Substitute Boyfriend

by Jade C. Jamison

  I sat there at my desk, damn near eight o’clock, and questioned myself. Had I written this scene to culminate in ravenous lovemaking simply because I had a Ridley flame burning in my girl parts that I needed him to quench?

  Yep, probably, and realizing that didn’t bother me one damn bit.

  * * *

  She looks at herself one last time in the mirror. Yeah. She looks damn good. Her dark brown hair is pulled up and off her neck, and she imagines Ridley’s lips on the tender flesh there. That skin might be exposed and vulnerable, but she knows she can trust him to treat her right.

  She’s wearing a dress she hasn’t worn in years, because it has always felt a little too sexy for her, but it’s perfect for tonight—bright scarlet, ending just above her knee. It’s made of a satiny fabric, and it hugs her every curve. She doesn’t usually wear things like that because they draw a lot of attention…but tonight, attention is exactly what she wants. She feels like Ridley doesn’t fully appreciate her and all she has to offer, and maybe if he sees her as he never has before, he will know he doesn’t want to let this amazing woman slip through his fingers.

  But when she calls, he doesn’t answer his phone. That makes her a little miffed. She texts him too and nothing. Not a goddamned thing. So she does what any sensible woman would do. She decides to go to the bar where they’d met several months earlier. She needs a drink or two to unwind and, maybe after she’s nice and relaxed, she can call Ridley again and see if he’s around and wants some company.

  They don’t even have to do it the way the characters need to in the book. They can improvise. She’s sure he’ll like that for a change.

  She takes a cab downtown, because she knows she wants a couple of hard drinks. No way should she try driving after that.

  Yes, but she knows the real reason she’s going to “their” bar is because she’s hoping to run into Ridley, and the real reason she doesn’t drive is because she wants to go home with him…but she has her cover story firmly in place. She’s been hurt by a few guys in the past, a lot of times because she’d laid it all out there and been vulnerable and they’d hurt her after she’d exposed herself like that. She doesn’t want to do that again. Thus, the cover story. She can tell him she’s conducting research for her book, that she needs a new bar experience to do that, and how convenient that he just so happens to be there.

  Only she has no fucking idea where Ridley is. It’s wishful thinking on her part, hoping he’ll be there.

  Her intuition must know, though, because as her eyes adjust to the cavernous place and she makes her way over to the bar proper, she sees that son of a bitch chatting with a blonde at the bar, his arm draped over her shoulders, whispering in her ear.

  She can feel the adrenaline course through her body as her hands start to shake. Her jaw is tense. Two breaths—that’s it. Then she storms over to the bar and sits in the stool next to him. The middle school kid in her wants to start screaming at him and pulling on the other woman’s hair, but she isn’t going to do that…especially since she’s sober and has no excuse.

  Ridley is rapt in the tramp whose ear he’s whispering in, but Beth orders a drink…and he still hasn’t looked over. She isn’t shaking anymore but she feels like she’s going to vomit when she taps on his shoulder.

  * * *

  Okay, no, that’s not how it happened. My writer’s mind was bound and determined to make it dramatic. Truth is I did call and then text Ridley and then he called me back. “Dammit, woman. I am in the middle of something. I can’t come over right now.”

  So I was miffed.

  No, I’d been scorned.

  “Maybe later?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  So that was the first time Ridley had told me no flat out, and I was already dressed and ready to go. I think he could hear the disappointment in my voice. “I’m sorry, honey, but I already have plans. I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay?”

