Just Fake It

by Pierce, Haley

  I shake my head. Though I am disappointed that he has to see me in this bikini that’s at least two sizes too small. I can tell he’s trying not to look as he strokes toward Justin, but I probably look like a beached blue whale. “It’s fine.”

  My speech is all stilted, because we haven’t talked at all, hardly. Him? He sounds so natural, like nothing is wrong.

  He stops in front of Brandon and says, “How are things going?”

  “Okay,” I say, at the same time Brandon says, “Watch what I learned!” and sucks in another mouthful of water.

  “The trick of swimming is actually keeping the water out of your body, kid,” he says, his voice relaxed and conversational. “Put your face in the water and do what I do.”

  I watch as he instructs Brandon. Brandon wags his head excitedly. “Like this?”

  And suddenly, miraculously, Brandon is doing just what I’d been trying to get him to do for the past hour. “Yes! Like that!” I shout, clapping my hands.

  After a few more lessons, Brandon has the hang of breathing underwater. When I pull him out of the pool and wrap him up in the towel, I say to Justin, “How did you do that?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. Just did.”

  “But I thought you don’t do kids.”

  “Turns out, it’s not so hard.”

  I’m about to thank him when June comes running out of the house, holding a cell phone in the air. “Justin! Justin!” she says, waving it furiously. “It’s them.”

  He looks down at me, water dripping off the edge of his nose, his jaw tensing. “Hell.”

  I can tell there’s something big about this phone call, but it only hits me as he’s walking to pick it up what it could be. The Golden Globes nominations were coming up. Is that today?

  I sit on a lounge chair and rub Brandon’s arms through the towel as Justin gets on the phone and brings it to his ear. His voice echoes across the backyard. “Yeah? . . . Yeah . . . Okay . . . Thanks.”

  He pulls the phone from his ear and ends the call.

  And then he whoops, so loud, I think neighboring states might be able to hear it.

  June claps her hands excitedly. “Best Picture? Or . . . ”

  He turns to her. “Best Picture, Drama. Best Screenplay.” Then he turns to me. “Best Director.”

  “Yes!” I shout, grabbing Brandon and giving him a big hug.

  I stand up and walk toward Justin as he finishes hugging June. When I’m close to him, I’m not sure what else to do, so I say, “Congratulations.”

  I might not be sure, but he is. He pulls me into his arms and hugs me, pressing his warm, naked, chiseled chest against mine. I tell myself that there’s nothing sexual about this, that he did the same thing to June. But I’m wearing a bikini, and his skin is hot and welcoming and every muscle of his is a work of art. My whole body reacts. My nipples harden at once. And he doesn’t let me go. He buries his face in my neck, his lips pressed into my skin. His big hands slip down the small of my back and suddenly I’m on fire. I want to wrap myself around him. Hold on and never let go.

  “Hope you’re ready for the Globes, Mrs. Avignon,” he murmurs into my ear. “Have you been practicing?”

  I nod. Every evening, I’ve been studying a little more of the binder. Molly Avignon’s life is almost committed to memory now. Though I’m not sure if I need to know all of that. After all, for the premiere, he and his photographic memory handled everything.

  He pulls away, and his eyes fall down to my cleavage, to the way my breasts are spilling out of the triangle cups of the bikini. He doesn’t hide that he’s looking at me, now.

  “Good,” he says. “Because you’re going to be put through a test tomorrow.”

  “What kind of test?”

  I’m thinking a dinner with some Tinsel Town bigwigs. After the premiere, I can handle that. I can handle any of those stuffed shirt Hollywood assholes now. After all, I’m Justin Avignon’s wife. I can handle anything.

  He grins. “Good Morning Los Angeles.”

  Except that. Except ten million people from the greater L.A. area, with their eyes on me. I freeze. “Are you kidding me?”

  “What? It’s tradition. They always come into the homes of the nominees and interview them the morning after to get their candid response to being nominated.”

  I gnash my teeth. “Okay. Your response, right? Not mine?”

  He shakes his head. “No, the whole family usually pitches in. So we should come up with a good story. One that shows how normal we are. How honored to be nominated.”

