Faker

by Sarah Smith

  “She’s moving to Panama City.” I frown at him.

  “That’s even worse.” He grips a small glass of clear liquid and ice.

  “Water?”

  “Vodka.”

  “Wow. You drink like a Russian mobster.”

  “And you drink like a sorority girl who’s scared of hard liquor.” He gestures to my half-empty glass with a cherry floating in it. Yup, he has definitely forgotten any temporary kindness toward me.

  I stand up and move next to Will. The rest of the evening carries on in loud conversations about sports, work woes, and whispered gossip. The Nuts & Bolts crew slowly trickles out of the bar a few at a time. The company agreed to pay for drinks until seven, and I assume most will leave then. I check my phone periodically for a text or call from Jamie, but nothing so far.

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Tate says. I glance up from my phone and notice he’s planted himself next to me again.

  “Can’t you take a hint? I don’t want to sit next to you,” I groan like a petulant child.

  “Too bad. This was the only free seat left.”

  I scan the room and see two empty seats on the other side of the bar. “There’s an empty seat over there.” I point. “And there.”

  “I meant it as a joke.”

  I drain the last of my second Cherry Coke and rum. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was joking when I called your drink a sorority-girl drink. You left before I could say it.” His tone reminds me of how he spoke to me after rock climbing. “I actually really like Cherry Coke and rum.”

  “Good for you.” I refocus on my phone. I’m not in the mood to play games.

  “You seem distracted.”

  I ignore him, but then he pushes another Cherry Coke and rum in front of me. “Thanks.” I take a long sip, finally considering him. I’m not above accepting a free drink. “Jamie’s supposed to meet me here tonight.”

  The edge of his jaw tenses. He must be biting down. “You two hit it off.”

  “We did.” If I remain short in my replies, maybe he’ll get the hint and leave.

  My phone hits seven o’clock, and I look up. Almost all of Nuts & Bolts is gone, like I predicted. Lynn and Kelsey are the only ones left beside Tate and myself. I give Kelsey a hug good-bye before she walks out with Lynn, then resume the staring contest with my phone.

  “He’s late, huh?” Tate says. What a nosy parker.

  “It’s fine. I told him I’d wait and have a drink with him.” My foot shakes against the metal footrest on the stool. I wish he would leave so I could have a moment to myself before Jamie comes. That way I could finish my drink in peace and then run to the restroom to freshen up my makeup.

  “Good thing I’m here to keep you company.”

  I frown at his smug face. “I don’t need you to do that.”

  He has the gall to look hurt. I can’t tell if it’s fake or real. Before I can decide for sure, the bartender blows a whistle. We both cover our ears and glower at him. He dons a bright red shirt with a pink heart on it, whistle dangling around his neck. I can’t remember what he was wearing when I got here, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.

  “Folks! It’s August and you know what that means! It’s our Halfway to Valentine’s Day contest! If you want to play, please sit at the bar. This is a couples contest, so only couples at the bar.”

  I guess the rabidly enthusiastic bartender is supposed to be Cupid? I roll my eyes, but I’m also relieved. This crazy contest is my ticket away from Tate. We can leave the bar, he can go home, and I can wait for Jamie. I try to stand up, but Tate’s hand on my arm keeps me in place. A light bulb seems to go off in his head the moment I look over to him. There’s a knowing expression behind his eyes. It’s the look of a mischievous child who just caught his sibling in a tattletale-worthy act. I bet that’s exactly the kind of kid Tate was.

  “Let’s play, shall we?” he says.

  “What? No.”

  I try to maneuver myself away, but his arm wraps around me, pulling me closer to him. The heat from his body disarms me, just like during the company meeting. It’s been so long since anyone’s held me like this. Even in the shock of this moment, I could be tempted to stay under his arm, content and warm.

  He hollers to the bartender to sign us up. “Come on. It’ll be fun. The prize is a hundred-dollar gift card. We can pretend to like each other for a hundred bucks, right?”

