Hard Fiancé: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penny Wylder

  I wasn't listening when Daniel and Sylvia laid out the engagement plan to me. All I was focused on was her. They were speaking, I was nodding, but I was never paying attention.

  I took what she built and expanded on it because for some reason, I want an excuse to spend time with her.

  Now I'm here, and this person who is only seeing it through the eyes of the paper, is trying to pick us apart. If he can read between the lines, anyone can.

  A smug grin fills his face as he laughs. “I don't have a problem.” Crooking his jaw, he runs the pad of his finger over the rim of the glass. “But you might though.” He bites down on his bottom lip and grunts. “If she wasn't such an uptight bitch, maybe I would have put a ring on it. Did she tell you we hooked up before?”

  I'm ready to hit him instantly. Balling my fists at my side, I growl, “You're full of shit. You haven't changed at all.”

  “I'm serious.”

  “You're a liar.”

  “That crescent shaped birthmark on her ass makes a great target.” Smirking, he stands straight and takes a step in. Leaning over, he whispers in my ear so only I can hear him. “She also squealed like a whore while I fucked her.”

  Thwak!

  I feel my knuckles crack against his nose before I realize that I actually hit him. My arms are moving, everything is going in slow motion. I can see Gil's face, his nose is bleeding, but he isn't fazed by it.

  He's trying to wrap his arm around my head, and get me in a headlock, but I'm not giving him a chance. Sweeping his feet out from under him, we're on the floor, wrestling each other.

  Frank is trying to break us up. I can hear him yelling over me, “Dude! Enough! Not here! Save it for the ring!”

  There's nothing he can do.

  Gil and I tangle on floor, I'm aiming for where it hurts; his face. Fuck this guy. Who the hell does he think he is? Even if he did sleep with her at some point, he has some nerve talking about her like that.

  Dropping an elbow on his face, I feel his teeth as they slice my arm and his jaw as it cracks under my weight. I'm breathing heavy, lost in this state of complete rage.

  All I see is red.

  Rolling across the floor, Gil ends up on my chest. He tries to throw a punch, but I'm able to move my head out of the way. His knuckles hit the hard floor, and it gives me a chance to slip out from under him.

  Standing quickly, Gil's on his knees, and he turns to look at me over his shoulder. With one swift kick, I knock his face around to his other shoulder and watch as his eyes cloud up.

  “Get on the ground! Put your hands behind your back!” The voices come in fast and loud. “Get on the ground!”

  The weight of ten men are on my back, hands are grabbing my arms and tearing them behind my back, and my legs are restrained so I can't struggle.

  “What the fuck! Let me up! I didn't do anything!”

  “Stop resisting! Stop resisting!”

  I'm confused, I don't recognize the voices, I can't quite focus on what they're actually saying, and my brain is slow to process all the words.

  Gil had gotten one good hit in and there's a chance I have a concussion from it. He isn't the best fighter in the world, but everyone has the opportunity to land a good shot once in a great while.

  The fucking cops. . . Damn it!

  I need to explain myself, if they just hear that this all a misunderstanding and we actually know each other, they should let me go. This isn't two strangers duking it out over something stupid. We're two people who have known each other for years, grappling to take care of a disagreement.

  “Listen to me!” I yell back, trying to yank my arms free. “Just listen to me!”

  The cops keep screaming, over and over they yell in my ear. It's just too many voices to decipher what's being said.

  Bzzzt!

  “Ah! Fuck!” A surge of electricity jolts through my body, zipping from head to toe. I know what it is instantly, and it sucks.

  They just fucking tazed me.

  As the electric snaps turn into a dull ache, I look over and see Gil on his stomach, his hands cuffed behind his back and his nose gushing blood.

  I shouldn't be happy to see him that way, but I am.

  Because he doesn't have a stupid fucking smile on his face anymore, and that's the most satisfying thing I've seen all day.

  I don't think he'll badmouth Sylvia anymore, that's all that matters.

