Faking It by K. Bromberg

by Bromberg, K.

  “That’s your fault.”

  “We both wanted something from the other. We’re getting it. Like I said, don’t mistake reality with pretend . . . and sure as hell don’t mistake the guy you want with the man I am.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Harlow.”

  He retreats another step, our gazes still held, before he nods and then walks away without another word.

  A thing I’m starting to get used to him doing.

  His way of getting in the last word.

  Confusion reigns. What in the hell did I get myself into?

  And much later when I’m lying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, my mind turning endlessly, I hear the clank of feet on the steps. I feel the dip of the tour bus as he climbs the stairs. A few words are exchanged with Mick who’s been waiting for Zane’s return so we can move on to the next city. The next episode of How Confused Can We Make Harlow.

  With my eyes closed, I trace Zane’s movements by the sounds he makes, my body never more aware of him than now. The snap of his phone being plugged into the charger. The click of the bedroom door. His sigh as he stands at the foot of the bed. I don’t look but I know he’s staring at me.

  I can feel it. In the heaviness of the energy around me. In the chills that suddenly race over my skin. In the slow, sweet ache that burns between my thighs.

  My body is betraying me. It’s wanting something I can’t have. Something that would only serve to complicate matters when they already seem complicated enough.

  And yet I can feel his stare. I can taste his kiss. I can hear the words he said repeated in my own mind.

  The problem is, he’s right.

  Women fall in love with words.

  In stupid words like mulligan. How can that word have a trace of romanticism in it? It doesn’t, but he said it and I partially swooned at the meaning behind it—at what I inferred by it and how I . . . shit, I’m proving his point for him and he’s not even having to defend it.

  He shifts. The bathroom door shuts. The shower turns on.

  All the while I’m left here reminded of his kiss. The one that stole my breath and is the current source of my confusion.

  I asked him to be real . . . and then he went and kissed me. And it felt awfully real.

  Is he purposely trying to screw with my brain—and body—because if that’s the case, he’s succeeded.

  Was the kiss a warning? A dark promise? His way to be in control of a situation I forced him into? A way to stake his claim on me with some macho bullshit successful-man’s pissing match that I don’t want any part in?

  Or was this just another game of his, the way it seems this whole SoulM8 venture is in a sense?

  The bathroom door opens again, the sliver of light from it momentary before it’s shut off and the room is once again bathed in darkness.

  The bed dips. The sheets pull tight against my body as he pulls them around him.

  Shut him out, Harlow.

  My blood hums from the heat of his body beside me.

  Shut.

  The scent of his shower.

  Him.

  His long drawn out sigh.

  Out.

  His ‘Night Harlow’ is murmured so softly I almost think I’ve imagined it.

  And as the coach rumbles to life and Mick steers us to the next city, no matter how hard I try, I’m not quite sure shutting him out is possible anymore.

  SHE’S GOING TO BE THE death of me.

  Plain and fucking simple.

  The Texas heat begins to seep into the early morning air and yet I push myself farther. Harder. Faster.

  Just like I woke up wanting to do to Harlow lying in the bed beside me. Lay her down and fuck her hard and fast.

  Damn Miles Finlay. The slimy bastard who tries too hard to be everything he’s not. I’ve dealt with him in business. I’ve watched him on the social scene. The creep is known for trying to look the part so people think he is the part. And last night he had his sights set on Harlow.

  Just thinking of the bastard talking to her had my blood boiling and every part of me wanting to mark her. Claim her. Let her know it’s me she should want and not him. Make her realize that I’m so much better than him when she never even looked interested to begin with.

  Even when I keep telling myself I don’t want her in the first place.

  And of course I took the fucking bait and kissed her.

  Was it a dick move on my part?

  Hell, yes.

  Would I do it again?

  In a goddamn heartbeat.

  I check both ways on the road, cross it, then push myself down the straight, flat trail that parallels the highway. I should be looking at the lush green trees around me. I should stop and stare at the armadillo waddling a few feet away from me. I should use the exercise to clear my damn mind but no matter how hard I try, it keeps veering back to the one person I don’t want to be thinking about.

  The one person I shouldn’t want, but still fucking do. I mean look at her. She’s gorgeous when she’s dressed to the hilt—class and subtle sex appeal that’s like a damn Siren’s song to a man like me . . . but it’s the woman when we’re alone on the tour bus who fucking does me in.

  No make-up. Hair thrown up. Her body beneath a simple tank top and shorts. Simple yet devastating to my libido.

  I couldn’t handle another morning of walking out to see her sitting on the couch, cup of coffee in her hand, lips bare, eyes naked, body still warm from being snuggled in the bed beside me.

  I’m used to fake. I’m not blinded by the frills but they’re typically what I get, day-in, day-out. A woman trying to please me at every chance she gets for whatever it is she wants out of being seen with me. My reputation is out there. I’m a serial dater. No shame in that. But give me real and vulnerable like Harlow is when she looks at me when we’re out of the public eye and fuck if I’m not wanting to take advantage of it and her in every which way possible.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Like not at all.

