Just Fake It

by Pierce, Haley

  Then I turn and hug Otto. He smiles. “I’ve been called many things, but a god is a new one. I’ll take it, sweetie. I’ll take it.”

  The team begins to pack up their things as I stare at my reflection, getting lost in myself until they have to tear the mirror away. With a wave, they all disappear, leaving me in a very quiet house. And for the first time in forever—I wish I had somewhere to go. To show myself off, instead of hiding behind the television in my ponytail and frumpy sweats.

  June wanders in as I’m posing in front of my reflection in the sliding glass door. “Well, look at you,” she says, winking at me. “They finally finished, huh? You look utterly perfect. Just like the picture in the binder.”

  I smile. “I know. I can hardly believe it.”

  Her smile fades, and I can tell there’s something troubling her. Finally, she says, “I think you looked just beautiful, before, though.”

  “Aw, thanks.” Liar, I think. I sit on one of the stools in the kitchen and flip my hair, something I’ve only started doing since it got so flowy and bouncy. “Well. You know. I have to be the perfect Hollywood wife. Right?”

  “I suppose. That’s what the image consultants say. You need to be the wife that fits into their mold,” she says, reaching for a watering can on the counter. She fills it with water and turns to me. “But if you ask me, Justin is who he is because he’s been fitting into that mold for far too long. He needs a woman to break that mold. To show him what else is out there. I think that would help him, more than any image consultant could.”

  I watch as she flutters out of the room, watering the ferns around the place that only she cares for and Justin probably doesn’t even notice. She’s right. The last thing Justin needs is to be more Hollywood. He could use a healthy dose of reality.

  But I’m not the person to give that to him. I’m just his fake wife. This is just a business arrangement, and he’s far from the type of man I need to get romantically involved with, right now.

  Oh, god. That’s the last thing I need.

  “Holy shit.”

  I spin on the stool to face Justin. He’s wearing an open baseball shirt that bares that perfect tan chest of his, jeans, and a backwards baseball cap, which makes him look a little like a thug. Still, a hot thug. Very hot. He’s looking at me like he just saw a ghost. “Beverly?”

  I give him my sexiest smile. “You can call me Molly Avignon.”

  He looks confused for a second. “Lee.”

  I shrug. “That works, too.”

  He moves closer, into the room, all the while, taking me in. “Holy fuck, you look good. Where’d you get them tits?”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “Justin,” I say in a warning tone. “Have you been studying your binder?”

  He gives me a look like, What binder? But then I see it dawn on him. “I’ll get to it.” He goes to the fridge and nearly misses the door when he’s grabbing for the handle, on account of the fact that he can’t peel his eyes from my breasts. “Right now, I just want to study you.”

  Okay, Mr. Cheesy Line. I cross my arms over my chest, since he’s definitely a breast man. But he’s obviously an ass man, too, from the way he’d been admiring my butt the other night. Probably an equal-opportunity admirer.

  Wow. Is that drool in the corner of his mouth?

  I have to admit, I kind of like this. This power I suddenly have over him. Not so plain and innocent anymore, am I?

  He opens the fridge and reaches inside, pulling out some fancy craft beer. I watch him root around for a bottle opener, and when he finds one, say, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He looks down at the beer. “Right. Fuck.” He makes like he’s going to toss the opener across the room and then says, “Come on. Just one? I need something to put out this fire. Unless you want to put your hands on me?”

  I shake my head slowly. “Nice try.” Then I go to the fridge and pull out a gallon of milk. “It does a body good.”

  He grabs a glass and pours himself some, then downs it in one long, thirsty gulp. His eyes trail over me again. “Didn’t work. I’m still hot for you.”

  “I’m going to bed,” I tell him with a wave, starting to walk toward the staircase.

  “Take me with you?” he calls after me.

  I stop and grin at him. “Nope.”

