Hard Fiancé: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penny Wylder

  “I don't know if this is the best way to approach this. . .” Pausing, I force a smile. “I can help, absolutely, I don't mind that. We can sit him down, talk to him about his behavior, how it's not acceptable. Really make him see that his image is a huge part of this, not just how he fights. I'd be more than happy to set him up with some special appearances, maybe he can do volunteer work. You know, stuff to boost his hometown good guy persona, not this bad boy one he's making for himself.”

  Daniel thins his lips, letting out another sigh. Reaching across the desk, he grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Sylvia, I know you want to be the face of our PR department, I do. It's what you said to me when I first hired you, and trust me, I want that for you too. This will show me just how ready you really are. You need to be willing to go that extra mile, do whatever needs to get done to make things better. It won't be real, it'll just be for show, get the press saying positive things about Phade instead of this garbage. Then we'll do some amicable separation or something, and end it with a clean break. We won't give the tabloids anything but sweet and kind.”

  Slipping my hand free, I fold my hands in my lap, and look him straight in the eye. “I don't know, Daniel, it seems like a wild idea. I'm not sure how I feel about it, it doesn't sit right with me.”

  His expression goes slack as he takes in a slow breath. “This isn't about you—this is about this company.”

  “Yeah, but we—”

  Cutting me off, he pushes the paper back in my direction. “Do you see this?” My eyes drop to Phade's face and I nod. “It's your job as PR to fix his public image no matter what, am I right?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “No matter what,” he says, jabbing his finger into Phade's eye. “This man is in desperate need of your help.” Brushing his hand in the air, he waves it like he's casting a magical spell. “Besides, it won't be real, Sylvia. It's strictly to get him back on the good side of the paparazzi and the public. We want to stop all this crap, generate good headlines, not this garbage. It's not too late to turn it all around, and you will be the one to do it.” Tapping the edge of his fingers against his lips, his smile is paper thin. “You'll save this company, Syl. Doesn't that sound amazing? To single handedly be the one to fix it?”

  There's a flood of emotions that hit me all at once. Of course I want to make sure this company thrives, that it maintains the same level of success and intimidation that it always has. But to act like I'm engaged to a man I barely know, I'm not sure how that shows my dedication.

  Not to mention, Daniel still has to run this by Phade. He can't just make this decision without him. Can he?

  How's Phade going to feel about this? What if he doesn't want to go along with it?

  Phade might be perfectly happy doing what he's doing right now. He might decide to tell Daniel to go screw himself. A contract holds you accountable for a lot of things, but not for wild ideas from your manager. And it certainly can't make you take a fake fiancée.

  “Say I agree to this,” I say, glancing down at the desk and picking at the edge of the newspaper. “What about Phade? How do you know he'll even go along with it? What if he doesn't want to? What will you do then?”

  “Don't worry about him, I'll take care of that. He'll do it, he won't have a choice.” Relaxing back, he has a satisfied grin on his face. He won the battle. Point, set, match. “This is perfect, you're going to do great. A pretty girl like you, Phade won't say no to that.”

  He isn't even trying to convince me anymore; his tone says he's decided for me.

  I'm going to be Phade's pretend fiancée, the deal is done before the ink is dry.

  Closing the door to his office, I start down the hall. I'm holding the paper all rolled up in my hand, watching my feet as I walk. I'm not even sure what to think at this point. I'm about to be engaged to a man I know absolutely nothing about, someone I've never met in person, or had a conversation with.

  How the hell am I going to pull this off?

  It's impossible.

  “Hey, Sylvia.”

  Claudia's voice startles me and I jump slightly. “Oh, hey, Claude. How are you?”

  “I'm good.” She gives me a light smile, then looks down at my hand. “What's that?”

  “It's this morning's paper.” Fiddling with it, I unroll it as I talk. “Daniel isn't too happy about it either. Phade—”

  “Phade,” she says, softly closing her eyes and swooning. “God, that guy is so damn hot. Mm, the things I'd do to him if I had the chance.” Giggling, she brushes her hair away from her face and fans herself. “What did he do this time?” Her smile thickens as her eyes twinkle with a starry look.

