One Night Wife

by Ainslie Paton

  “Because?” Was he asking her on a date?

  “I like burgers. You like burgers. It’s new.”

  “Oh.” That sounded deceptively simple. Too simple to be an actual date. It was a—yeah, no idea. “Do I need a briefing?”

  “We’ll roll with it.”

  What?

  He was fudging the rules, and she should complain about that, but since she hadn’t spent the weekend curled up in her pjs with a hot water bottle and a tub of ice cream, Netflix, and Scungy to keep her misery company, and she did like burgers, she was willing this once to let it slide.

  It was her excuse, and she was sticking to it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cal could deceive himself that this was two friends who liked burgers checking out a new restaurant on a Wednesday night as much as he wanted to. It wouldn’t make what he was doing with Fin that.

  What the fuck was he doing with her?

  It was midweek, not a date night. It was burgers, and they’d eaten burgers together before. It was what friends did. They’d spent Friday night platonically in bed together. They’d spent Saturday at Beacon being friendly without it escalating into anything they couldn’t back away from. This didn’t need to mean anything. It was just a casual check in.

  And it still wasn’t that.

  It wasn’t keeping Fin too busy to find someone else, either, because she had ample time to do that when he wasn’t around.

  It certainly wasn’t work.

  Fin didn’t know what they were doing, either, because she was jumpy. He’d never seen her this nervous before. Not as Marilyn, not in front of Rory or at the Langleys’s or belting out Sia at the XRad party. She made fleeting eye contact and could barely say a word during the walk from her apartment in Carnegie Hill to the burger bar. Because it was rush hour they didn’t even try to hold hands.

  If he called it a date, then he’d have to live with the consequences of having changed the game. He had no business doing that. Had made it deadly clear to her this kind of thing wouldn’t be happening, and now he was sitting opposite her, studying her, while she studied the menu.

  And Christ, if this was a date, then he needed his head examined. This was a lousy first date. Wrong night, wrong transport, wrong clothes, he was still in his suit, wrong destination, wrong intention.

  The tipping point had been the snuggling. She’d been in such obvious pain that he’d not been able to resist her request to spoon, and he’d liked it too much to stop. But he was a rat bastard for insisting she snuggle him when she was exhausted beyond arguing. And kissing her was taking it way too far, even though he’d passed it off as a joke and had kept his hands mostly to himself since then. Mostly, if you discounted fooling around by the Hudson, where he’d lifted her off her feet at one point.

  Which is, of course, why this was a mistake, and why he was disgustingly happy to be sitting in a crowded, noisy, cheap, too brightly lit restaurant watching her internal debate about what kind of cheese to add to her burger.

  “How’s your week going?” he asked after they’d ordered. His go-to safe question. Safe enough you could ask a stranger.

  She told him about how she was setting up donor databases, how D4D had signed a deal with a new project partner in Namibia. He could barely hear her above the din in the place, but she was so expressive it didn’t matter. He drank her in, her excitement, her concern, her slightly manic bewilderment about what was going on between them. He didn’t know what to do with that because he felt it, too. A hot and cold flash of energy strung out between them, fizzing and sparking and throwing out high-voltage alert warnings.

  They were off brief, and neither of them knew how to take it.

  The arrival of the food saved them from more awkward, shouted conversation. Fin wasted no time tucking in. If he thought about the last burger he watched her eat, he was going to have an uncomfortable six-block walk ahead of him. He focused on his own meal, and since this wasn’t the kind of place you stuck around, they were back on the sidewalk with nothing to do before indigestion had a chance to take hold. The only plus was the burgers were sensational.

  If he wanted this to appear as if it was friends sharing a meal, he needed to act that way. “I’ll walk you home.” As if he’d simply leave her here, anyway.

  Five minutes later, he’d lost her in a crowd of people in fancy dress. He turned back to see her standing outside a hole in the wall theater next to a guy wearing a wig, red corset, frilly panties, suspenders, fishnets, and heels. The theater was showing the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  In case corset man got any ideas, Cal approached Fin from behind and put his hands on her shoulders. “How many times have you seen it?”