  I know he could hear the pout in my voice, and I just didn’t care. There wasn’t much I could do about that, but I relented. What else could I do? But there was no way I was going to waste the effort I’d put into making myself look pretty—and maybe even sexy. I wasn’t going to sit down at the computer and struggle to write after all that work. I’d been thinking about Ridley and wanted to have sex with him without a goal or end product. And I’d been hoping he would have liked that too…but there was no way I was going to stay home and sulk. I wasn’t going to waste that dress, the makeup, the updo. No way. So I said something to let him know I’d live, but I wasn’t thrilled about it. I’d have a drink or two, have a few admiring eyes on me making me feel good about myself, and then I’d come home and write. Besides, I never knew what could fuel my writing. Sometimes just something someone said or did, or the way they looked, or the quality of the air—I never knew what I would use in a book that started out as part of real life, but I wouldn’t get those experiences sitting at home, no matter what I did.

  So maybe, in the back of my mind, I went to our bar because I had good memories of Ridley, but this writer knows herself. She just doesn’t like to admit it out loud. I went there hoping to find him. I wasn’t a fucking idiot. I knew Ridley would have preferred calling the shots in our relationship, and if he would have come around other times, I wouldn’t have turned him down, but I did know that, much as he liked the sex, he felt like a dog on a chain. I didn’t know what else to do about that, especially since I’d mentioned on more than one occasion that I’d be quite happy to spend other time together. I often got the feeling he wasn’t interested in going there.

  But I knew that bar was a favorite hangout of Ridley’s. After all, that’s where he and I had met. I wondered if I’d find him by himself, nursing a beer, watching ESPN or whatever bullshit the bar would have playing on one of their big screens, or if I’d find him with some of his buddies, maybe shooting some pool.

  I never suspected—although I suppose I should have—but I never suspected I’d find him cheating.

  Okay, so maybe cheating is too strong a word, because we weren’t officially dating.

  And maybe he was just flirting, but he was awfully close and snuggly up to that blonde at the bar. His lips were in her hair next to her ear as he said something to her. Yeah, it wasn’t the best-lit building on the block, but I could see enough. The bar was backlit and allowed me to see that there was hardly any light coming through the gap between their bodies.

  I felt that huge, green monster welling up inside me, but I felt like everything I saw changed to a red hue as my insides filled with rage. The entire bar seemed to reflect the color of my dress.

  I knew then that I was far too emotional, so I took several deep breaths. What was really strange? It was like there were no other people in the bar. All I could see were Ridley and that woman, and everything was going in slow motion. Once my heart rate was closer to normal, I started walking toward the bar. I sensed a guy to my right approaching me, but I didn’t even turn my head. I couldn’t be distracted, not when my pretend boyfriend was considering cheating on me.

  I kept it together, though. I sat next to him on his left side, but his body was turned to the right, all his attention on the blonde. I couldn’t think if I wanted to simply sit there and see if he’d even notice me or if I wanted to tap him on the shoulder. The bartender fetched me a shot of whiskey, and I downed it and still no notice from Ridley. Nothing.

  One more shot, and then I found a little courage.

  The little devil on my shoulder made me consider texting him and telling him to look to his left. But that would be stupid, and there’d be no guarantee he’d check his phone before checking out.

  And, for some reason, I needed to be acknowledged. So I took a deep breath and tapped on his shoulder. I didn’t want to see him, my man, kiss her so I had to do what I was going to do and leave.

  He didn’t turn at first.

  Then, apparently, he told the blonde something like “Just a minute” o
r “Hold on; I have a gnat to attend to,” because he did turn. He didn’t even look surprised to see me. I think that’s what hurt the most—that he didn’t even seem to give a shit. His voice was calm, too. Not raised at all, and that told me just as much as well. If he’d cared about me at all, he would have been emotional…right?

  “Liz, what are you doing here?”

  Yeah, and add to it that he never got the clue that I preferred to be called Beth by my friends. Maybe that should have been my first clue. Guess I had it coming. “I needed a drink. But I think the better question is what are you doing here?”

  He blinked once and his eyes changed. No, he wasn’t angry. He was looking at me as though I were a poor, mentally challenged stranger he’d stumbled upon by happenstance. “I told you I had plans, didn’t I?”

  Well, yeah, okay…technically, he had. Yes, he had said that, those exact words, in fact, but somehow that hadn’t translated into picking up some other woman.