  “You could say that I guess.” Laughing, I re-roll the paper and tuck it under my arm. “It's nothing though, Daniel has an idea to fix it.”

  “Oh good, because I'd hate to see him go. There's something about him, something that just gives me those damn little butterflies in my stomach.” Holding her belly, she closes her eyes and smiles to herself. “I wish I could get an hour alone with him, just the two of us.”

  I want to tell her so badly about what Daniel is asking me to do. About how I've been given the job of being Phade's fiancée. It sounds insane when I think it, I can't imagine how it'll sound if I say it out loud.

  Instead, I say nothing. I'm afraid to tell her and hurt her feelings. She looks like she has such a huge crush on him, I just can't get the words out.

  Why me?

  Daniel could have asked anyone else in the office, but he asked me. I couldn't tell him no. I want to run the PR department, it's what I want more than anything. This is going to show him just how serious I am about it.

  And I'm not going to say anything that's going to crush her. Claudia is more than just my co-worker, she's my friend.

  The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt her, but I need this.

  My dream is right here, arm’s length away; nothing is going to stop me.

  Not even a friend.

  I'll tell her everything eventually. . . Just not yet.

  3

  Phade

  “Get up,” the cop barks, tapping his billy club against the bars. “Your bond's been posted.”

  Rubbing my eyes, I sit up in the cot and yawn. Taking a second to catch my bearings, the cop leans against the steel door. He looks older, in his forties, maybe early fifties, with mostly silver hair, buzzed into a military fade.

  He reminds me of my grandfather, with his stern expression and crinkled forehead. There are no laugh lines by his mouth. I'm pretty sure he's spent most of his life with a frown.

  His uniform is wrinkle free, pressed perfectly and scotch guarded against stains. The blue fabric is new and crisp, his boots so shiny I can probably use them like a mirror. Even his badge is gleaming, catching every beam of light from the long bulbs in the ceiling.

  “It's about damn time.” Standing, I stretch my arms high above my head and groan as I bend my knees and reach higher. “I made that call hours ago.”

  My back is slightly sore between my shoulder blades from the rigid, metal frame, and the paper thin mattress. These cots really are fucking terrible. There's no meat to them, only bone. And the creaking, oh fuck that creaking is burned into my brain like a sore.

  Reaching around my ribs, I try to massage the crick out of the muscle. “You guys really should invest in better beds.” Swinging my arms front to back, I lengthen them by grabbing my elbows, and pulling them across my chest.

  He looks at me like I'm a privileged rich kid. “Yeah, the problem with that is you're a criminal. This is jail, not the Ritz.”

  Scrunching my brows, I tilt my head. “I thought everyone was innocent until proven guilty?”

  “Did the officers pull you off another guy as you pummeled his face into corned beef hash?” I hold his stare, but I don't answer. “That's the silence of truth,” he says, pointing his finger out, and jabbing it in my direction. “You coming or not? I mean you can stay, I don't really care, I get p
aid whether you're here or not.”

  “No thanks, I'll pass. Where's my shit?”

  “Front desk, same place you left it.” Sliding the door open, he turns stiffly on his heels and waits for me to step out in front of him.

  His eyes are beady, watching me like I'm some low life criminal. I'm not. I don't steal, rape, or kill people; I'm just a guy who enjoys his vices a little too much. And last night it got me in trouble.

  There are three things I love; drinking, fighting, and fucking.

  Last night I got to taste all three. It was a beautiful thing. Nothing's going to stop me from doing what I love, even a night behind bars.

  As we start for the exit, the cop has a small smile on his face. His gaze is floating around, relaxed, almost in a daze.

  “So,” squinting, I read his name tag and ask, “Officer French, you got a nice little smirk there. I'll be honest, I didn't think you knew how to smile.”

  “Everyone knows how to smile, doesn't mean you got to share it like a disease.”

  “I bet you got laid last night, am I right?”