  He felt her shrug. “I know every word.”

  “And you want to see it again.”

  She turned, her eyes sweeping over his face. “You hate it.”

  She’d gotten good at reading him, not that he’d been trying to guard his feelings. It was a musical. He’d hate it. “It’s my favorite.”

  She shoved him so hard he took a step back and had to apologize to the corseted Frank N. Furter. Then he queued with a mass of Brads and Janets, assorted cabaret characters, and at least one zombie nurse for tickets because it was Fin’s favorite, and this wasn’t a date, but it was an excuse to sit in the dark and hold her hand.

  And he did hold her hand, and she sang every line, along with the rest of the packed theater, and he loved her for it. He never felt this out of place in the home of the rich and infamous he was ripping off. He hadn’t realized this movie was about deviancy and the sexual corruption of two innocents. There was a lot of innuendo and a young Susan Sarandon in her underwear.

  When the house lights came up, Fin threw her arms around him. “You hated it and I loved it, and this was the best non-date ever.”

  They both froze as she called it. “It wasn’t a date,” he said.

  She unwrapped her arms from around his neck. “I know. I said non-date.”

  “Which implies—”

  She stood, tucking her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “Nothing. Because you don’t want it to be anything.”

  He was tardy following her crabwalk to the aisle because nothing slowed you up more than an unnecessary lie.

  In the confidence game, if you didn’t want to get caught like Lenny’s father, like some arrogant politicians, you kept your lies for special occasions, for the big ideas and the broad concepts. Any serial cheater who didn’t end up with a divorce on his hands knew that. Day to day, you told the truth as much as possible and let your marks twist in the wind on their own lies, and the truth was Cal wanted everything with Fin. The banter and silences. The hand holding and snuggles. The friendship and partnership. And he’d take cramps and crappy movies and her weirdly named cat and her fear she wasn’t a grown-up, and he’d love those things about her, too.

  Except, what he wanted and what he could have were separated by a war of falsehoods and a fortress of reasons why Fin could never know the truth and why she wouldn’t want to know him if she did.

  They walked in silence until they came to a sidewalk shell game in progress. As if that wasn’t ironic. Fin stopped to watch, and Cal stood close to her as the three cups were rapidly switched around until a Jets cap wearing guy picked the middle one. The bottle cap was revealed, and he won.

  “Lucky,” Fin said, as the player walked past them, pocketing his cash.

  Cal whispered in her ear. “Not lucky. It’s a con.”

  She leaned against him, watching the next player take a turn. “But people win. That guy did.”

  “That guy is part of the scam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He takes a turn and wins to show that it’s possible but watch what happens. He’ll wait until the crowd has turned over and come back and do it again.”

  Player after player lost and fifteen minutes later, once the crowd had turned over, Jets cap came back.

  “That’s not the same guy,” F
in said, when Cal pointed him out.

  “Same guy. Different cap and shirt.” He’d swapped the Jets for the Rangers cap. “He’ll win.”

  Fin elbowed him hard in the side when that happened. “How did you know?”

  My basic training. “My wild and reckless youth.”

  “Cap guy and cup guy are in it together?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes it’s just one guy with quick hands who lets a player win a few times before he palms the bottle cap and they lose, but the pros who make money work it as a team. There could be four or five of them. No genuine player off the street is winning anything.”

  “No wonder the cops move them on,” she said. He could hear the disappointment in her voice.

  “You thought it was fair play.”

  She looked down at her feet in sneakers. “I thought it was a game of skill, you know, like a ring toss or whack-a-mole.”

  “It’s a basic shakedown. It’s how most cons work. Plausibility, misdirection, and attracting people who’re—”

  “Gullible like me.”

  “Ah, Fin.” He pulled her close. This woman was going to rip the skin off him and turn him inside out. “A New Yorker is the best sucker ever born. He’s made to measure because he thinks he’s too streetwise to be fooled. Mom hates these guys. She’d call the cops on them, but they’re like cockroaches. There’s always another one.”

