That Guy

by Kim Jones

  “Huh? No. I don’t even know that name. What’s up?” I’m rambling. Because I’m lying. And I wouldn’t have to if he wasn’t eavesdropping, again. And I’d probably be able to breathe if he wasn’t standing in the door of his office, again. Arms braced on either sides and looking too fine, again. But I can’t even speak without stuttering because I’m turned on by the vision of him, again. Having thoughts about what riding his face might feel like…again.

  He doesn’t believe me. But thankfully, he lets it go. “Come on. Alfred just brought Miss Sims’ wardrobe up. Let’s see if anything fits.” He turns and saunters away. I take a second to appreciate the view. Or a minute. Long enough for him to snap at me over his shoulder. “Penelope! Now!”

  “Coming!” Almost literally.

  I follow him to the guest room where there is a luggage cart overflowing with several garment bags, round and square boxes with fancy ribbons and an assortment of smaller bags stuffed with colorful tissue paper.

  “All of this for one night?”

  “She was staying the weekend.” When I shoot Jake a hopeful look, he shakes his head. “You’re not.”

  Fun sucker….

  He hands me another bottle of water. I guess he wants me to sober up. But the truth is, the excitement has done a pretty good job of sobering me. Actually, I could use another drink.

  Jake rummages through the packages, tossing boxes and papers and bags to the floor as he flings garments on the bed. I grab a black, silk nightie and hold it against my chest. It fits me. Like, it’s my exact size. And even over a towel, it looks really good on me.

  “Put this on. You have an appointment in an hour.” He throws a cream colored cashmere sweater and a pair of jeans at me. The nightie falls to the floor as I scramble to catch them.

  “Appointment?”

  “To prep you for tonight. You didn’t think I was going to let you go like that, did you?”

  I look down at my towel dress and frown. “I guess not.”

  “Didn’t think so. Get dressed. Ross is waiting in the lobby when you’re ready. He points to a blue bag hanging from the rack. “There are three different phone chargers in that bag. Charge your phone and stay out of my office.”

  My phone!

  Facebook!

  Toy Blast!

  “By the way, who the hell travels all the way from Mississippi with just the clothes on their back, a Passport, a maxed out credit card and a crumpled up dollar bill?”

  “I have a debit card, too.”

  “There’s less than fifty bucks in your account.”

  “Well, it’s the end of the month. I get paid on the first…wait.” I cross my arms and glare at him. “How do you know all that stuff?”

  “You’re staying at my house, Penelope.” He says it like that’s reason enough.

  “But how do you know all of that?”

  “I went through the pockets of the clothes you so kindly left scattered on my bathroom floor.” Oh my God… Did he see… He smiles. “Yeah. Saw those too. I wasn’t aware they made underwear with I’m your Huckleberry printed on the ass of them.”

  I can’t do anything but stand here and blink.

  “Like I said, you’re staying in my house. You have no secrets anymore. Now, get dressed. Ross is waiting.”

  With that, he turns to leave and I’m left with the realization that he knows everything about me, and though I know plenty about my That Guy, I know absolutely nothing about Jake Swagger.

  “Motherfucker! Yep. That’s it. I’m done.” I scoot up on the table and scissor my legs around the head of the woman who has been so intimately eyeing my vagina for the past twenty minutes. She also removed the first layer of skin from my crack to my clit—after she waxed every other hair on my body. She’s lucky she didn’t catch a foot to the face.

  “We’re all done, anyway. Told you that last strip would be the worst.” She winks at me, this Alexandrea, like she finds this shit funny.

  It’s not funny.

  None of this is funny.

  It sucks.

  If beauty is this kind of pain, I’d rather be a hairy hippo.

  From the time I walked into this upscale spa with its serene atmosphere and flute music, I’ve been anything but relaxed. The deep tissue massage nearly had me in tears. The facial burned like Hell’s fire. My fake nails are too long and I got a nasty look when I said so. And then they send me to get waxed. I thought it was just going to be my eyebrows. I was wrong.

  “Trust me, Miss Sims. You’ll love it.”

  Oh. And everyone thinks I’m a whore.

  “I won’t love it enough to do it again. Trust that.” I tighten my robe and follow her out of the room toward the next torture chamber. If they weren’t so uptight about cell phones, I’d text Jake and tell him how much I hate him right now. And demand that he kisses every scarred inch of my hairless body until it feels better.

  I’d love to think Jake booked this waxing session for me because he plans to fuck me crazy and prefers his woman hairless. But I was informed by him before I left the house that, other than hair and makeup, he didn’t know what all they had in store for me today. Miss Sims had made the appointments herself. I was simply taking her place.

  Miss Sims is a friggin’ masochist.