  He’s looking at me, a desire in his eyes that could melt the clothes clear off my body. I’m glad I’m not drinking because the way I feel now, I’d probably do something I regret. But still, teasing him is just too fun, and I’m not ready to go to bed yet. Plus, I think the way he’s looking at me, I could get him to agree to anything. So I sidle over to him and say, “Tell me. That train set you have outside?”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “Can Brandon take a ride?”

  He pours himself another glass. “That one? Was one of the first trains made from the plans of the Carolwood Pacific Railroad, the trains Walt Disney ever had on his estate. Some of the track is from Walt Disney’s estate. It’s kind of priceless. I don’t even know if it works.”

  “You don’t seem like the type to collect antiques,” I say.

  He nods. “Right. But my dad was. That’s my dad’s. He was a railfan. I don’t let anyone touch his cars or that train.”

  “Oh.” That probably means no. Brandon will be sad, but he’ll get over it. I sit down on the stool again. “So what’s this event we’re going to on Friday?”

  His face falls and he lets out a grunt. “Just more Hollywood fuckery. North American Premiere of The Last Door on the Right.”

  My jaw drops. Wait. The premiere of his epic? The one all the press and stars go to, where they make a big deal and have a red carpet and all that? That North American Premiere? And I get to see it? Next to the director? As his wife? Just the part about going to a premiere of a film, any premiere, is enough to get me excited. But this?

  Holy hell. What am I going to wear? What am I going to say?

  What am I going to do to insure I don’t puke all over the director?

  I need to get over to my binder and commit every last bit of it to memory. Stat. And I’ve got to get Ava on the horn and tell her this. She’d flip.

  “Wait. You don’t like premieres?” I ask, confused.

  “Premieres of my own movies? No. Hell no. I’ll be sitting there seeing everything I could’ve done differently. It’s like sitting through surgery while you’re wide awake, without a painkiller.”

  “Oh. Really? I thought you’d be excited to show it off to every—“

  He shakes his head. His palms are flat on the center island, his knuckles white. “Nope. This is my ninth movie. It doesn’t get any better. Trust me. And this one? This one is worst of all. Because there’s been so much buzz about it. There’s a shitload riding on it.”

  It strikes me just then how much this statue must mean to him. Especially since I’m not sure he cares about anything else in the world, besides himself.

  “Well,” I say, giving him my most confident smile. “I won’t let you down.”

  “If you climbed into be with me tonight, I wouldn’t let you up.” He smirks.

  I roll my eyes and slide off the stool. “I’m definitely going to bed. My own bed.”

  “We’d have fun,” he calls after me, teasing. Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to tamp down the temptation rising inside me. “If you want to study how to be my wife, I don’t think there’s a better way!”

  Yeah, right.

  “My door’s always open. My bed warm. My cock hard . . .” He keeps calling this stuff to me as I climb the stairs.

  I don’t stop until I’ve climbed the stairs and am safely put away, in my bedroom. I change into my camisole and boxers, scrub off the make-up, and slip into the bed, then open the binder and prepare to commit to memory everything I need to know to be his wife.

  But all my mind keeps wandering back to is what it would be like, in bed, with him. His mouth on mine. His hands, working their way up my body. That monster cock,
between my legs, slowly easing its way inside me.

  I throw myself back on the pillow and sigh. He’s an asshole. A Class One, Pure Bred, Top-to-Bottom Asshole, with an alcohol problem and a sex addiction to boot. What I need right now is money, and to make a good life for my son. Nothing else.

  There is nothing about climbing into bed with Justin Avignon that could possibly be good for me. Nothing. Why can’t I get that through my head?

  Chapter 9

  The next day, I wake up, determined to take the job seriously and not let my stupid heart or my sexy parts make decisions for me. When I look at my phone, I have another text from Ava: Are you alive?

  I put in a call to her, but she doesn’t answer, which reminds me that she’s probably in class. So I text, Fine. I’m working a job but it’s top secret! You’re gonna blow your top when you hear! I’ll tell you about it this weekend.