  “A story? What’s wrong with the truth? That you were out on the patio and got a call?”

  “That’s boring. We’re Hollywood. We can’t be boring.”

  “Oh.” That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. “Like what? We were out on the patio, juggling knives?”

  Just then, Minnie arrives to take Brandon to the zoo. I take him upstairs and get him changed, and when they leave, I come downstairs and find Justin just where I left him on the patio, this time, in a lounge chair. I’ve thrown an oversize shirt on, so I go outside with The Cocky Bastard Prince and sit down beside him with a glass of iced tea. “Hi,” I say, sitting beside him.

  He’s lying on his stomach. He squints one eye open and then gets up on his elbows. “Hi, you.”

  “So tell me everything. How was Sacramento?” I ask him, just to make conversation. “Is the movie coming along well?”

  He shrugs. “Not my favorite place. But we found a good location.” He rolls over and tilts his chin to the sun. “Want the name of the casting agent?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re exactly the kind of person I had in mind for the lead.”

  I raise an eyebrow, thinking of Steven Long. “The five-year old?”

  “The five-year old’s mother. They’re not going to start casting until April. So . . . once this is all over, I can put in a good word for you.” He shrugs. “If you want.”

  I think about what he’d said about me, and all those starlets in Hollywood sleeping their way to the top. I press my lips together. “Honestly? No thanks. I wasn’t asking about the movie because I was interested in an acting gig. Really. I was just making conversation.”

  Now both of his eyes are on me, surprised. “Have you had enough of me?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not that. It’s just . . . I’ve seen enough of Hollywood to know I don’t like this world. It may be you, but it isn’t me. When this is over, I think I’m going home.”

  “To Nebraska?”

  I nod. “I know. You think Nebraska is a bunch of country bumpkins. But we’re real, honest people, there. I miss that.”

  “You miss your guy back home?”

  “My high school sweetheart?” I laugh. “No. Not at all. He’s not even there, anymore, anyway. Went to Florida and married and has three kids, last I heard. I don’t even have a single person to go home to. My parents disowned me when I got pregnant with Brandon. But I just think it would be better to be there, than here.”

  “What made you decide that?”

  “It was you,” I say. “You’re right. Brandon can’t be everything to me. I need to have more. I do want more. But I don’t think I want it here. I want Brandon to grow up someplace real. With people who care and love and feel . . . and don’t just act that way.”

  His eyes trail down to my book. “You want romance.”

  Embarrassed, I hug it to my chest. But then I release it. Because what the hell. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a good, honest, capable, sincere, loving relationship. “I just want real. And I won’t be able to find it around here.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “You don’t think I’ve been real with you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. No. I’ve been living with you for nearly three weeks and I still don’t know what’s you, and what’s just a part of one of your images.”

  He stares at me for a long time. Then he grabs his phone and starts to type in a text. “Wh
at do you want? I’m having steak. Rare.”

  I look at him. “For what?”

  “Our celebration. I just got personally nominated for a shitload of Golden Globes. I deserve a fucking party,” he says, thumbing in some more.

  “But you promised me no parties while Brandon was—“

  “Fine. This’ll be a really small one. Everyone else has the night off. So just you. Me. All real and raw.”

  My pulse skitters. “Clothing optional?”

  He smirks. “I’ll let you wear clothes, as long as it’s that bikini. So what are you having?”

  I smile. “I guess I’ll have a steak, rare, too.”

  He grins at me. “All right. Steaks on the grill,” he says. “When? Brandon’s bedtime.”

  I know that look in his eyes. I know what it means. But I can’t resist. So that night, when I tuck Brandon into bed, I go downstairs, full of a nervous anticipation I’ve never had before.

  I step out on the patio. In the darkness, tiki torches blaze. There’s a table set for two, lit by a single candle. It’s romantic. Definitely romantic. What is he trying to do to me?

  I stand, hesitating in the doorway as I notice him, his strong back to me, something sizzling and smoking on the grill behind him. He closes the lid and turns to me, his eyes scraping over me, on fire in the light of the tiki torch.