  We walk into a hair salon that is all white walls and huge mirrors. And, thank you, Lord, no flute music. There are no other clients in the room. Actually, I haven’t seen a single soul other than the people who work here. Did Miss Sims rent out the entire spa?

  “Look at this face!” I don’t know who this guy with the flipped hair and brilliant smile strutting toward me is, but I like him.

  His hands move to my face. Slow. Cautious. Like I’m some elusive piece of art and he fears his mere touch might damage me. “Finally, a challenge.”

  “Hey!” I slap his hands away. “Don’t be a dick.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “No, my sweet southern peach, I meant it as a compliment.” His smile is warm and his eyes sparkle with praise as he drinks in all of my features. “Fixing ugly is what I do. But it will be a true test of my skill to make you any more beautiful than you already are.”

  Oh.

  Well since he said it like that.

  “Come. Have a seat.” He waves me over to a chair that faces a mirror, then makes a big show of flapping the cape before covering me with it. “My name is David Michael. Jake Swagger is a personal friend of mine.” I lift a brow at him. He dismisses the look with a wave of his hand. “Not in a sexual way, unfortunately. But his loss.”

  “Definitely his loss.”

  “He told me about you, Penelope Hart.” Surprised, I look up at him, but he’s studying my hair. “You’re quite the clever girl. But I have to ask, did you mean for things to go this far?”

  His eyes meet mine and I shake my head. “I just wanted to escape a crazed man and his dog.”

  Again, he throws his head back and laughs from his gut. I like how he expresses himself without reserve. It’s infectious—his disregard for everything that isn’t what he’s feeling. And I find myself laughing with him.

  When he settles into a quiet smile, he locks eyes with me in the mirror. “And now you’re Cinderella going to the ball.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Well then, let’s not waste any more time. Jake wants you to fit in so you don’t draw any attention. Which means he wants me to make you look like all of them.”

  “All of them?”

  “The Miss Sims of Chicago. The plastics. The fakes.”

  “Ahh. I see.”

  “Of course I agreed because Jake is not just my friend, but a client. One who tips well enough to cover my rent for the entire month.”

  I nod. “I understand.”

  “But…” He shoots me a mischievous look. “Jake’s not here. To hell with what he said. You deserve to stand out.”

  The idea of standing out, walking into a room like some Cinderella, stopping the show and having all eyes tu
rn on me has my stomach knotting with nerves. “You know, I really don’t mind blending in. But maybe we could take an inch off these nails?”

  He snaps his fingers and a woman appears and takes my hand in hers to study my nails. Then she pulls a file from her smock and starts filing away. This isn’t so bad…

  I watch her work for a few moments, then David Michael’s hands squeeze my shoulders. When he has my attention, he leans down to make his head level with mine as we both stare at me in the mirror.

  “Be honest with yourself, gorgeous. You’re not the kind of girl who blends in. You’re most definitely not Miss Sims. You’re not some Disney Princess, either, are you? So, Penelope Hart, tell me the truth. Who do you want to be tonight?” His voice drops to a whisper. “What kind of girl is it going to take to bring Jake Swagger to his knees?”

  Jake.

  On his knees.

  I whimper a little at the thought.

  There’s only one girl who can bend a man like Jake Swagger.

  “That girl.”

  Chapter Nine

  My Instagram be like:

  #donthatemecauseyouaintme

  #hotaf

  #nofilter

  #thatgirl

  #romcom

  #author

  #research

  #flamingdogshit

  “Smile, Cam!”

  Immediately, Cam goes into selfie mode. Arm on the console, head angled toward the center of the vehicle next to mine, he cups his chin and grins. He looks…gah. He looks gorgeous. Sexy. Arrogant. Rich. All the things girls love. I snap the picture and upload it to Instagram along with the other three I’ve taken.

  Once David Michael was finished transforming me into the most beautiful human on the planet, I’d called Ross to come get me. He was with Mr. Swagger. So it was Cam who showed. I’m so glad he did. My followers are going to eat his ass up.

  “So…you like?” I gesture with my hand over my face and hair.

  “You know I do.”

  True. He had whistled at me when he walked in. Acted interested when I showed off my long lashes, fancy hair and waxed underarms. Twirled me several times like I was wearing a ball gown and heels instead of the bathrobe and slippers the spa provided. He’d grinned from ear to ear and said, “Country ain’t so country no more,” in his best attempt at a southern drawl.

  That was ten minutes ago.

  This is ten minutes later.

  And I’m needy.

  “Am I prettier than the other Miss Sims? Huh? Am I? Am I?” I tease, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

  He laughs. “I can honestly say that you are very different from all the others.” He lets me stew a second on that before adding, “And much, much prettier.”