  A text from Jamie lights up my phone, and I pull away. Jamie says he’ll be here in a half hour. I scan the bar to see if there are free single seats anywhere, but now everything is taken. I sigh. If I walk away from this ludicrous game like I want to, there will be nowhere else for me to sit. I could wait outside, but this August heat wave is unrelenting. I don’t want to greet Jamie all sweat soaked and smelly. Sitting in my car with the AC cranked seems like a hassle. I guess I’m stuck here.

  “Fine.” I scowl at Tate, silently cursing his existence, but he’s staring ahead and doesn’t seem to notice.

  The bartender hands us a dry-erase board and a marker, and just like that, we’re a fake couple.

  “Okay, people, here are the rules,” the bartender bellows. “I’ll ask a series of questions relating to either the holiday Valentine’s Day or the word ‘Valentine.’ The couple with the most correct answers wins the gift card. Understand? And no using your cell phones. Keep them on the bar top facedown so I can see them and make sure you’re not cheating.”

  Everyone obeys, placing their phones out in full view.

  “Okay, first question: The small town of Valentine with a population of approximately twenty-eight hundred people is located in which state?” the bartender bellows.

  Participants scribble answers on their white boards. Tate gives me an unsure look.

  “Seriously? Come on.” I snatch the marker from him.

  I write Nebraska on our whiteboard. When we hold it up, we’re one of the few who correctly guessed it.

  “Nice work,” Tate says.

  Bartender Cupid continues. “Next question: What country is home to the Valentine Falls waterfall in Kosciuszko National Park?”

  I shrug, taking another gulp of my drink. “No idea.”

  Tate scribbles Australia. Point for us. “I guess when we put our heads together, we’re halfway decent at geography,” he whispers to me. I can’t help but chuckle.

  “You guys are killing it!” bartender Cupid shouts at us. “In what city did the infamous Valentine’s Day Massacre happen?”

  “New York?” Tate mouths to me. My eyes fix on his lips. Are they always this pink and plump? I shake my head and write Chicago.

  “That one was easy,” I say, looking around the room. “Almost everyone got it right.”

  “According to a recent survey, what is the most popular gift given to women on Valentine’s Day?”

  I whisper, “Jewelry,” at the same moment Tate whispers, “Flowers.” I stifle back a laugh. This is more fun than I thought it would be. We agree to toss out both our guesses and write down “chocolate” instead.

  “Oh, come on, you guys were doing so well!” Bartender Cupid frowns at us. “It’s jewelry.”

  I elbow Tate. His flesh is hard, solid. I swallow. “Told you. Get it together.” It comes off more playful than I intended.

  He raises an eyebrow at me, and it sends a foreign tingle through my stomach.

  “Admit it. You’re having a good time,” he says.

  I don’t answer. Instead I take a sip and silently admit to myself that he’s right.

  His phone dings with a text message, and he leans over to check it, dropping the eraser on the floor. I bend down to pick it up and notice my name in the message above what he’s typing. My eyes wander, skimming the text. I freeze as the words register in my brain.

  I can’t handle this. It’s worse than I
thought. She is . . . fucking hell, I don’t even know.

  Heat rises to my face. I can’t decide if I’m more angry or humiliated. Serves me right. The moment I go against my better judgment and let my guard down around Tate, he reminds me exactly why I shouldn’t.

  His negative feelings toward me are no surprise. What I don’t understand is why he forced me to stay for this pointless game if he planned to make fun of me behind my back. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting at him. Or maybe I’m on the verge of tears. I’m too caught off guard to know for sure which way I’ll fall.

  I slam the marker on top of the board and glower at him. “Screw you. I’m done.”

  “What?” he says. I’ve never seen a more convincing look of feigned confusion in my life.

  Jumping off the stool, I weave through the maze of sweaty bodies crowding the bar. I register Tate’s voice calling after me, then I hear the bartender.

  “Hey, wait! I was only kidding! You two can still make a comeback!” bartender Cupid shouts. The last of his words are swallowed into the background noise of the bar as the door closes behind me.

