Here, this says you own approximately thirty percent of the company. Your father owns fifty-one percent, making him the outright owner, but you’re the minority stakeholder now.”

  I chew on that for a second. “So even if I don’t work there, I still have a stake in it?”

  “That’s right. I guess your mother put it in your name without you even knowing.”

  I laugh a little. That’s exactly something she would do. “Is there anything I can do to leverage that?”

  He shrugs. “Not really, truthfully. Like I said, the way the business was structured—”

  “I understand,” I cut him off, feeling my anger surge.

  Oscar smiles. “I wish I could help. I really do. If I had my way, you’d get everything. Your father wasn’t exactly polite about our little situation.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse me? You spoke with my father?”

  He looks surprised. “Of course. I spoke with everyone involved with your mother’s estate. In fact, your father came to my office just a few days ago.”

  I lean back in my chair and feel my heart practically stop.

  “Nathan’s father is in town?” Grace asks him.

  “Well, yes, I assume he’s still here. I don’t really know. I had him come in and sign some documents. I could’ve faxed it to him but he said he was coming to town anyway and—” Oscar stops speaking and stares at me. “Are you okay Nathan?”

  I stand up. My knees are shaking and I think I’m sweating. I stagger toward the door and I think I might be sick.

  “He’s okay,” Grace says quickly, getting up and coming after me. “Just hasn’t been feeling well. This is a lot.”

  “Of course.” Oscar follows, fretting. “Can I get you some water? Use the bathroom? You can lie down in the break room if you want, we have a couch, and—”

  “That’s okay,” Grace says. She steers me out the door, slipping my arm over her shoulder. “We’ll be fine. Come on, Nathan. You’ll be okay, right?”

  I grunt in response. I can’t speak. If I open my mouth, I’m going to get sick.

  We lurch out into the reception area before stepping outside. We make it halfway to the car before I finally throw up on the pavement.

  “Okay,” Grace says gently, rubbing my back. “Okay, okay. You’re okay.”

  “Fuck off.” I spit and take a long, shuddering breath.

  “Right.” She stops touching me and steps back. “Sure. Okay.”

  I stand there, hands on my knees, catching my breath. I’m dizzy and I think I might get sick again.

  “Nathan, you’re going to be okay.” Grace’s voice again. She crouches down next to me. “Do you hear me? It doesn’t matter if your dad’s in town. He’s not going to come anywhere near you. He can’t touch you, Nathan.”

  I’m breathing hard but I close my eyes. For some reason, I decide to listen to Grace’s voice. She has a good voice, even and strong and soft, all at once.

  “Seriously. You’ll be okay. He can’t come near you. He’s only here to look at the business and I bet he’ll go back to Canada as soon as he’s done. I promise, you’ll be okay. Right? I promise, Nathan.”

  As she talks, something odd happens.

  I know, in the back of my mind, that I’m having a panic attack. I’m not fucking proud of it and it hasn’t happened since I was a lot younger, back when my dad beat the fuck out of me, before we left. I can feel it happening and I’m only distantly aware of how to stop it.

  But as she talks, I start to get control of myself. Not entirely, but I stop feeling like I’m going to get sick and my breathing isn’t quite so ragged. I stand up slowly and take deep breaths. She puts her hand on my back again, rubbing softly, and I don’t hate it.

  “Fuck you,” I say, whispering it, not really to her.

  She laughs. “There he is.”

  I can’t help but smile a little. “That was, uh. That was embarrassing.”

  “It’s okay. Oscar’s a dick anyway.”

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know.” She frowns and I can see real concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. It’s just… it’s a panic attack.” I laugh ruefully. “I haven’t had one since I was a kid. Since the last time I saw my dad.”

  She bites her lip, chews it a little bit. It’s a cute habit. Sexy, almost, that plump lip between her teeth. I can’t believe it, but I’m starting to get a little hard looking at her.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. This guy’s no help.”

  She nods a little and we get into the car. I sit behind the wheel for another couple minutes, getting myself under control.

  “You okay?” she finally asks me.

  I nod once. “Fine. Let’s go home.”

  “Yeah,” I say softly.

  We drive off. I can feel her watching me with that expression of concern. The further we get from the lawyer’s office and the scene of my panic attack, the more centered I become.

  My father’s in town. I know with absolute certainty that he’s here to see me. Sooner or later, he’s going to show up, and I’m going to have to deal with that.

  I have no clue what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll freak out again, or maybe we’ll just talk. I really don’t know.

  But it’ll happen. And part of me hopes Grace is there, as fucking crazy as that is.

  Because I’ve never known anyone that could talk me down from a panic attack, not even my mother. When I was a kid, I had to just bear it myself. My friends couldn’t help, my mother was at a total loss. It was all on me.

  Grace is different. I don’t understand why, but the way she spoke to me, the way she rubbed my back, the way she seemed to genuinely give a shit, it helped center me again.

  No more panic attacks. Fuck that. I’m not going to let myself become weak.

  But it might be a good idea t
o have her around, just in case I decide to murder the old man.

  Hopefully she can talk some sense into me. Or at least she’ll get out of the way.

  11

  Grace

  For the next two days, the house feels like there’s a nuclear bomb sitting in the living room with a timer counting down.

  He’s touchy and constantly on edge. And we both know why, although we don’t talk about it.

  I keep thinking about that moment in the parking lot. He pushed me away the first time, and I was ready to walk off and leave him in his misery. I mean, if he wanted to be a dick so bad, he could go ahead and be a dick alone.

  But I didn’t. I don’t know why. I just… I kept trying. I kept talking to him. Because I wanted to calm him down. I was worried like crazy and I don’t even understand why. I mean, the guy’s an asshole to me most of the time, except for when we’re having sex. And even then he’s still kind of a dick, I just happen to like it.

  Slowly though, it worked. He calmed down. He went from practically choking on air and close to throwing up again to more or less normal. And I think I managed to make that happen.

  I don’t know how. It’s not like I’ve ever talked someone through a panic attack before. There’s just a strange connection between us, and I don’t think either of us are fully prepared to explain it or even to accept it.

  Still, the problem hasn’t gone away. He hasn’t had any more panic attacks, thankfully, but he’s angry and on edge and honestly, it scares me a little bit. Not that I’m worried he’d do anything to me or something like that.

  But I’m worried about him.

  His father is in town, and sooner or later, he’s going to show up. We both know it, there’s no surprise.

  I’m scared of what he’ll do.

  We go two days without talking. Two days of walking on eggshells around each other. And finally, almost like it’s a relief, there’s a knock at the door.

  It’s just after noon on a Sunday. I’m up in my room, reading a book, trying to pretend like he’s not downstairs watching football and stewing in his own anger.