  “I said you could wear the bikini.”

  I look down. I’m wearing a chambray shirt over my bikini as a cover-up. “I am.” But I know what he’s getting at. I can’t claim it’s cold out; with the torches going, it’s almost hot out here. “It’s too small.”

  He shakes his head slowly. “It’s just right. Believe me.” He comes up close to me, his eyes never leaving mine. I suck in a breath as his hands come between my breasts, easily working the small button open. He spreads the shirt open, his gaze lingering on my curves. “Better.”

  I slip it off and put it on the back of a lounge, feeling emboldened by the desire in his eyes. “I didn’t know you could cook,” I say, motioning to the steak.

  He hitches a shoulder. “I can do a lot of things. Throwing a bunch of meat on a grill is not exactly a talent.”

  He takes the steaks off the grill and ushers me to the table. As we sit down, I notice that music is playing. It’s Crash Into Me by The Dave Matthews Band. I love this song. He has wine and a salad. I’m not sure if it’s real, but it’s definitely making every nerve ending I have buzz.

  We talk about things I don’t think he’d tell any reporter. Like how he caught Jack Nicholson doing lines in the bathroom during his father’s funeral. How Meryl Streep never liked him and even called him an asshole to his face. How the only reason Joel watches over him is because he owes a debt to his father, who he served in the Vietnam war with.

  Meanwhile, I eat the most mouth-watering, delicious rare steak I’ve ever eaten.

  And yes, I can see how this is his ordinary, that he’s not even trying to impress me by throwing around the names. They’re just regular people in his life. “So how do you feel, when you see people you know personally in the news?”

  “Haven’t you ever seen a news story for something you’re close to and said, ‘They got that wrong’?”

  I nod. “Actually, yeah. Most of the time, the reporting on a story is always missing something.”

  “Right. Well, ninety-nine percent of the time, the news is wrong about celebs, too. They’re just reporting what’ll get the most people tuning in and talking. So you stop paying attention to it.” He shrugs. “I’m not half as interesting as they seem to think I am. And neither are most of the people in this town. But a lot of us subscribe to the thought that there is no such thing as bad publicity.”

  “Do you?”

  “I did, until the Oscar thing came about.”

  “Okay, so . . .Why are you doing this? With me. You’re already paying me. You don’t have to impress me. I’m already impressed by your movies and your house and everyone you know.”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” he says, his eyes glinting. “I want you to be impressed by me.”

  I lean forward and nearly drop my glass. “But why?”

  “Because you’re the only one who ever cared who that person was.”

  And there it is. So real. So sincere. I find myself blushing. I look away, at the crystal water of the pool, and I suddenly need a cooling down. I stand. “I want to swim.”

  Without waiting for his answer, I finish draining my glass, walk to the edge of the pool, and dive in.

  When I come up for air, I barely manage to blink the water out of my eyes before I hear the splash and see him swimming toward me.

  He surfaces in front of me, in waist-deep water, his body all dark, glistening muscle. Under the water, his massive cock is already hardening underneath his swim trunks. We stand there, inches from each other but not touching, something hot and needful pulsing between us. The water droplets drip lazily down his beautiful face, his hard chest, mesmerizing me. Before I can swim away, though, his hands reach out to scoop me toward him, and he crushes his mouth onto mine.

  I gasp against his mouth in surprise, but that doesn’t stop him. Oh, no, it’s spoiled Justin, and he gets whatever he wants. He kisses me deeper, harder, his hand reaching up, tugging my hair free of my ponytail. I surrender, my knees going weak. I sway against him but he holds me firm, guiding me to the edge of the pool. I slide my tongue into his mouth to taste him.

  He growls, pressing against me, all hard muscle and searching hands. It’s too much, and not enough. My mind spin and my body tingles with a drunken giddiness as his hands encircle my bare waist. Big and hot on my damp skin, I lean into his touch, groaning aloud as they found my breasts, kneading them, rubbing a thumb over each peaked nipple.