  I spend the morning with Brandon, letting him show me all the treasures of the estate that he’d uncovered while walking with Minnie. The place is huge. Not only does Justin have the garden railroad, he also has a massive pool with waterslide, waterfall, and 20-person Jacuzzi, tennis courts, a giant pond stocked with trout for fishing, a romantic, walled in garden like something out of The Secret Garden, and a giant gazebo greenhouse. It’s a fucking wonderland, but I get the feeling that Justin doesn’t use half of this stuff.

  We go to a giant garage, where there are no fewer than twenty antique sports cars parked, and meanwhile I’m thinking of what Justin said, about his father being a car enthusiast, and owning the garden railroad out back. That’s when it suddenly hits me.

  This is where Justin grew up. All of this isn’t just his. It belonged to his parents. I’d thought he bought this place because he wanted the hugest, most costly and ostentatious home he could find, even if he knew he wouldn’t use half of the things here. But no. It feels a little better, knowing that he was sentimental. That he kept this place, because it brings him closer to his family.

  I stop in front of the old car from the picture, the one Justin said his father used to sit and smoke cigars in. His favorite toy. I try to imagine what it must be like, having famous family members and get-togethers with famous people all the time. I guess if my regular day-to-day was so fabulous, normal life would be dull, and reality would be a whole lot harder to grasp.

  And somehow, I feel like I know him a whole lot better. Like I might just have seen a glimpse of the real Justin Avignon, he tries so hard to hide.

  When I settle Brandon in for his nap after lunch and Minnie arrives to watch over him for the rest of the day, I go onto the patio overlooking the huge swimming pool and start to study the binder with a vengeance. About an hour later, June brings me out a plate full of cookies and a pitcher of iced tea.

  I look up at her, amazed. “Thanks. I’m not used to being spoiled like this,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “Well, I suppose Mrs. Avignon should be spoiled, if she’s going to be anything like her husband.”

  I have my feet up on one of the other chairs, sitting under the umbrella, the crushing weight of the binder on my knees. It may be hot out, but there’s a nice breeze blowing. “I don’t know about that. I think you’re right. I think he would benefit from not getting everything he wants on a silver platter. In fact, I think he wants that. But he doesn’t even know what normal is like. And all he has to do is get moody, or flash those dimples, and people come running.”

  She laughs. “He does have irresistible dimples. But he hasn’t always been this moody. I think it’s because he’s finally come in contact with a challenge he can’t overcome with those dimples of his. I guess you’ll see tomorrow. Are you ready for the premiere?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

  She says, “Oh. You’ll do fine. Plus, the premieres are always so much fun.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You go to them?”

  She nods. “The world may think he’s rough around the edges, crass, and all ego. And I can’t deny that sometimes he is all about himself. But Justin still takes very good care of his people. He always invites all of us to his premieres. Gets us dolled up. Sends us in a limo. He’s a generous employer.”

  That surprises me, while at the same time, relaxing me. It’ll be good to have a friendly face there. “Well, I guess I’ll see you there, then?”

  She nods. “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Your clothes arrived this morning. I had them put in your bedroom. Justin was adamant about the gown he wanted you to wear. He picked it out himself. It’s hanging on the door, so you should try it on and make sure it fits tonight. Just in case.”

  My pulse skitters. He picked out a gown for me? I think of the video I saw from two years ago, him with the mostly-naked porn stars at the Academy Awards. I sincerely hope this gown adequately covers all of my assets.

  I try to study a little more after June leaves, but curiosity gets the best of me. I have to see what dress Justin Avignon wants his wife to wear. I pull the binder off my legs and notice it’s left an imprint on the pale, doughy flesh of my thighs.

  As I’m grimacing at them, the screen door slides open, and Justin appears.

  I haven’t seen him since last night, since he asked me to “study” being his wife in bed with him. He’d been joking about that, I think. At least, I’d convinced myself of that. Even so, I’d done my best this morning to brush out my hair and do my make-up in the way the stylists had shown me. And I can’t say I’d put in the effort for anyone else but him.

  I’m such a loser.

