Hard Fiancé: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penny Wylder

  Our little play has become a one man show and I'm the star, because I'm the only one acting.

  Maybe I'm the only one who's been acting all along?

  13

  Phade

  Wrapping my knuckles in black tape, I make sure it's tight. Balling my hands, I roll my wrists in a circle until I know nothing is going to come loose or undone.

  Satisfied, I drop the tape back into my bag. I'm sweating, I can feel it dripping down my neck, slipping between the muscles of my shoulders, and down my spine. Tipping my head forward, I close my eyes, and take in a few deep breaths.

  Sitting back up, I straighten my back. I'm ready to go. Ready to taste the sweetness of victory and the bitterness of false happiness.

  Things haven't been the same between Sylvia and me. There's a dullness in her eyes when she looks at me, and I hate it. The first time I laid eyes on her I saw fire. Now, all I see is smoldering ash.

  I wish I could go back to that night at the bar, where we were nameless strangers. Where nothing else mattered in that moment but us. I miss that freedom I felt with her. I gave her something I never gave anyone else. I let her in. And now, I can't get her out.

  She's all I think about. Awake, asleep, it doesn't matter, Sylvia is there. She's carved her name into my heart like the bark of a tree.

  “You ready?” Daniel asks as he comes into the locker room with his hands braided behind his back. “Big day today.”

  “I ain't worried, if that's what you're asking.” Pulling a padded glove up over my hand, my fingers stick out the ends. I wiggle them as I tighten the strap around my wrist. “It's just another fight.”

  “Yeah, but this one is live, the entire nation is going to be watching you.” His smile grows as he sits down next to me and grabs my other glove. Taking my hand he slides it over my knuckles and pulls it tight. “This is where it matters, you know that right?”

  Peering up at him with my lids lowered halfway, my mouth folds down hard. “It always matters, every fight matters. How the hell do you think I made it here?”

  Bouncing his hand in the air, he runs an open palm over the top of his head. “I know, I know, and you've earned all of it.

  “Have I?” I ask, cocky and defiant.

  Daniel's eyes stiffen in place, filling with words he isn't going to say right now. “But. . .” Drawing out his voice, he ignores my comment. “This fight will take you to the next level, it'll put your name on top of everyone else.”

  And yours too, right?

  He isn't fooling me with this little pep talk. Daniel is picturing his name in the lights, not mine.

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  Daniel stands and adjusts his suit. “My daughter's going to meet you in the ring before and after. Regardless if you win or lose, you make sure the world knows you're taken now. Let them see the new you—Phade Manson the man, not Phade Manson the boy.”

  I eye him, he eyes me back. Two bulls, tapping horns, ready to charge. The world doesn't give a shit about my status, only Daniel Cross does.

  This fucking show is getting old.

  Turning, he walks out to the arena, shaking hands and smiling along the way. The master manipulator, hard at work, trying to sell me to the world.

  Stretching my arms above my head, I grab my elbows and pull my arms across my chest. I'm not worried about this fight, it's not even on my radar as something I should be nervous about.

  I'm keeping my word, not going out drinking, staying away from the bars and the guys that tend to get me in trouble. Sylvia hasn't asked me to, but I feel like I should. I want her to trust me, I want her to see that I really am trying. But I also want her to understand that I can change without changing completely.

  I can still be me without having to pretend to be someone I don't recognize.

  She's here. Daniel didn't have to tell me. I know she's here because I can feel her. It's like I developed a sixth sense, one that knows if she's close by. My skin prickles, the hair on the back of my neck stiffens, and my skin starts buzz.

  Looking down at my arm, goosebumps ripple up my forearm, covering my skin in tiny peaks. She's close by.

  I hear the announcer as he yells into the microphone and my entrance music starts to play. The guitar rift starts heavy, thick, and the drums kick in hard and loud. The crowd is cheering and I haven't even shown my face yet.

  Moving to the door, I bounce on my feet, rocking my hips and slamming my knuckles together hard. I have to get angry, pissed, to the point I want to tear the fucker's head clear off his body.