  “What makes you think I'm smiling because of that?”

  “I know it makes me smile. And when it's good, there's a look like that on my face too, because you can't get the girl out of your head.” Pointing up at his face, I wriggle my brows.

  Images of the girl from the club instantly pop into my head, flashing like erotic still photos behind my eyes. Her perfect tits, her plump ass, her tight little pussy lips swallowing my cock.

  Damn, I wish I had gotten her name and number.

  The thought's unsettling, so I push it away, doing my best to get her out of my head. I will never ask a girl for her number. Never.

  I want to experience life and everything it has to offer, not get held back by some girl at home. Besides, with so much pussy to choose from, why should I settle for just one? You can't know what you want until you've had a little taste of them all—right?

  “Life is more than just getting laid, kid.”

  Shrugging a shoulder, my lip curls to one side. “That's what people say when they aren't getting laid. You need to get out and get some ass, Officer. Hey, if you ever want to come to a fight, let me know. There's something about a good fight that just gets girls going. You'd get lucky for sure. You know what, I'll have a few tickets sent here for you.”

  “No, that's all right, thank you, but I'm good.” Officer French shakes his head and laughs. “You're so lucky to be heading home, I hope you know that. If you got sent up to Jackson pen, you wouldn't last an hour.”

  “Yeah, well, lucky for me I have this pretty face.” Smiling, I flash my pearly whites.

  “You're right, it's perfect.” Officer French pulls out his keys and unlocks the second door that leads out into the main hallway. “Pretty faces go a long way behind bars.”

  Snickering, I shake my head in disagreement. “That's not how it would work for me. I'd crack someone's skull. I know how to protect myself, it's kind of what I do.”

  The officer's lips lift high, his smile huge, as his gut is bellowed out like he wants to explode in laughter. “You wouldn't make the rules up there, son, they get made for you.” Tapping the glass window, he slaps my shoulder. “Stay out of trouble. You talk a big game, but in reality, you're a small fish.”

  “The ticket offer is still there, just let me know.”

  Giving me a wave over his shoulder, he starts walking away as he's talking. “We can't take bribes or gifts, but I appreciate the offer.” His voice echoes off the white cement blocks, following him down the hall like an audible shadow

  A yellow bucket hits my hand, grabbing my attention. The bucket has my wallet, watch, belt, cell phone and shoes.

  Stuffing my wallet into my back pocket, I slip my feet into my shoes and start for the exit. A loud buzzer sounds above my head as I'm adjusting the band of the watch, and the door opens on its own.

  “You little shit,” Daniel snaps, his voice cold and rigid.

  He's standing right outside the door, his expression hard. I can see how pissed he is from the way his eyebrows draw in tight and his pupils are pinpricks. His lips purse up like a tight asshole, and he keeps running his hand back and forth over his forehead.

  “Good to see you too. You know I called you almost six hours ago.”

  “I'm your manager, not your fucking lackey.”

  “There's a difference?”

  “Not now, Phade, I'm not in the mood for your fucking jokes.” Taking a heavy step, Daniel throws the front door open and storms outside. “Your ass is lucky I'm even here. I didn't have to come, you know that right?”

  Cocking my head, I ask, “Why is everyone talking about how lucky I am?”

  “Because you are. And you're too fucking stupid to see it.” Keeping his eyes forward, he starts across the parking lot. “This is it, Phade, it ends now.”

  “What ends? What the hell are you talking about?” Reaching his car, Daniel opens the driver side door, but he doesn't answer. I'm resting my hands on the roof, waiting for him to explain, but he won't even look in my direction.

  Daniel climbs inside, staying silent.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  Tearing my door open, I drop in next to him and ask again, “What ends, Daniel? What are you talking about?”

  Daniel smiles, letting out a low chuckle. Flicking his eyes up to mine, he grunts as if I should know the answer already. “You honestly need me to tell you? You can't see it for yourself?”