  I shouldn’t be on this tour. I shouldn’t be stuck with her. I shouldn’t want her like I do.

  It’s one thing to have her in a sleek dress where I’m dying to know what’s beneath it . . . but actually knowing is somehow worse. To see her in that little cami and tight shorts and want to taste and lick and fuck.

  This is my hell. My torture for being a man. For wanting a woman. My penance for lying to Robert and my punishment for being who I am.

  I’m so fucked.

  Like double-edged fucked without an end or pleasure in sight.

  I should’ve slept with Simone before we left. I should have accepted the hints she was offering me when we met for drinks the other night. Maybe that would’ve helped.

  Maybe that would have satisfied me.

  Such a crock of shit, mate. That wouldn’t have done it. Not when you were looking at Simone but thinking about Harlow.

  The difference is, if it had been Simone, it all would have been easy. Too fucking easy.

  The way she trailed her fingertip over her collarbone to direct my gaze at her cleavage as if I couldn’t miss it. The way she slid the toe of her high heels up and down the front of my shin beneath the table. The way she downed her drink in one sip and explained that she didn’t have a gag reflex.

  That was all I could think of the entire time. This—she—everything about her was too fucking easy. Always saying the right thing. Always perfect in positioning, in the way she pouted her lips, in the suggestion lacing every single innuendo she threw my way.

  Not once did she throw her hand to her hip and tell me like it is. Not once did she argue or challenge or call me on the carpet.

  Fucking Harlow.

  It’s all her fault. This. The tour. Me wanting her. All of it.

  And that’s why I’m running right now. Pushing myself through the streets of Austin at a pace I don’t run. Exhausting myself so that when I go back to the
tour bus, I don’t do the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about this morning.

  Fucking her. Taking her to bed and finishing what that kiss between us started last night.

  Because Harlow Nicks spells trouble for me in every sense of the word. She has my every wire crossed. And she’s made me hesitate to step over a line I thought would be a no brainer to cross: sleeping with her.

  Women like Simone want one thing: sex, the power that comes with the sex, the visibility for her career that comes with being associated with my name. That’s easy for me. I can give her or anyone that. It’s safe and clear cut and leaves my freedom untouched. And my heart.

  No, I prefer a simple case of scratch my itch and I’ll scratch yours back.

  Or lick. Licking’s always a good way to return the favor.

  But with Harlow, it’s different. She’s not impressed by any of this. She thought the coach was cool—it is pretty fucking sick—but me? She’s not impressed by anything when it comes to me.

  That’s different for me. Not the world I know. And fuck if I know what to do with it other than to stay as far as hell away from it.

  Because if there’s one thing that guys do better than thumping their chests to win a contest, it’s staying as far away as possible from something that scares them.

  And Harlow scares the hell out of me.

  My feet falter as I run into the parking lot at the back of the convention center. The coach is there and Harlow’s silhouette is framed in the tinted windows of the kitchen area. She’s standing, bringing a mug of coffee to her lips, her hair piled on top of her head, calling to me just like the sound of her soft snores were this morning.

  Welcome to hell, Phillips.

  Where the temptation is hot as fuck, the consequences are damning, and the sins are at your fingertips waiting to burn you.

  “HOW’S IT GOING, MIJA?”

  Hearing my mom’s voice brings a sudden rush of homesickness I didn’t expect and tears burn the back of my eyes despite the smile on my lips. “It’s going. It’s so very different than what I expected and yet at the same time, I feel like it’s what I’m meant to do.”

  “I’ve been seeing the advertisements. There was one in People Magazine yesterday.”

  “There was?” I ask, feeling stupidly happy about that.

  “Yes. It was a great shot of you and Zane. Sexy and stunning and it even had me thinking I might sign up for SoulM8 myself.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Why not? I may be older but I’ve still got parts that work and a prince waiting to fit me with a glass slipper.”

  “Mother.” My laugh fills the coach.

  “It’s true. There’s no shame in that.” I can hear the crinkle of paper on the other end of the line. Almost as if she’s opening the magazine and looking at the ad again. “It’s a full page ad, too. I showed everyone in line at the supermarket.”

  “Oh, god.”

  “I did. I also bought every copy they had.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did too. I’m not letting my baby’s big break go by undocumented.”

  “I’ve had breaks before.” Let’s hope this time around, the visibility actually pans out and more jobs come in because of it.

  “You have. But this time I know it’s going to be the one, Low. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “You have to say that,” I say through a chuckle. “You’re my mother.”

  “You know me better than that. I tell you truths only. That’s my job.”

  “Truths and fairytales,” I say with a laugh.

  “You’re never too old for a fairytale, mija.”

  “Oh, please.”

  She lets off a string of Spanish saying that I’m crazy and it makes me smile. And miss her.

  “It’s good to hear your voice,” I say softly.

  “Missing me, are you?” she asks in her knowing mother’s tone.

  “Yeah. I am. It’s . . .” I look around at what my world now consists of and long to tell her the truth. Confining. Surreal. Confusing. “It’s an experience,” I say.