  My thoughts grow dark, looming on pure insanity to feed the rage brewing inside. I think of Sylvia and someone trying to hurt her. I think of Gil and what he said about her. My muscles start to shake, convulsing under my skin.

  “Weighing in at a massive one hundred and ninety-four pounds, with a record of eleven wins and one loss, a man who doesn't back down and won't lighten up, Phade Brass Knuckles Manson!”

  I jog out into the arena, and the room explodes with cheers and yells, hooting and hollering. Bobbing and weaving, I move to the music, letting it lead me to the ring.

  Sylvia is waiting in my corner, her smile broad, spreading from ear to ear. She looks incredible. Her hair is a curtain of chestnut colored silk, with huge curls bouncing off her shoulders. A tight red dress hugs her body like a second skin. Black heels extend her legs, making them leaner and longer.

  The only thought that pops in my head is bending her over the rope and taking her, making her mine. Protective and powerful, I want to fuck her, coming inside so every man in this room can smell that she belongs to me.

  Does that make me an animal?

  Climbing under the rope, she smiles as I step close, and runs her hands over my arms. I shiver, I feel it deep in my bones, but I don't show it. It's part of the act, I know it is, but I love the way her hands feel on me, fake or not.

  “And in this corner, weighing in at one hundred and eighty-nine pounds, a man on a mission, Forest Crusher Jones!”

  The crowd erupts again, and my opponent throws up his arms like he's already won. He twists his face to me, giving me a toothless grin and points his finger in my direction, then runs it across his neck.

  He's got it all wrong. But I'm not the type of fighter to gloat like that. He'll learn that right quick when I knock him out in the first minute. I've seen this guy fight before. Sloppy, slow, bad with his fake out, this will be one and done.

  The bell rings and we both work our way out to the middle. His hands are up by his face, and his head is tucked into his neck. He's bouncing on the tips of his toes, and it reminds me of the old boxing matches I used to watch with Dylan.

  Black and white film, featuring Muhammad Ali, Tunney Hunsaker, Don Warner. Dylan would set up his projector in the gym and we'd watch the fights as if they were happening live. Those were good memories, the kind that have stuck with me all these years.

  Forest hops around me, jabbing at my face, testing the waters. I dodge, keeping my eyes on him, just waiting for an opening. He'll give it to me, they all do.

  That was one thing Dylan taught me, patience. Patience is key to winning. I have one loss, and that one loss was only because I let myself get sucked into the game. I won't do that again.

  Forest smirks behind his gloves, kicking his leg out and throwing another jab at my head. Kick and jab, kick and jab, it's the only combo this guy seems to know.

  After about thirty seconds of this dance in the ring, I know his pattern and I'm ready to end the torture of his terrible moves.

  He kicks, I move, he jabs, I snatch his arm, twisting it as I sweep his feet out from under him and land him face down on the mat. He grunts as he hits hard, and I pretzel myself around him, forcing his face into the mat.

  Quickly, with precise movements, I slip my hands up his ribs and lock my hands behind his head, and legs around his waist.

  Forest is trapped. I hear the crowd cheering, and the ref is on his knees beside us, making sure neither of us do anyth
ing that isn't allowed. Forest is trying to free himself, but it isn't working.

  Digging my arms in harder, I put pressure around his head and neck, willing him to tap out because his air supply is about to diminish. His heels are slamming the mat, and his fingers are raking over my forearms, trying to find a weak spot.

  Then it's over. The ref slaps the mat, so I release Forest, and jump to my feet. He's gasping for air, rolling around on his back. The medics rush in to make sure he's okay, and the ref takes my hand, lifting it high into the air.

  My eyes meet Sylvia's and she gives me a faint smile. I smile back. That one little smile means everything to me because it isn't being pulled by one of Daniel's strings.

  The room is charged, the energy so thick I can feel the electricity as I move. Sylvia curls her hand around my bicep, and we leave the ring together. We don't speak, we simply move like a pair of worn shoes. Each one knows where to go, each one has its purpose, both reliant on the other, and unable to function without its match.