  Now, he’s bare chested and barefoot, wearing nothing but swim trunks and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. As usual, he looks amazing, and though he’s carrying his binder and not talking about sex at all, I can’t stop thinking of that massive cock of his.

  As he nears me, I grab my own binder back and slip it onto my thighs so he won’t see the doughy, misshapen pile of flesh there. He pulls out the chair I’d previously had my feet on and sits down, close to me.

  “Hey,” he says, leaning back so that his face is in the sun. “Studying for tomorrow?”

  I nod and open up my binder. “Ye-es. Um,” I say, wishing my face wouldn’t heat every time he came near. “Did you really pick me out a gown for tonight?”

  He nods, studying my horrified expression. “What? You don’t think I have any taste?”

  “No. I don’t trust you to keep under cover all of the body parts I’d like to keep off display.”

  “Honey,” he says, ripping off his sunglasses and fixing that deadly gaze on me. “If we went by that, you’d probably only be satisfied by a nun’s habit.”

  I scowl at him. “If I want to keep away from your roving eyes, that’s how I have to dress.”

  His eyes had been drifting to my breasts, but he raises them up, a fire in them. “Tell me you don’t like me looking at you that way, and I’ll stop.”

  I open my mouth to say that I don’t, but I can’t get the words out. Because truthfully, last night? My every pore responded to the dirty things he said. I kind of love being adored and wanted by him. Even if he is a major pain in my ass.

  “Thought so,” he says proudly, pushing away from the table and standing up. Setting his sunglasses down on the table, he turns toward the pool, stretching, giving me a perfect, drool-producing view of the sold muscles of his back, the tanned slope of his lower back, giving rise to that hard ass. I lick my lips as I study his muscular thighs and calves. God, he even has pretty feet.

  Suddenly he turns back to me. “Want to swim?”

  I fight the urge to wipe at my mouth, but I’m pretty sure I’m drooling. “Um. No. I don’t have a bathing suit.”

  “You do now. I made sure my people delivered some bathing suits for you.”

  I eye him skeptically. “Bikinis?”

  He grins. “Is there any other kind for a beautiful woman like yourself to wear?”

  Beautiful? Oh, my god. What happened to plain? I do my best to calm the reddening of my
cheeks. “I’m a mother, Justin. I kind of. . . have a pooch I haven’t been able to get rid of. In my belly.”

  “Nothing sexier than that,” he says, striding toward the edge of the pool.

  Really? Does he mean that? “I thought men like you didn’t settle for anything but perfection.”

  He snorts. “No such thing. Come on, I’ll wait for you.”

  I shake my head. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.” He walks toward the pool and swan dives in effortlessly. I do my best not to watch, but my eyes keep drifting up to him. He’s doing laps. A flawless breast-stroke. Then butterfly. Backstroke. Freestyle. And he said he didn’t like to swim? Damn asshole. I hate those people who are good at everything, even the things they don’t like to do.

  When he climbs out, he strides over to me, dripping with water. He doesn’t bother to look for a towel. He just slips onto one of the lounges and lies there, facing the sun. And the sun clearly adores him, amplifying his tan and the curve of each beautiful muscle. I’m drooling again.

  “We should go out,” he says suddenly. “Tonight. To practice. So we’re comfortable with each other.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’d have to be after Brandon goes to sleep. I don’t want him seeing it and getting confused.”

  “We’ll go somewhere private. Test out what we learned in the binders. Come on.”

  “Have you even looked in the binder since you got it?” I ask him, doubtful.

  He’s not looking at me. His face is tilted up to the sun, eyes closed. “Yep. I’ve got a photographic memory.” He taps his temple. “It’s all in here.”

  Really? He seems so confident. Okay, I knew he was a genius when it came to filmmaking. I didn’t know he was brilliant in other ways, too.

  “Oh.” I think I could pretend. I know how to act for an audience. But I’m not sure I’m ready to be alone with him. Maybe I’ll never be ready for that. I formulate some half-baked excuse in my head about wanting to be there for Brandon. “But—“