  Before I can stomp to my car, a hand grips my arm. I shove it away.

  Tate holds his hands up in front of him. “Hey. Stop. Why did you leave?”

  “You’re a dick, you know that?” The words come out in a controlled hiss.

  His brow furrows, the lines in his forehead deeper than I’ve ever seen. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw your text. I saw what you wrote about me. ‘I can’t handle this’? ‘It’s worse than I thought’? ‘She is . . . fucking hell, I don’t even know’? What the hell is your problem?” I’m able to keep a reasonable volume, but my voice shakes with fury. Any moment it could switch to tears.

  What little color his face retains drains completely. His eyes widen, then drop to the ground. He’s the definition of utterly dejected. I’ve never seen him react this way.

  “You saw that?”

  I nod slowly.

  “You weren’t supposed to.”

  “Of course not. Shit-talking normally occurs behind someone’s back. That’s what you were doing, right?”

  “Listen. It’s not what you think.” He holds both of his palms up at me, as if he’s talking down an out-of-control mental patient.

  “Oh really?” I slip up and the words come out in a shout. I pull myself back to a normal volume. “I saw my name right above that text. I know you were talking about me. Don’t you dare lie.”

  On the outside I manage to maintain my composure, but on the inside I’m rabid and foaming at the mouth. I should be muzzled. It occurs to me there are people outside the bar smoking and watching us. Maybe I’m not as composed as I think I am. When I swallow, I feel how sore the base of my throat is from straining to keep my voice at a non-yell. The blip of shouting seconds ago must have caught everyone’s attention, though. That and our obviously hostile body language. I’m gesturing like a crazed palm reader; he’s got his hands up in a futile attempt to calm me. We are quite the Friday-night shitshow.

  I continue my tirade. “You forced me to play that game just to screw with me behind my back.”

  “Okay, just . . . just let me explain.” His face warps in agony. “Here, let’s sit in my car. I can explain it in there, okay?”

  “No way I’m going anywhere with you.”

  “We won’t go anywhere. We’ll just sit down for a minute. We can’t talk out here. People are staring.”

  I’m too afraid to do a full-on head turn to see our audience, so I rely on my peripheral vision. He’s right. Everyone is watching. Embarrassment finally catches up to me. I should book the Maury show next week. I’m displaying daytime–talk show–worthy behavior.

  I huff a sigh. “You have two minutes.”

  seven

  Tate gestures for me to follow him to his car.

  “Jeez, man, let her cool off first,” a male voice calls after us. Cackling follows. We are the laughingstock of the parking lot.

  I climb in the passenger seat of his nondescript gray car. It’s such a contrast to him. He’s a striking, tall, broad man. The four-door sedan he drives is a car that fugitives would kill to have as a getaway car. Unnoticeable and unremarkable in every way.

  He starts the car, and I shoot him what I can only imagine is a look of sheer terror. “I’m not driving anywhere. I’m just turning on the AC.”

  I place my phone on the dashboard and set the timer. “Two minutes. Talk.”

  He’s gritting his teeth so hard, the muscles in his jaw pulse. “I admit, I was talking about you in that text. But it wasn’t anything bad, I swear. I can’t tell you the full story, but nothing bad was said about you.”

  I almost laugh, but I’m furious so it turns into a snort. “You think I should just take you at your word? After tonight? After all the crap we put each other through every day at work? You’re something else.”

  The death grip he has on his steering wheel is turning his knuckles an even starker shade of white. “I can’t go into detail, but what I told you is the truth.”

  The irritation in his tone makes me want to scream. I can’t take it anymore. I try deep breaths, then swallow. I blink again and again. Nothing works.

  “I want to flip out right now.” I speak to the dashboard through gritted teeth.

  Slowly, he turns to me. “I want to kiss you right now.”

  “What?” I jerk to face him.

  If his intention was to throw me off, it worked. I’m not sophisticated enough to harbor two intense emotions at once. The anger is replaced by confusion. He must be joking.

  “I’m not kidding,” he says softly, like he can read my mind.