  I can't function without her. And I don't want to anymore.

  Those few weeks we spent together, playing make-believe, were the best of my life. I wasn't alone. I laughed because I wanted to. I smiled because it felt right. And I was happy because she made me that way.

  I need that back.

  We reach the locker room area in the back of the arena. There are reporters and journalists, agents and VIP ticket holders. Everyone wants to talk to me, but I really only want to hear one voice.

  Glancing to my side, I notice that Sylvia is gone. She's moved to a bench and is taking off her heels. From a small clutch, she pulls out a pair of thin flats and slips them on her feet.

  She spots me looking at her and smiles again. A bigger smile. A fuller smile. I want to go talk to her, but I'm suddenly swarmed by people.

  There are microphones in my face, people barking questions from every direction. I'm not doing this, not now. I know Daniel probably wants me to stand here and answer them like a good little worker bee, but I'm not going to.

  Pushing through, I stumble out the back side of the human circle. My eyes are on Sylvia. She's moved her attention to the chaos of the room. Her eyes dart around casually, feet kicking back and forth.

  Slipping my shirt over my head, I unwrap the tape on my hands and throw it in the trash by the wall. My eyes fall back on Sylvia. She looks so innocent and out of place here.

  She isn't taking questions or directing people away from the area. She's nothing like Daniel. I can see him off to my left, huge smile on his face as he parades himself through some of the media, talking about his greatness.

  I'll let him have this moment. There's someone more important that I want to talk to.

  Taking a step forward, a hand lands on my arm and it gives me a hard tug. Twisting to look down over my shoulder, there's two women at my side, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

  Wearing matching dresses, with gold and black vertical stripes, they don't look older than twenty. One blonde and one redhead are peering up at me, giggling and bouncing excitedly. Big hoop earrings hang from the girl with red hair, and long sparkly earrings dangle from the blonde.

  “You're Phade Manson,” the redhead says.

  “Yeah.” My gaze shifts between the girls and Sylvia. “That's me.”

  More giggles ensue as the two girls grab each other's arms and huddle together. “Congrats on the win,” the redhead says.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to be polite. “But, if you ladies will excuse me though, I need to—”

  “Need to what?” she asks, her eyes following mine to Sylvia. “That? Seriously?” Cocking her head hard into her shoulder, her lip curls as if she's disgusted. “No, no, you don't want that. You want us.”

  Forcing a fake smile, I'm trying to stay polite, trying to keep my composure and not just elbow this girl off my arm. “Thanks, but if you'll excuse me, I really need to go.”

  The blonde blocks me on my left, taking my other arm in her hand. The redhead is still holding my right arm, and I feel like they're trying to capture me.

  “Come on, look at us. You can have us both, wouldn't you like that? Two hot girls, not one, boring girl. Imagine what you can do with both of us.” The girls giggle again, glancing at each other, then back up at me. “Well, what'll it be, us or her.”

  Plucking my arms free, I use my hands to spread the two girls apart so I can step through them. “Her, definitely her.”

  Scoffing, the redhead drops a hand to her hip and snaps, “Excuse me, you're really going to pass on this. . .” She runs the tips of her fingers up and down her body. “For that?”

  The look on her face enrages me. She has no right to judge Sylvia, my Sylvia.

  “Look, I don't know the kind of men you're used to but let me tell you something. That woman has more class in her pinky finger than either of you have combined. I'll take her all day, every day, over both of you together.”

  “You have no idea what you're turning down.”

  Smiling, I walk up to Sylvia and take her by the hand. Curling my fingers around hers, I look in her eyes as I talk to the girls. “I know exactly what I'm turning down, and I know exactly what I'm saying yes to.”

  She's everything I've run away from, and everything I always ran toward all wrapped up in one. She's my air, my food, my water. I could eat her and never be full, I could drink her and never be quenched, I could breathe her in and never catch my breath.

