Single Dad Next Door: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  “Sounds about right,” I grumble, cupping a handful of water and sucking it down to ease my dry throat and wash away the memory of sand. Of blood.

  I hear her grabbing her shit from my bedroom and wait, leaning on the sink, stretching my tight muscles.

  “I’m keeping the fucking shirt,” she says.

  I ignore her, stepping in the shower after I hear to my apartment door slam shut. I don’t take any pleasure in what I do to women. They are a release. A distraction. That’s all. If I let them stick around too long they get to be an annoyance. I cut them loose before things get complicated. Simple as that. Maybe it makes me a prick, maybe not. I couldn’t give a shit.

  The water hisses from the five showerheads, blasting me from every direction. The hissing sound and steam that rises up brings up an image of the rocket streaking past me, toward the wall where…

  I crank the temperature down to freezing cold and let the icy water shock my system out of the memory.

  I dry off and get dressed for the gym. I whistle a few times, even though I know my bulldog, Makayla, is way too fucking lazy to get up without the promise of a treat. I look for Makayla. I find her sprawled on the kitchen tile, waiting outside the cabinet where I keep the dental bones. She looks more like a pissed off, wrinkled blowfish. The little lady is eating her way toward a diabetic coma, but I’m soft when it comes to her. She just loves those fucking dental bones so much. On the plus side, her breath always smells great.

  Makayla and I take the stairs down to the lobby. She could use the exercise and I need something to get my blood flowing. I really need to stop drinking and bringing home women, but it helps dull the memories. At least for the moment. It’s just the times between that drag at a snail’s pace, giving me plenty of time to dwell on the past. Walter waits in the lobby, manning the full-bar in his tight black vest and fluffy white sleeves. The decor of the lobby is dark, with thick wood paneling and blood red furnishings. The bar was a major selling point for me when I picked the apartment. It looked like the perfect place to waste my evenings. I can brood while I get smashed and I don’t even have to step outside.

  The first floor is full of amenities. There’s a spa, a full-sized gym, a heated swimming pool, even a play area for pets. The entire play area is walled off by huge windows. Inside, half a dozen dogs run up and down a decent sized set of hills made from astro-turf. There’s even a fake fire hydrant and a few fake trees. Beside the bar, the pet area was another reason I chose this place. I figured Makayla might actually get some exercise, but she just lays at the bottom of the hill, conserving her energy for God knows what.

  I drop Makayla off at the “Pet Stop”. A young blonde college student takes her leash from me with a big, toothy smile. I think she makes a few shameless attempts to get my attention or wring anything other than a curt thank you out of me, but I’m mentally somewhere else, and her efforts pass uselessly over me.

  I give Makayla a quick scratch behind the ears and sneak her a dental bone. She gobbles it out of my hand and trots toward a small white dog that’s sniffing around the inside of the gated area.

  I cross the lobby to the gym, heading for the power rack. Working out is the only thing that keeps me from exploding sometimes. There’s a darkness that builds up in me and threatens to make me fucking burst if I don’t let it out. I notice a fit woman with red hair step off the treadmill as I pass, huffing and storming out of the gym. She must know me, but I don’t recognize her. I’m not proud of it. Hell, if it wasn’t for the booze I wouldn’t put any woman through the misfortune of getting to know me. There's nothing good left of me. Nightmares and paranoia plague my days and nights leaving me a shell of a man. Sex is all I have to offer and even fucked up as I am, I know that's not enough.

  Except that’s not entirely true. I had more to offer once. For her. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if I could still dig some of my old self out if I just had her back. My phone practically burns in my pocket when I think about her. I still have her number because I’ve religiously transferred it over every time I got a new phone, not that I need it. The numbers might as well be etched into my mind. The girl I pathetically named my dog after just so I could still hear her name every day. Makayla Pierson…I called her Kay back then. It’s hard to believe how long it has been now. Ten years since she let me slide my hand up her homecoming dress. Ten years since I told her I loved her outside Westfield Airport. Ten years since I broke her heart and left.