  Oh, no. Was I letting the disappointment and the hurt cloud my face? Could he see it? Oh, God, I was going to need lots more to drink.

  First, though, I had to find a way out of this. What I wanted to do was tell him he was a lying, cheating, scumbag motherfucker. The problem with that, though, was that we had never said we were in a committed relationship. Even had I thought that maybe I wanted Ridley around to be more than as just a pretend boyfriend, we hadn’t taken that step.

  Hell, we weren’t even fuck buddies.

  I would call him when I needed him around, and he’d be there soon after.

  Maybe he was feeling used and abused and wanted something more too.

  Oh, no. Wait a minute. I wasn’t going to turn the tables around on myself. I had suggested it a couple of times, and Ridley had blown me off, and I’d settled back down, knowing he was right. We weren’t right for each other, not by any measuring stick. Still…he could have made that clear, couldn’t he?

  The other reason I wasn’t going to make a scene—aside from still having my wits about me; I hadn’t consumed nearly enough alcohol for that—was that I was a college professor, and lots of people in my town knew that. I couldn’t get away with being a crazy woman. I was expected to be dignified.

  Ha.

  That still wouldn’t stop me from doing what I felt like I needed to do. My face was already condensed into an angry ball of fire, and there was no stopping it. My finger was already poking his chest. How that had happened before my brain had fully engaged, I have no idea. But there I was, getting ready to read him the riot act. “Plans, huh? Woman plans? Would have been nice if you’d decided to share them with me, pal.”

  His eyes lit up. “Seriously? Threesome?”

  I scoffed. What a fucking idiot. “You pig.” I stood up, wishing I had something clever to say. I knew how that would work—my writer’s brain would think of the perfect line later on, something I’d use in a book someday.

  He shook his head. “Honey, you know I like a little kink, but what was it you said? You’re vanilla. And your readers expect vanilla from you, right?”

  Ah…there it was. Oh, thank you, my sweet muse, for infusing my brain with something perfect just in the fucking nick of time. I wanted to verbally emasculate him, but that wasn’t going to happen, so at least I could march out of there with my dignity intact. “Sweetheart, I might be vanilla, but I’m a goddamned hot vanilla latte with whipped cream. And I have the right to refuse you service.”

  Okay, maybe not as clever as I’d thought at the time, but it was enough to propel me out the door, into the cool evening where I walked down the block and let the heat of early summer dry the tears on my cheeks.

  Chapter Five

  I GAVE THE cab driver twenty bucks—enough for the ride plus a tip—and I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Damn, it was hot for an early summer night. It should have been cooler this time of evening, so I figured we were in for a scorcher this year. The cab had been air conditioned, though, and soon enough I’d be inside.

  I walked toward Roman’s apartment on the ground floor. I’d called him after I had my wits about me, but he could tell something was wrong. I’d told him I needed a friend to drink with and I’d been fortunate. He didn’t have plans. He was reading one of the textbooks he’d be using to teach Abnormal Psych beginning Monday, but it was just a brush up, he said. He didn’t really need to go through it again, had just wanted to be prepared.

  Yeah, I knew that feeling. Sometimes I felt like a fraud teaching my classes, interpreting literature. Some of the loftier ideas didn’t always work for me. I wasn’t a pedantic, know-it-all professor like a lot of the academics I knew. Sure, I was considered a scholar and a hell of a researcher (and writer too, but little did they know about my secret life as Eliza Brennan) by my colleagues, but most of the time, I felt like a fake. I knew what was expected, and I could wear that mask, but it really wasn’t who I was at the heart of me. I was smart, sure, but I didn’t think of myself as being in the same league as many of my peers. My place in academia often felt like a sham to me…and I think that’s why Roman was my best friend ever. He was an academic, sure, and smart as hell. The guy was a genius, especially when you started talking psychology, but he was also down to earth and not afraid to be himself. I admired that. And the fact that his interests were akin to mine helped immensely.