  The cops yank me to my feet, pushing me out of the club and into the cop car. I'm not looking forward to calling Daniel about this, he isn't going to be happy. But it was for a good reason, it was to save face for his step-daughter.

  She deserves better than to be brutalized by a man and not even know it. No one's going to bad mouth her anymore. Sylvia's my woman, and I'll fight anyone who disrespects her.

  People across the globe are going to know her, because she's my fiancée, and I want her to be right there beside me.

  12

  Sylvia

  “Hello?” I ask, half awake. Scrubbing my eyes, I look over at the clock, it's three in the morning. I'm immediately irritated that someone has the nerve to call me right now, but then I'm hit with the thought that maybe something bad happened to my mother or Daniel.

  My mind is all over the place, still rolling in a dreamy haze. Pushing up onto my elbow, I wait for a response on the other end of the receiver.

  “To accept. . . call Cook. . . County. . .”

  “What?” I can't understand what's being said. The voice is crackly and full of static, and it drops between words.

  “Press one.”

  Click.

  I hang up, fairly certain it was one of those automated telemarketer services based out of some foreign country that isn't in our time zone.

  I'm in bed. I'm not going to spend twenty minutes answering a fucking survey or arguing with someone about made up student loans.

  Rolling onto my side, my phone goes off again. Picking it up, my voice is loud and I'm angry as shit. “Listen you telemarketing piece of—”

  “Sylvia?”

  Sitting up, I push the phone hard against my ear. “Who is this?”

  “It's me.”

  “Phade?” Squinting, I look at my clock again. “It's three in the fucking morning, why the hell are you calling me right now?”

  “I'm sorry, I know it's late, but—”

  “Nope, I'm not a bootie call. Not happening.” Raking my nails through my hair, I pluck at a string on my blanket.

  “No, I'm not calling for that. I need. . .” he says, pausing as he lets out a breath of air. “I need your help.” There's a soft plea in his voice, subtle and hidden between his ego.

  “What's wrong? Are you alright?” I'm awake now. Wide awake.

  Is he okay? Is he hurt? What the hell happened?

  “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.” His voice grows quiet as he whispers heavily into the speaker. “I need a favor.”

  “A favor? What kind of favor? And don't say it's a sexual favor, because I'll hang up right now.”

  If this is his way of trying to get in my pants because he's got a hard-on and doesn't want to jerk off, I'm not falling for it.

  “No, don't hang up. I need a ride. Can you pick me up?”

  “From where?” My shoulders relax back, but his silence makes me nervous. “Where are you Phade?”

  He isn't answering, all I'm hearing is his breathing as it creates pops and crackles in the receiver. “Where, Phade?”

  “Cook County,” he quietly says.

  “You're not serious?”

  Jail? He's in fucking jail? Are you kidding me?

  “Before you get upset, I want you to know it's not what you think. Can you just come get me? I'll explain everything.”

  “Right, not what I think.” I laugh, but it's not because I'm amused, I don't think any of this funny. I laugh because I don't know what the hell he thinks he's going to get from me. Does he really think I'm going to jump out of bed to come rescue him? “Am I your one call?”


  “Yeah, and they actually let me call you a second time because the first one didn't go through, we got cut off.”

  “Oh, well isn't that nice of them. I'm glad you have friends in there, maybe you can ask one of them for a ride home when you get out. Goodbye, Phade.”

  I'm not playing this game with him. I'm not his fucking sober ride home. I'm not here as a taxi service. He can't use me like this, that's not how this thing is going to go.

  “Syl, wait! Don't hang up!” he calls out, and I hear the desperation in voice. He's pleading, he's trapped, and he knows there's no one else he can reach out to.

  But that isn't my problem, it's his. Maybe he should have thought about that before he got himself locked up again.

  Except I don't hang up, even though I want to. My thumb is so close to hitting the end button, the pad is hovering over that little red circle, but I just can't do it.

  “Syl, you still there?”

  “What?”