  Sylvia's all I'll ever need. She's all I'll ever want.

  Without her, I'm no one.

  But with her, I'm someone.

  14

  Sylvia

  Warmth.

  That's what I feel as his fingers trap mine. I'm staring up at him, lost for words and full of feeling. My belly is full, tingling, fluttering with a million butterflies as his thumb runs circles over my wrist.

  It's not real. None of this is real.

  But it all feels so real; every kick of my heart and twist of my stomach, every goosebump and deep pulse in my veins. How can I feel what isn't real? It isn't making sense, but I don't have time to analyze any of it.

  Phade pulls me up from the bench, his eyes grazing my body from thigh to neck and back again. His glare is hungry and makes my heart careen around my ribs as if it's a caged bird. I half expect it to explode from my chest and fly off because it's beating so fast.

  Touching my chest, I can feel the beat like a drum.

  Thud thud.

  Thud thud.

  Thud thud.

  It's powerful. I can hear it pushing blood between my ears and drowning out the rest of the noise around me.

  The girls are standing with their jaws cocked to the side, appalled that he's choosing me over them. They whisper back and forth to each other, as waves of disgust from their expressions taunt me where I stand.

  “Sorry ladies, but I'm already spoken for,” Phade says as he walks me past the girls, his head held high, his back rigid and proud.

  What is he proud of?

  Is he proud of me? Is he proud that he's controlling himself and not going off with these girls?

  I look back, watching the women as Phade guides me away.

  The young women scoff and roll their eyes, folding crude arms over their chests, and leaning into each other. The red haired girl flips a hand in the air, grabbing her friend by the arm and pulling her in the opposite direction.

  “Let's go, he's not worth our time.” Shooting a hard look over her shoulder, our eyes connect and I see something in her gaze that actually makes me smile; envy.

  She wants what I have, and she isn't getting it.

  Phade walks with me hand in hand through the building. He stops briefly and grabs his duffel bag, throwing it over the other shoulder, but he never releases my hand. My heart skips, tumbling in my chest.

  The way he's holding my hand is speaking to me more than any words ever could. I don't need him to tell me what he's thinking or what he wants. I already know.

&
nbsp; We walk out of the building, and I'm just letting him guide me. I'll go where he wants me to go. I don't want him to let go of my hand, I want him to hold it forever.

  “Did you drive?” Phade asks, finally ending the silence between us.

  “No.” Shaking my head, I brush the hair away from my face and look up at him. “I drove with Daniel.”

  “Good.” Phade smiles and winks. “I'll take you home.”

  We cross the parking lot. It's chilly out, so I snuggle up a little closer to Phade. I can feel him looking down on me as I steal some of his body heat. He pulls me in more, tucking my body into his side.

  I hear the beep of an alarm and see the lights flash on a truck. It's not the type of vehicle I expect him to have. He isn't driving a fancy BMW or Ferrari, it's not a Range Rover worth a year of my salary.

  I've seen this vehicle in the parking lot of our building, but I always thought it belonged to one of the security guards or janitors.

  “This is you?” I ask.

  “Yeah, why? What's wrong with it?”

  “Nothing's wrong with it, it's just not what I expected. I thought you'd have a two door racecar or a big SUV or something.”

  “Surprise, you weren't even close.” Phade chuckles as he opens my door. “Let me help you in.” With on quick swoop, he lifts me off my feet and places me on the front bench seat.

  The truck is a beast. It's a faded army green Dodge Ram, with rust colored crescent moons over each of the fender walls. The entire body is pock marked in small dents, and the windshield has a thin crack that stretches out like a scratch on skin.

  The inside is worn. There are thin veins in the fabric of the bench seat, making it look like old skin. The dashboard has a tape deck and the roof liner is dipping down off the metal frame.

  Phade closes my door and walks around the truck, climbing into the driver's seat. He starts the truck and it roars to life, like a lion who has smoked his entire life. There's a cough and a hiccup, another cough, and then the engine is purring.