  “Look, I got a little drunk, I made a mistake, it's not the end of the world. I'm human, same as you and everyone else. It's not like it interferes with my fighting or training. I work hard, you know I do. I deserve to treat myself.”

  “Phade, working hard and playing hard are two very different things. You need a wakeup call. This won't last forever, and right now, the shit you're doing is hurting you and everyone else around you.”

  “Everyone else,” laughing out loud, I twist my head and look out the window. “Yeah, my fun hurts others. . .” Pausing, I let the laugh settle. “Come on, Daniel, don't try and twist this into something it's not. It was one mistake—”

  “One mistake,” he barks loudly, jerking his eyes in my direction. “One mistake? Are you fucking serious right now?”

  Daniel is glaring at me, and I'm having a hard time knowing if he really wants an answer to that or not.

  Sitting quietly, I keep my eyes straight. There's a lot I want to say, but I'm trying not to. He does sign the checks. It's just hard for me to keep my mouth shut.

  “Well? Go on, tell me then. Tell me all the things I've done wrong.”

  Let him berate me like I'm a child, I don't give a shit. It isn't going to last forever. I'll remind him that I'm his golden ticket, I'm the reason he's sitting where he is right now. I could have signed with anyone, but I chose him.

  I won't let him forget that.

  You should be kissing my ass, Daniel, not the other way around.

  “Fine, you need me to tell you, because you're too blind to see it for yourself, I will. Because I haven't forgotten how I had to send my assistant to pick you up from some bar last weekend. And why? Because your drunk ass forgot where you parked your own fucking car.”

  Grinding his jaw hard, his voice became louder and irater. “And what about two weeks ago when some photographer from TMZ caught you pissing against East Bank and you punched him for snapping the picture. You’re a lucky fuck that I was able to get him to not press charges. Last month you almost got arrested twice for public drunkenness—twice, Phade.”

  Daniel closes his mouth, his nostrils flare, forehead full of wrinkles, and he just glares at me. I know what he wants, he wants me to acknowledge my wrongs, but I'm not going to do that.

  He laid them all out there, obviously he's keeping track for the both of us. What does he want me to do? Grovel at his feet for forgiveness?

  Not a fucking chance. I can't help what the press does, and I shouldn't have to beco
me someone I'm not to make him happy. I'm Phade Manson, in the ring and out of it. Period.

  Crossing my arms, I stare back.

  “Well, Phade, nothing to say?”

  “I've got a headache and I'm tired, is that what you're looking for?”

  “Of course, because it's all about you. I'm going to drop you off. Get your ass cleaned up, and then I want you at the office in an hour.”

  “An hour?”

  “One hour.”

  “For what?”

  “To discuss your future here.”

  Does he think those words scare me? They don't.

  I'm not thinking about my future, or about making my boss happy. I'm not thinking about my image or the impression people might have of me.

  I don't give two fucks about any of this shit. All I can think about is the girl who tattooed herself on my brain. My cock twitches as I think about how it felt to be inside her, how warm and wet she was as I slid inside.

  The car stops outside my building, and Daniel is still talking. I'm not in the mood to listen to him. His voice is more like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon, lots of noise, but no real words.

  Womp womp, womp womp womp. . .

  “Do you hear me, Phade?” he asks as I climb out of his car and step onto the sidewalk. “Phade? I asked you if you heard me?”

  Ignoring him, I just shut the door and head towards the building. Daniel is still yelling my name, his voice getting louder and angrier the further away I get.

  “Phade! Phade! One hour, Phade, or you’re done! You hear me damn it?! One hour!” He expects an answer, and I'll give him one—after I shower, eat something, and grab a quick nap.

  Lazily, I wave a hand over my shoulder as the door shuts behind me. Letting out a slow breath, this isn't how I want to spend my day.

  What I really want to do is find the girl from last night. But I'll appease Daniel, I'll go to this meeting, hear whatever idea it is he has, and then we can move on.

  Throwing my keys onto the counter, I pull off an article of clothing with each step down the hall. Shirt first, belt second, the rest comes off in a pile that I step out of right at the bathroom door.