  “Please, I can't call Daniel, you're all I have. Can you please just come get me?”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you did whatever the hell it was to get arrested. You don't use your head, Phade. You react and do shit before you think about the consequences. This is all on you, don't drag me into it.”

  Click.

  A sense of satisfaction seeps down my spine. I won’t let him treat me like a doormat. It felt good.

  This is exactly what we're trying to avoid, and he just couldn't help himself. I shouldn't be surprised really, once a playboy, always a playboy. His blood is made of nightclub air and alcohol. He deserves to sit in prison. I'm doing him a favor by not rushing to save him.

  Pulling the covers over my head, I let out a growl. “What the hell,” I say to myself, unsure of what I should do.

  I know he should just stay there, deal with the consequences of his stupidity. And in the same breath, I feel bad for him. I don't want him there. I don't want him to feel abandoned. I don't want him to think I hate him. Because I don't. I just hate the man who thinks getting drunk and reckless is a good thing.

  I just can't understand why he's so self-destructive. Why would he risk everything he has for a night of fun? I can't make sense of it at all.

  Screw him. It's his own fault. He's a big boy, he knew what could happen, and he still decided to go.

  Closing my eyes, I bury my face in the pillow and try to force myself back to sleep. I toss and turn for some time, counting sheep, and wishing myself into good dreams.

  It doesn't work. All I keep picturing is Phade locked up behind bars, his entire future disintegrating around him like dust in the wind.

  Toss and turn, toss and turn, I roll around unable to get comfortable. I can't sleep. “Fuck,” I bark, shooting the word out like a dart at my pillow. “Son of a bitch. Why? Why do I give a shit?”

  Slamming my arms down on the bed, the blanket flips onto my lap and I stare at the ceiling.

  I wish I was coldhearted; I wish I could shut off everything and not care at all. It would be so much easier, except I don't work that way. My heart hurts and it feels like there's a pile of rocks in my gut.

  I can't sit here like this anymore. So, I do what feels right, and it isn't going back to sleep, pretending like he didn't call.

  Climbing out of bed, I throw on a t-shirt and jogging pants, give my hair a quick brush. Pulling it back into a bun, I grab my keys and purse, and head for the door.

  Before I know it, I'm standing in a room full of chairs bolted to the floor, with walls that are bare. There's a large glass window against the back wall, and a man sitting securely behind the inch thick, bulletproof glass.

  The white of the brick is almost too much, making my stomach turn like I'm on a boat at sea. I walk in a circle, unable to sit down because I'm afraid if I stop moving I'll puke all over the floor. My hands are getting sweaty, so I keep wiping them on my pants, hoping whatever is happening to me will just go away.

  A loud buzzer rings overhead, and I almost drop to the ground like a tornado is coming. I've never been in a jail before; the sounds, the smells, all of it is overwhelming and aggravating my nerves.

  The door swings open and Phade walks out holding his jacket and laces. “You came,” he says, the corner of his lip twitching in a soft smile. “I didn't think you were going to.”

  “Yeah, well, it's better I come get you than Daniel. At least this way, maybe I can do some damage control before he sees the paper tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for doing this.”

  “I didn't do this for you,” I say quickly, darting my eyes up to his. “I did it for Daniel. He's dealt with enough of your shit.”

  Fiddling with my keys, I move to the exit and throw the door open. He follows behind me, his head down, hands at his side, but I can feel his eyes on me. And I swear he's smiling, not on the outside, but on the inside, like he won because I'm here.

  We reach my car and I climb in, starting the engine with a turn of the key. My body shivers and it's hard for me to tell if that's because I'm cold, or if it's because I can already smell his cologne, and it's making my thighs clench.

  As he drops in beside me, he lets out a sigh as he buckles. “I can't believe this happened. This wasn't how I thought the night would end.”

  “Yeah, well, drinking tends to lead you here, so you shouldn't be surprised at this point, I know I'm not.”

  “That's not what happened, I didn't get drunk and do something stupid.”