  She thumped her forehead on his chest. “That’s supposed to make me feel better.”

  It made him feel raw and fiercely defensive of her. “Stay away from cons.”

  She would’ve heard the tension in his voice. She pulled away and snapped off a salute. “Yes, sir.”

  They walked the rest of the way hand in hand, and at her apartment, she asked him to come up.

  “You could meet Scungy,” she said.

  “What made you name him that?”

  “It’s Australian slang for heroic.”

  He knew from her sly grin, from the quirk of her brow, she was making that up. “It’s Australian slang for underwear,” he said. “They call them scungies.”

  She slapped his arm. “It is not.” She thought about it, brow furrowed. “Is it?”

  He nodded. He’d looked it up.

  “Holy shit.” She flapped her hands to her sides. “I’m too trusting.”

  It would be amusing if he weren’t already bleeding out inside.

  “You’re not coming up, are you?” she asked.

  “No. We both have to get up for work in the morning. And you have a briefing to study.” He was never going up to her apartment because if he did, he might never want to leave.

  “I’ve got it. I have a little shopping to do.”

  “I’ll send a car for you and your fur friend. We’ll leave from the office.” After that administrivia, his next line was supposed to be goodnight.

  “It’s still early, are you sure you won’t come up?”

  She looked so hopeful it jolted him. “It’s late.” That wasn’t even a good excuse. He brought the hand he was holding to his lips, a light kiss, and then he let go.

  She dropped her eyes to her hand and then flicked them up to his face, disenchanted. It was nothing like she would look if she knew the truth.

  “Goodnight.” He got it out finally because it had to be said and watched her fumble her entry code before pushing the door open and going inside.

  He went to the curb and hailed a cab. He was a master con everywhere but where he wanted to be straight up, and for the first time since his wild and reckless youth, he had no idea what he was doing because the con was on him.

  He focused on the job for the rest of the week. Tried not to stare off into the distance wondering what Fin was doing while he was bogged down in boring administration. He was in a meeting with Zeke and Mom about wine, dinosaur bones, and Halsey’s birthday, when she arrived on Friday. It had to be Fin.

  They heard it a room away. An unearthly yowl. Everyone looked at him.

  “Why is it you think I know what’s going on out there?”

  “It’s your job,” said Mom.

  “I think we’re done here,” said Zeke. They all went to reception where Camille was staring into an animal carrier and Fin was wearing an absolutely rocking pair of skin-tight, black pants and an expression of annoyance.

  Zeke bent to investigate and then recoiled. “Jesus, what is that?”

  “Exactly,” said Camille.

  “You said someone would mind him,” Fin said, glaring at Cal. She looked ready to stamp her feet.

  He peered into the carrier and suppressed the urge to do what Camille and Zeke had done. “This is Scungy?” The cat started up a low wail that put a chill up his spine.

  “He doesn’t like being in the carrier, and he got motion sick in the car. It’s not his fault he smells bad,” Fin said.

  He did stink, and he was the ugliest animal Cal had ever seen. One eye was sewn shut. One ear was mangled. His lip was split and healed but unevenly, so a fang showed. The cat hissed and Cal flinched. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. He had a hard life. I got him like that.”

  “You chose that cat?” said Zeke, incredulous.

  “Does he bite? He looks like he bites,” said Camille. “What did you say he was called?”

  “Scungy,” Fin and Cal said together. The name suited him. “It means heroic,” Fin finished, daring Cal to correct her with a sharp look.

  “Why is he here?” Zeke said.

  “Because this heroic animal needs to be minded for the weekend,” Cal said.

  “And there are no spaces at wherever hellcats get minded?” Zeke asked.

  Fin stepped up to the desk and put her hand on the top of the carrier. “This was a bad idea. I should find somewhere else for him.”