  “Tell me he’s treating you well. That he’s not pressuring you to do things you don’t want to do.”

  “No,” I laugh, glossing over the fact that he may not be pressuring me, but temping me is another story. “He’s a gentleman.” Except for when he kisses me senseless one night and then the next few days only grunts words to me unless we’re in promotion mode. “He’s confusing.”

  “Men always are, mija.”

  “He’s . . .”

  “You like him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’m your mother and I know these things.”

  “I don’t like him,” I say, maybe only to convince myself. “I mean, it’s only been six days. That’s not a lot of time to know if I like someone or not.”

  “So you’re not sure if you do, then?”

  I sigh. “We work well together. People believe the story we’re selling.”

  “I haven’t told a soul otherwise,” she says unprompted and immediately has me worried she’s told the truth to one of the members of her salsa dancing group. I let the silence fall on the line as a subtle warning to her. “I promise, mija. I wouldn’t want to mess this up for you.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Then what is it that’s bugging you?”

  “I don’t know,” I muse as I stand up and peer out the windows at the world beyond. Lush trees surround me, branches swaying in the breeze while clouds above are slowing shifting across the sky. “I can’t get a read on him. I don’t know what he actually feels about me…or what I feel about him..”

  “And when he kisses you . . .”

  “What do you mean when he kisses me? How do you know that he does?” I ask, my mind immediately pulled back to the other night in Austin and the garden and the kiss that’s never too far from my mind.

  “There have been pictures posted online. Seems he’s affectionate during the presentations. Always kissing your temple or touching your back . . . so I wondered how it makes you feel.”

  “It doesn’t really matter how it makes me feel, to be honest. I’m just thrown off because we’re spending so much time together. I’m here to do my job and anything with him other than what I’m supposed to be doing isn’t worth thinking about.”

  “Mija, you just talked a whole bunch of circles to try and throw me off track. You like him. I’m your mother. I can’t be fooled.”

  And she’s right. I do. In a maddening, sexually frustrating, I wonder what-he’s-like-in-bed kind of way.

  “Mom,” I warn, not wanting her to go here.

  “What’s not to like about him then?”

  My laugh rings out and is laced with sarcasm. “Maybe because he’s like David and Linc before him and then Rhett before him and I can’t do that to myself again. At some point I have to learn that I won’t take second to a man’s ego.”

  “Low . . . all men are like that in one form or another. Their ego is part of the reason we’re attracted to them. Confidence is sexy. Being secure in your place in the world is something that we like to know our partner is. It’s not a bad thing to find that attractive. We like a man with a side of ego. That’s alluring. What we don’t like is an ego with a side of man.”

  “You can stop making sense now.”

  “You’re two young, single people. Of course you’re going to be attracted to each other. That’s only natural. Explore it. Don’t explore it. But whatever you do, know it’s perfectly possible to get lost in a man without losing yourself in the process.”

  “Mom. Geez. I’m not looking for a relationship.” I say the words but the romantic she’s instilled in me hidden way down deep wonders what Zane Phillips is like in that sense. He says love is a bullshit emotion . . . the question is, does he believe it?

  “Then just look for some fun.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with him, Mom.”

  Her laugh is rich when it fi
lls the line. “Okay then. You just keep telling yourself that . . . ”

  “I will,” I say defensively.

  “And live in the now.”

  “Thank you so much—” Albuquerque? Austin? Houston . . . the cities spin together and mixed with the hot lights of the stage, it takes me a second to finish. “Houston,” I say.

  Zane chuckles from the other side of the stage. “Houston, we have a problem.” The audience laughs at his play on my obvious gaffe.

  “I never knew how musicians could mess up where they were but now I get it. We’ve been going at this nonstop for a week now—”

  “Let’s not give out all our bedroom secrets, now.”

  “Oh please.” I roll my eyes and earn the laugh.

  “Stamina, babe.” He winks as he makes his way toward me.

  “Let’s not advertise falsely now,” I say, startled when he walks up behind me and puts his hands on my hips. “SoulM8 will help you find a connection, not give you stamina.”

  “I can see that as a new slogan now.”

  Another laugh from the audience.

  Another press of his kiss to my temple.

  “You look gorgeous tonight,” he murmurs under his breath, the heat of it hitting my ear.

  Another flutter in my belly I don’t want by the simple but scripted show of affection.

  But was that scripted? Was that a moment he wanted the audience to overhear on the microphone so the women could collectively swoon or was that sincere and meant only for me so that I silently swooned?

  Suddenly flustered and feeling like the whole room is staring at me as I stumble over thoughts that have no place in my head, I clear my throat and collect myself. “Let’s open this up for questions, Romeo, before you overpromise and under deliver.”

  The general questions come in one by one: vetting of applicants, background checks, safety checks, further explanation on what exactly our AI technology does, guarantees. I expect the mingling to begin shortly thereafter. Typically it begins with the men asking candid questions to Zane, the women to me. Then somewhere along the line, the demographic switches—typically once the alcohol has sunken in so I’m surrounded by men and Zane by women.