  I push the thought back to where it belongs--in my dreams. She’s famous now, and if I go calling her up I’d just be one of the ghosts of her past trying to catch a ride. Not a chance. Everytime I think of calling her again, I realize I don’t want to taint my memory of her. I want to remember the sweet innocence I loved about her so much. She’s probably anything but innocent now. I still remember how surprised I was to see her on TV. I was at an airport and her show was playing over one of the big screens.

  I guiltily looked the show up later, knowing I shouldn’t do it to myself, knowing the last thing I need is to think about her. But I did it anyway. The show is called Stalked, and it’s about a cult that makes a game out of stalking celebrities, one of which is Makayla’s character, Bella Frost. The show became a hit when suspicions started to grow that Bella Frost would fall for one of the stalkers. To everyone’s surprise, the show started a real life cult movement. Celebrities all over the country are reporting stalkers, and the famous country singer, Susan Kieran, was even murdered in her home a few weeks back. It’s a royal mess, but I guess I can’t complain.

  Paranoid celebrities now make up the vast majority of my clientele, and they pay far better for protection than most. Plus, it’s a lot more interesting to shadow celebrities all day than it is to follow businessmen and their families.

  I rack up a few forty-five pound plates on the bar and get under it, squeezing the bar and pulling like I’m trying to rip the thing in two. I push the bar off the rack and in a controlled motion let it drop down to my chest, then exploding upwards and pushing the three hundred and fifteen pounds like it’s nothing. I always get the best workouts when I’m pissed. And lately, I’m always pissed.

  An hour later, I’m dripping with sweat and endorphins are flooding my system. It’s like a drug to me--feeling my muscles tight, full, and throbbing. My chest presses against the thin material of my t-shirt and my arms bulge, stretching the sleeves. I check my phone when I’m finished and see that I have a missed call from Vivian. Good. She only calls when there’s work, and I’m in desperate need of a distraction. Probably another pampered celebrity.

  24

  Makayla

  I’m seated across from Kennedy in Bistro 51, a trendy restaurant tucked beneath one of my stepfather’s many luxury hotels downtown. The food is absurdly expensive, and not nearly good enough to warrant the price. The real reason people eat here is to be seen eating here. It’s a statement of status, like the thousand dollar white t-shirts celebrities buy just because they can. I have no personal interest in flaunting my wealth, but Kennedy always drags me to places like this. She claims her PR guy insists that she be seen somewhere wearing some of the products she endorses, but I know she secretly enjoys it.

  Kennedy plays Vera Nightengale on Stalked. She’s a fan favorite, because she’s part of the cult and the scriptwriters are making it clear that she’s going to seize the leadership from Aaron soon. She’s dark haired, slender, and athletic, but she has a face made for the screen. It’s both deadly and seductive at the same time. I, on the other hand, was cast because the producers wanted the lead character to have the “girl-next-door” appeal. My curves and innocent face apparently had as much to do with me winning the part as my acting ability. Every time that particular thought skids across my consciousness, I find myself scowling.

  The waiter approaches our table with a bottle of Chateau Lafite 1865. I look through the wine list to find the bottle as he drones on about its origins in the Abbey of so and so and the flavor profile that
brings to mind lilacs and blah blah blah. Over four grand for one bottle. I huff a laugh, but Kennedy waves him off and motions for him to leave the bottle. He practically bows, backing away and making a fool of himself, probably slavering to think of what kind of tip he’ll get.

  “So,” Kennedy starts, “did you hear Camillo is getting pressured by the police now? They’re saying one more murder and they will find a way to press charges. They’re saying as director of the show it’s his responsibility to put a stop to all this.”

  I pour myself a glass as I wave off the possibility of a shutdown with a shake of my head. I swirl the wine and sip it, not tasting anything except the bittersweet aftertaste. “What would be the charge? I mean, it’s not like the news stations get sued when their coverage of Columbine inspired more school shootings.”

  “Doesn’t all of this scare you even a little bit?” asks Kennedy.