  Honestly, Roman was the guy who didn’t have to prepare for class, but he did anyway.

  That’s why I didn’t feel bad about coming over for a couple of drinks. He could probably stand some loosening up. A guy like Roman? He should have been out with someone that night. I also knew a bit of a darker side of the guy too, though, and that was that he sometimes was (and he’d admitted this aloud) a bit of a misanthrope. He got along so well with people, but he hated most of them. I think it was his psychology background. Unbeknownst to most of us, Roman had psychoanalyzed us in the first ten minutes of meeting him, and he was all about motivations. What motivates us to do what we do? Why the hell did we do all the dumb ass things we did? So he seemed to know the intent behind the move every person made. It was amazing.

  Maybe that too was part of why we got along so well. He knew I was, in my heart, a good person who genuinely liked him. I wasn’t someone who saw him as a path to something else, something he’d accused others of.

  I reached his door, grateful I would have my friend to myself. I just wanted a few drinks, and I knew—like always—that Roman and I would start talking about something and hours would elapse and I would feel so much better. I’d asked him what he wanted to drink, because I was going to swing by the liquor store on the way over, but he said he had plenty of stuff. “Hard liquor?” I’d asked.

  “Whatever you want.”

  Hmm. He and I hadn’t done any drinking together. In spite of the fact that Ridley and I had met at a bar, I wasn’t much of a drinker period. I’d gone through a phase while working on my bachelor’s degree, but I’d been younger and more resilient. Nowadays, I experienced fewer hangovers but also didn’t want to party as much as I had in my younger days.

  Part of the reason? Well…I had my own secret little world, a world full of lively people, ones whose lives were literally in my hands—or fingers, as it were. Those people consumed my nights and days, and the past year, I hadn’t done much else other than work. Ridley had helped fuel that, because he was like a physical manifestation of the world that now absorbed every moment outside of teaching and the activities around those duties.

  Roman was at the door seconds after I rang the bell. “So what the hell is up with you, Beth?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  He shrugged as he stepped aside for me to walk through. “Fair enough.” He closed the door and said, “Come with me to the kitchen. I have a plethora of beverages for your perusal.”

  I started laughing. “Hold on. Mind if I take these shoes off first?” I was wearing three-inch red heels, shoes I’d only ever worn once before, and that was when I
first bought them. Yes, they were with a character in mind. They definitely weren’t me.

  “Yeah, they’re making you pretty tall.” Roman was probably about six foot three, but I felt really tall in those heels, and I didn’t have to tilt my neck as much to talk to him. That was the cool part, but they were killing my feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed like that. What’s up?”

  I laughed. “Seriously, it’s a long story.”

  “That you don’t want to talk about. Yeah, I got you, Slade, but you will tell me before the night’s over.” Damn psychology prof.

  I set my shoes by the door and let out a sigh. Much better. I grinned at Roman and walked over to him as he began leading me once more toward the kitchen. “You seem pretty confident about that.”

  “Damn straight. And you know I’m always right.”

  I didn’t know that…but I was pretty sure it was true.

  * * *

  Oh, wow. Yeah, I was enjoying myself, but I was fuzzy. Way too fuzzy. Had I just fucking said what I thought I said?

  I was blinking my eyes, the laughter gone, trying to figure out what the hell had just come out of my mouth based on Roman’s reaction. I was hoping the look on his face would give away if I’d just blown my biggest fucking secret of all time.

  His head was cocked, and he was assessing me. No, make that psychoanalyzing me.

  Oh, shit. That could only mean one thing…

  “You do what on the side?”

  Yeah…I’d definitely let the cat out of the bag. Er, lion. I blinked again, trying to steady myself, but who the hell was I kidding? I was half blitzed. “I write erotic romance novels.”

  He took another swig of beer. “That’s what I thought you said.” He grinned, his dimples carving a deep gash in his cheeks. “Under a pseudonym?”