  “Not at all.” Mom to the rescue. That’s what Cal had been banking on when he’d called her to this afternoon’s meeting. She went to the carrier and looked through the grill. “Hello, fur baby.”

  Scungy immediately stopped growling. The savior of albatrosses and other endangered creatures opened the carrier door, and everyone but Fin took an involuntary step backwards. Mom put her hand in the cage and let the cat sniff her.

  “Fin, this is my mom, Katrice Sherwood.”

  “Scungy likes you,” said Fin to Mom.

  The only evidence of that was the lack of blood and yawing from the beyond.

  Katrice Sherwood closed the cage door and frowned at Cal. “What is this poor darling doing here?”

  “He needs to be looked after for the weekend while Fin and I are away.”

  Mom turned to Fin. “You’re the new One Night Wife.”

  Fin’s face registered a fine brew of WTF. “I’m what?”

  “Katrice,” Cal said, and earned a grunt of irritation from Mom.

  “You’re Cal’s accomplice,” she amended. She had to press buttons.

  Mom put her hand out to shake and Fin took it. “You’re the badass. Savior of albatrosses,” she said.

  Mom blinked in surprise. Zeke lost it, folding over the reception desk, consumed with laughter. The damn cat started up that god-awful, raise-the-dead wailing, and Halsey said from the corridor, “That thing in the cage had better not be my birthday present.”

  “I like her, Cal,” Mom said, hands to her hips. “You didn’t tell me I’d like her.”

  Of course, that oversight would be his fault. And it shouldn’t have mattered. He clapped his hands for attention. “All right, here’s what’s going to happen. Halsey, go back to your office. It’s not your birthday for weeks. Camille, turn the cage to the wall, might flip the evil demon out less if he can’t see us.”

  “Don’t call him that,” Fin protested. It wouldn’t be all she’d protest.

  “Zeke, clear out. Mom, would you be so kind as to take care of Fin’s cat for the weekend?” He waited for her nod. “Fin, my office and yes, I’ll explain what my mother said.”

  Everyone moved at once. Halsey backed away, Z
eke followed. Camille turned the cage around. The demon stopped growling. Fin handed Mom a bag of cat things, and they exchanged a few words about the evil one’s social habits, hygiene requirements, and penchant for hiding under things, and Cal left them to it.

  He got to his office a few minutes before Fin.

  “It’s a joke,” he said, before she opened her mouth.

  “Calling me your accomplice is one thing, but what’s a One Night Wife?”

  He shut the door because he didn’t need an audience, and he was pretty sure anyone who could listen in would. Where was a yowling cat when you needed cover? “It’s a term we use.”

  “I don’t know whether to feel insulted or deprived?”

  “Why would you feel deprived?”

  “Because Rory was your last One Night Wife, and I’m pretty sure she got privileges.”

  “And by privileges you mean?”

  “Sex, Cal.” Fin threw her hands up. “What happens after snuggles or before snuggles, or generally in relation to snuggles if the sex is any good.”

  “You weren’t well. You were wearing a tampon.”

  “A menstrual cup if you must know and what’s that got to do with it.”

  “I was hardly going to—” Menstrual cup.

  “And for the record, I’ve been tested, I’m clean and I’m on birth control, and I can’t believe you’re scared of a little blood.”

  “We’re not having this conversation.” Cal’s face was hot. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d been embarrassed like this. “The One Night Wife is shorthand. We say Secret Baby and Hidden Heir and Blackmailed Bride, as well. It’s a way to describe roles and procedures. It’s our jargon. It’s got nothing to do with sex. And clearly, our arrangement is for more than one night, so that proves it’s virtually meaningless.”

  “The only thing I hear is Cal Sherwood protesting too much.”

  He put his hands to his head. Even his hair was warm. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “You keep making it personal, this thing between us, personal enough that I don’t know how to process it. You hated every minute of Rocky Horror, and yet you sat through the whole thing with me and never said a word of complaint. I don’t understand what we’re doing. Are we friends? Am I a One Night Wife joke to you?”