  “Right, this time was different, is that what you're saying?”

  His eyes lock on mine and he nods. “Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.”

  “Oh, come on, Phade—you expect me to believe that? People don't just end up getting arrested for nothing.”

  “I didn't say I did nothing, but it didn't happen how you think. I wasn't drunk, and I wasn't being stupid.”

  The car idles and I press the tips of my fingers into my temples. I feel like I've heard this before. Not from him, but from exes in the past. The same crappy story about how it’s someone else's fault. It's always someone else's fault.

  How about taking responsibility some time? Does anyone know how to do that?

  I'm not in the mood to ask, because I really don't give a shit. Phade doesn't need to explain himself to me. I'm not his mother, he doesn't owe me a damn thing. He doesn't even owe me the courtesy of an explanation, we're co-workers. Simple as that.

  “You know what, I don't really care, okay? I don't care what happened, I don't care if you were piss drunk or fucking drugged and you can't remember shit. You don't owe me an explanation, we're not really a couple, we're not really engaged. You obviously didn’t give a shit about what I'm trying to do for you when you walked into the bar, so why should I care about your bullshit excuses?”

  “Because this time it really was different.” He softens his eyes, shoulders rolling forward as his hands fall between his thighs.

  If I didn't know his type better, I'd think there was true remorse in his expression. The puppy dog eyes, the soft forehead creases, the pouty lips. He's got it down to a science, but that doesn't mean he's sincere.

  “Save it, Phade, save it for someone who cares.” Throwing the car into drive, I speed out onto the road and head toward his place. “If you want to throw your entire career away, be my guest. You're a big boy, I'm not going to hold your hand. If you can't recognize your own self destruction by now, you never will.”

  “Will you just listen to me for a second. I'm not lying. I'm not drunk. Do I look or sound drunk to you?”

  “You're a seasoned professional, Phade. Who knows how long you've been in there? Maybe they let you sober up before giving you your phone call.”

  “Or maybe I got arrested for standing up for your ass.”

  “Me?” I snap, jaw hanging open. “Don't bring me into this.”

  How dare he try and blame me for any of this. I wasn't even there. How could he spin this into something that's my fault?

&n
bsp; “Yeah, you. Does the name Gil Flanigan ring a bell?”

  “What the hell does he have to do with anything?”

  “So it's true then?”

  “What's true? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You fucked Gil Flanigan?” Twisting to look at him, I don't answer. “So it is true. That's all I needed to know.”

  Swerving over to the side of the road, I slam on the brakes and throw the car in park. “Don't you dare judge me,” I snarl through clenched teeth as I hold a finger up. “You of all people have no right to judge me.”

  Phade crooks his jaw as his eyes turn to slits. “Why not? You and your father obviously judge me. You both have me pegged as a drunk who can't make decisions for myself. Why is that all right?”

  “That's not true. I never judged you.”

  “Sylvia, you had picked me apart before we even had a real conversation. Your little binder was more than just a guide, it was a rule book on how to change who I am.” Phade unbuckles his seatbelt and starts to open his door.

  “What, you're going to get out and run away now? Because that's what you do, right? You run from anything that's real.” My jaw grinds down hard, wanting to say more, but choosing to keep it in.

  Phade rests his hand on the roof and leans in the door. His eyes are dark in the faint light from the dome above me. “I didn't decide to do this little charade because I was afraid of losing my job, or because your step-father threatened to take everything I worked my entire life for. I did it because I wanted to get to know you.”

  The door slams shut and Phade walks off down an alley into the dark. I watch him go, my insides on fire, the voice inside my head screaming at him to come back, but I can't get out the words.

  Because he's right.

  I thought of him as the superficial guy who loves tits and ass more than having a meaningful conversation. I thought he was a muscle-head, living on alcohol and sex.

  I was wrong.

  I've never felt like more of an asshole in my life. Here I am thinking that I'm helping this man, when he's only been here for me all along. I didn't expect that. I never expected the depth this man has shown me.