  “What? The stalkers? I think the media is just overplaying it to scare people. But hey, it’s good for ratings. Lilly says we will be able to push for a renegotiated contract if the ratings keep climbing.” As if on cue, I notice a man at the far end of the restaurant watching me suspiciously over his steak. He looks down when he notices me, but I catch him looking up again as soon as I look away. He just recognizes you from the show. Get over yourself, Makayla.

  Kennedy leans forward, lowering her voice. “What good is all that money going to do when someone climbs through your window like fucking Jack Carpenter and rapes you while he whispers how big a fucking fan he is?”

  I sputter, nearly spitting a mouthful of my wine when I see the way she’s grinning at me like an idiot. I know she’s kidding, but once my laughter fades I can’t get the image of someone climbing through my window while I sleep. I try not to show how much her words disturb me, and I try not to look at the man with the steak. “That’s just made up stuff from the show, Kennedy. It’s not real.”

  She folds her arms, still grinning. “Yeah, well Susan Kieran would probably disagree with you there. You know, if you could talk to dead people, that is.” She grabs her glass and swills down a few hundred dollars worth of wine in three long gulps.

  I screw up my lips in a way I know doesn’t have “screen appeal” as Camillo would say. “You sound like Hubert.” I say, spitting his name out of my mouth like it’s something foul.

  “Ouch,” says Kennedy. “I know I’ve annoyed you when you compare me to the dreaded stepfather.”

  I laugh. “No. The only thing annoying me is that I know you’re probably right. I should take this stuff more seriously. I just don’t want to be consumed by it. You know? Pretty soon I’d be seeing stalkers everywhere I looked. I’d be a trainwreck.” My eyes unconsciously dart to the guy who’s still staring.

  Kennedy follows my line of sight and winces, shaking her head. “Creeper.”

  The waiter brings our bill and I cringe. A little over five thousand dollars. For lunch. Kennedy and I split the bill as usual, giving me no tactful way to avoid paying for the ridiculously expensive wine she ordered.

  Kennedy notices my face and wags a finger at me. “Don’t make that face. You could eat here three times a day and still be rolling in money. You need to stop hoarding your cash and enjoy it.”

  “I know, I know…” I say, cringing to think how much of a tip I should leave. One of the reasons Kennedy likes to bring me here is because she thinks it will have some kind of shock value and get me to start spending more freely. So far, it hasn’t worked. I play her game while she’s here and then go back to counting pennies when she’s not watching. Old habits die hard, I guess.

  “Seriously. You never let me take you--”

  “Shopping or to do anything fun,” I interrupt. “I know. I’m trying to get better. It’s just not fun for me to spend the money. It stresses me out.”

  She sighs. “I just don’t get it. Even if you suffered some horrific, disfiguring accident and lost that gorgeous face of yours, Hubert would never let you go without. He could buy you a personal skyscraper if you wanted it. I think he would, too.”

  I laugh dryly. “That’s just what I need, Hubert having having more reasons to be overprotective of me.” I drop my credit card on top of the bill. It’s a rewards card, so at least I’ll get a few points for this disgusting waste of money. “Speaking of he-who-must-not-be-named...I need to get out of here. I’m supposed to meet Hubert and Linda for dinner. Or was it Maria? I honestly can’t remember anymore.” Linda-Maria is just the latest in a long list of gold-diggers my stepfather has courted since mom died. “Want to run through our lines tomorrow morning?”

  She pffts dismissively. “I’ll figure them out on the fly. Organic acting. That’s a thing, right?”

  I laugh, “If you say so.”

  Kennedy grabs her Chanel bag and shoulders it, picking up her coat and getting ready to leave.

  “Hey,” I say quickly. “Be careful, okay?”

  She smiles, leaning in and squeezing my cheek and pressing her face close to mine. “I knew you’d come around.”

  I slap her hands away. “Get off me you creep!” I laugh.

  “Exactly. That’s what you say when Jack Carpenter sneaks up on you in a dark alley and pulls out The Mangler.”

  “Oh God. Would you stop already!”