  The gaze he gives me is game changing. I’ve never, ever seen him display such tenderness, not even when he consoled me at the rock climbing gym. Right now, in the darkness of his car, he is illuminated only by the residual light from a nearby streetlamp. It’s perfect though. His face has gone soft. All the skin and muscles are relaxed. Not a trace of tension, anger, or frustration can be detected anywhere. Something else is there. Something foreign. Something beyond kindness. The longer I let my eyes linger, the clearer it becomes. I think it’s affection.

  When he reaches a hand to my face, I am perfectly still. When he pulls his mouth closer to mine, I don’t flinch. When he presses our lips together, I let him. He kisses me, and it’s the lightest, softest, most gentle kiss in the world.

  He leaves his mouth on mine for several seconds, but I can’t be totally sure how long. I’m completely out of sorts and lose all sense of time. The unexpected feel of his mouth has short-circuited my brain. A warm tingle spreads from my lips to the rest of my face.

  When I feel his tongue run lightly against my bottom lip, my body tenses and my brain finally catches up. Holy hell, Tate is kissing me. An alarm bell is going off in my head, alerting me to the lunacy of this moment. I immediately smash it. Yes, it’s crazy, but I can’t deny how divine it feels. I want this. I need this. Screw anyone—even me—who says otherwise.

  When he jerks away, I’m left hovering over the center console, my mouth half-open and my eyes still closed. I fall back into my seat, letting the cool air wash over me.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Jerky movements take over his body. He’s rubbing his eyes, yanking at his hair, shaking his head back and forth. “I don’t know what . . . I don’t know why I did that.” He buries his face in his hands, then sits back up and turns to me.

  His expression is his trademark neutral once more. I’d be impressed at his ability to slide so seamlessly from embarrassed to cool if I weren’t so aggravated. He springs a kiss on me, then pulls away just as I was getting into it? No. Hell, no. This kind of behavior is not allowed in this parallel universe we’re currently residents of, this strange world where Tate is a dynamite kisser and has the sudden n
erve to make a move.

  In this new world, I turn bold. With my fist on his collar, I yank his face back to mine. I can tell by the shy way he keeps his tongue in his mouth that he’s not sure about it. I slide my tongue through his pressed lips. Too bad for you, Tate. You started this. You will damn well finish it.

  This time, I relax. I enjoy it. The sensation of the tip of his soft tongue teasing mine, the smoothness of his mouth. He tastes like nothing. There’s the faintest hint of vodka, but after a few seconds it disappears. Just wetness and flesh and the blank flavor of saliva. It’s strange, but I love it. Every guy I’ve kissed has a particular tang to his mouth. Tobacco, coffee, mint. It must be all the water he guzzles nonstop. Gallons of water washing away any semblance of flavor, leaving the unmistakable taste of Tate behind. I’m in awe of how much I love it, this clean kiss.

  His teeth clink against mine, and my eyes jolt open. His do too. The sudden eye contact throws me off.

  Just breathe, I think. A slow hiss of air escapes my lips.

  “Mmm, oh, mmm.” It comes out as a soft, breathy huff. I’m in the middle of a surprise hot kiss with Tate Rasmussen, and that’s the sound my brain delivers to my mouth?

  My eyes fall down in shame. I remain in place, my face still touching his. What an unbelievable dork I am. I bite my bottom lip. It’s a reflex when I’m embarrassed.

  He says nothing. His eyes showcase the same cloudiness I remember from our first day on the worksite when my shirt slid up in front of him. I bet I know exactly what he was thinking in that moment, because I’m thinking it now too.

  Our faces stay still, our lips barely touching. His tongue finds my bottom lip again, and a switch flips. Our mouths collide once more. This time it’s sloppier, more desperate. We’re downright hungry for each other. The last time I had a man’s lips on mine was almost a year ago. It’s obvious how much I’ve missed it. The way Tate kisses me, I wonder if it’s been a while for him too. What a way to end a drought.

  When we breathe, our exhales crash. The wetness of his breath is like water. I could drink it forever.