  Then he reaches behind my neck and pulls at the string of my bikini, letting my breasts free.

  “Wait, Justin,” I protest weakly.

  He grips my head between his hands and presses his forehead against mine. He kisses my nose. “You want to wait,” he murmurs, more of a statement than a question.

  I know that if I say yes, he will step away. I’m also afraid that he will.

  I don’t want to wait. I shake my head, tilt my chin up, and kiss him with everything I have. Kiss him breathless. Kiss him deeper than I thought possible.

  He tugs the material down and tears his lips from my mouth with a deep, ragged breath, licking his way down my throat. He hefts the weight of my breasts in his hands and lifts them up, out of the water, to kiss them. I cling to him, desperate, twining my fingers through his thick hair as his mouth descends lower on my body, dragging his hot tongue over my skin. He lifts one breast in his hand and sucks the already-hard nipple into his mouth. His tongue is so slick and sweet on my skin that I gasp aloud, falling deeper and deeper under his spell. I arch up against him, offering more of myself to him.

  “Justin,” I say, my voice weak and desperate, as I reach for the waistband of his swim trunks. “I know I want this. Want you. To fuck me.”

  He grabs both of my wrists suddenly and gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No. That’s because you think that’s all there is.”

  I blink, confused. “Don’t you . . .”

  He nods. He’s holding my wrists. “Yeah. More than you can know. But give me a minute, okay? Let me show you something.”

  A minute. To show me something.

  I almost laugh at it. He sure thinks a lot of himself, if he thinks he can make me come when I’ve never done that before in my life. But the way he’s looking at me, the way his body feels against mine, the way my body’s been responding to him the way it never has before. . . I know it’s entirely possible.

  “You think you can make me come?” I ask, feeling breathless and dizzy and giddy.

  He shakes his head. “I know I can. Not just once. You’re going to come so much you won’t be able to stand tomorrow. You’re going to be screaming my name so loud that all of Hollywood’s gonna hear i
t. Okay?”

  He says it like both a threat and a promise. Goosebumps pop up everywhere on my body.

  Because now, like I know my own name . . . I know he can do it, too.

  “Come here,” he growls, his hands squeezing the globes of my ass, squeezing them. He grips my ass tight and easily lifts me off the ground, out of the water, guiding my legs around his waist so that I can feel his erection through the two layers of clothing separating us—his swim shorts, and my bikini bottoms. I cling to him for dear life, molding myself against him as he lifts me up, onto the edge of the pool.

  He reaches around my back, untying the string behind my back, and slips my top off, gazing at me with hungry eyes, scraping his teeth over his lip. He tweaks the nipples to diamond points and shakes his head in appreciation. “You’re a goddess, Lee.”

  Something comes over me at that moment. I’m not worthy of the way he’s looking at me. Me and my not-so-perfect body with my C-section scar and un-Hollywood ways . . . how can I think that? Every pore in my body is screaming for him to just let me go, but my head is suddenly second-guessing. I need to quiet it down.

  I try to scoot away, turning onto my knees. “I just need some more w—“

  I’m struck speechless when I hear the splash of him raising himself out of the water, and feel his arms enveloping my lower half, holding me in place, urging me to stay there. I sink onto my elbows when I feel his mouth, sinking into the flesh of my ass. “Oh, god.”

  “Shhh,” he warns, his wet, hot mouth trailing over my backside until he comes to the string of the bikini at my hip. He takes the end of the string between his teeth and easily loosens it. Now he’s on his knees behind me, part out of the water, kissing and kneading my ass as I feel the cool blast of air on my pussy. He easily works off the other tie and casts the bikini aside, leaving me naked, on my elbows and knees. Exposed, and yet, I can’t move. I desperately want whatever he has planned.

  His hands encircle the globes of my ass, spreading them apart. I can feel the weight of his stare on my most private parts, hear his heavy breathing. When he leans forward I feel his heat, and the brush of his chest hair on the backs of my thighs. Spreading me apart with one hand, he slides his other hand between the cheeks of my ass, over the pucker of my asshole. I groan. “What are you . . . I’ve never . . . ”