  Kennedy quirks an eyebrow at me, turning to leave. “See you tomorrow!”

  Once she leaves I gather my own things and stand to leave. I feel a tingle in my spine when I notice the man that was staring stands from his seat at the same time I do. He was probably just waiting to get an autograph and now that I’m done with my meal, he’s going ask me. That’s all. Stop freaking yourself out. I take my eyes off him to rummage through my purse for the Sharpie I had to start keeping with me for times like this. I look up, expecting to see him approaching but…

  He’s gone.

  I scan the restaurant, hating how hard my heart is pounding, hating how much Kennedy’s words are repeating in my head. I slowly put the Sharpie back in my bag and step outside. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Nothing is going to happen. I move along the crowded street, passing boutiques and trendy little restaurants and coffee shops. After a few minutes, I’ve almost completely pushed the man from my mind. It was just a fan who noticed me and happened to leave the restaurant at the same time. It’s not that strange.

  I enter the lobby of my apartment complex. It’s not the fanciest place in the city, but the rent was reasonable, at least as far as housing downtown goes. I press the button for the elevator and wait, hoping the two young college girls who rent an apartment down the hall from me don’t show up and start fangirling all over me. As usual, the elevator doesn’t seem to be working, so I open the door to the stairwell.

  I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear the door close behind me. A few seconds later, it opens again. I reach the second floor and when I try the door, it’s locked.

  “Are you kidding me?” I groan, turning to head back down the stairs.

  I freeze in place when I see a man wearing a black jacket and shining golden goat mask standing at the top of the stairs, cutting off my only way back out. My throat is instantly dry, and I’m not sure any sound would even come out if I screamed. My heart hammers in my chest. “W-what do you want?” I stammer. My voice comes out as a strained whisper, as if any sound too loud or sudden might make him charge at me.

  He laughs, and the sound is disturbing, like something from a nightmare. It’s deep, jarring, and inhuman. “I want you to know you’re marked.”

  “I have Mace in my purse, asshole. Don’t come any closer,” I say. I can’t seem to catch my breath. Everything is spinning, weightless, moving slow and fast at the same time. I put a hand on the door handle behind me, steadying myself.

  He raises a gloved hand and drags his index finger across his throat. He points at me and then turns to walk down the stairs.

  Just like that. It’s over. My brain is playing catch-up, struggling to process what just happened. The reality of it clos
es in on me piece by piece. That was a stalker. All the stuff in the media, the rumors, the jokes. It’s real.

  I swallow hard, fighting the urge to sink down and cry. A few moments later, I hear the door below close. I slowly move to the corner of the stairwell, sitting in the corner and hugging my knees to my chest. I could call the police, and maybe I will later, but I can’t even begin to describe the guy. He’ll step on the street outside and disappear. There’s no point.

  Instead, I pull my phone free with a shaking hand and call my agent.

  “Makayla, honey. I was just about to—

  “Frank, I want you to hire a bodyguard for me. Get me the best money can buy.” I doubt this is what Kennedy had in mind when she told me to be more loose with my money, but that’s one of the last things I’m worried about right now.

  “Is this about the stalking thing?”

  “Can you do it?” I ask.

  “Sure, yeah. I know a few people. Just let me make some calls.”

  I hang up the phone and cover my face. My eyes are only closed for a second before I snap them open again, worried another masked person could be peering around the corner of the stairwell.

  Jesse. I wish you were here.

  The thought rises to the surface of my mind like an unexpected belch. Surprising, unwanted, and embarrassing. Jesse Slade. My old high school sweetheart. The guy who I trusted with my heart. The guy who ripped it in two without a second thought.

  Yeah, I wish you were here Jesse, so I could punch you in your perfect teeth. I don’t care if I have never felt as safe as I did in his arms. I hate him. He’s a bastard, and I hope I never see him again.

  25

  Jesse

  I half-throw Janette Springfield in the back of my car, shielding her with my body and slamming the door behind her. Car doors slam in the distance and engines rev. I unholster my Glock, climbing in the driver’s seat and setting the gun in easy reach.