  I was only teasing, but Cam’s response is genuine. And I flush from the compliment. David Michael did a great job on my hair and makeup, but I still look like me. Anyone who knows me would recognize me immediately. That makes the compliment from Cam even more rewarding. But it doesn’t have the same effect on me as Jake’s opinion. Speaking of him….

  “When is Jake going to be back?”

  “Not sure. He was in a shit mood when he left so my best guess is, something went wrong at the office.”

  “Isn’t he always in a shit mood?”

  Cam smirks. “Only on days that end in y.” We come to a dead stop in traffic and Cam shifts to face me. “He’s not happy about this…arrangement. Partly because he doesn’t like you for what you did and partly because he doesn’t have control over the situation. He got backed into a corner and taking you was his only option.”

  “He doesn’t like me?”

  “He doesn’t like what you did.”

  “You said he doesn’t like me.”

  “For what you did.”

  “Same thing, Cam.”

  “No it’s not, Penelope. So stop frowning.”

  Jake doesn’t like me.

  Of course he doesn’t like you, idiot.

  This sucks.

  This is your punishment.

  I’d rather have a spanking.

  The night is young.

  “You know, me going to this party isn’t the only option. He could always go alone.”

  “That will never happen. If Jake, one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago, walks into the room without a woman on his arm, he might as well wear a sign above his head that says, ‘rich, successful, single man looking for a one-night stand.’ Plus, his grandfather insists he has a date.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “That’s just the way he is. He says these events are for networking with clients, not getting your dick wet. And bringing a date with you helps eliminate distractions. Crazy talk if you ask me. Getting my dick wet is the only reason I go.”

  I picture Cam’s dick in my head. Then feel guilty about it.

  After all, he is my best friend’s future boyfriend.

  But I keep picturing it.

  And it’s…nice.

  I need a distraction.

  “So, tell me about tonight. What can I expect?”

  “To be envied by every woman. Hit on by every man. Scrutinized by every employee of Swagger Corp. Disapproving looks from gramps. A moody Jake. Nosey reporters…” He shoots me a smile. “Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

  “No. It sounds terrible. Will there be anything good at this party?”

  “Duh. Me. And alcohol.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure grandfather will love that. Me getting drunk, grabbing the mic and staggering on stage to tell corny jokes in between hiccups that make me sound like a donkey.”

  “You do have an interesting hiccup sound.”

  “I have some pretty badass dance moves too.”

  “I have no doubt that you do. And you’ll need them.” Our conversation is interrupted by his phone. He presses a button on the steering wheel. “Yes, Mr. Swagger?”

  The shuffle of papers and the sound of drawers opening and closing fills the car. Then Jake speaks and my heart does that pitter patter thing in my chest. “Where are you?”

  “Almost back at your place.”

  “She with you?”

  “She is.”

  “And?”

  “And…what?”

  “How does she look?”

  Cam winks at me. “I have no doubt she’ll be the Belle of the ball.”

  Jake grunts. “Until she opens her mouth.”

  That peckerhead….

  “Is this the part where you promise to fill it if I don’t keep it closed?” I ask, much more blasé than I actually feel.

  The only sound coming from the other end of the call is Jake’s breathing. No words. No background noise. No grunts of disapproval. Just deep, heavy breaths that I wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t listening so hard for his reaction. Or if Cam’s Bluetooth speakers were not state of the art.

  Cam has his hand over his mouth trying to hide his smile. He too seems to be waiting for Jake to say something. What we get is a dial tone.

  “Well....” Cam chuckles. “That shut him up.”

  “Indeed it did.”

  “You should use little sexual innuendoes like that more often when you want to render an asshole speechless.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “I bet that line would work on an even bigger asshole than Jake.”

  “There’s a bigger asshole than Jake?”

  I look at him confused.

  He grins.

  Then it hits me.

  There is a bigger asshole.

  “Grandfather.”

  And there’s no fucking way I’ll ever say something like that to him.

  Surely.

  Maybe.

  Lying.

  I totally would.

  And I probably will.

  This girl?

  The one in the mirror?

  The really good looking one staring back at me?

  Yeah.

  She’s not Penelope Hart.

  But whoever this girl is…well….


  She’s fine as hell.

  The “dress” Jake had altered especially for me, is a sheath column, V-neck, gold sequined gown with a court train. It hugs curves I didn’t even know I had. My C cups look like D cups. My ass looks like a Kardashian’s. The two slits that start mid-thigh on either side of the dress show off my legs that look longer and more toned thanks to the matching six inch strappy heels.

  And this color is definitely my color. My freshly-waxed, olive skin glows against the gold fabric. Add that to my long black lashes, natural glossed lips and simple, yet elegant, side ponytail hairstyle David Michael hooked me up with, and voila!

  That girl.

  I strike a pose.

  Snap a selfie.

  Send it to Emily.

  Wait for a reply telling me how stunning I am.

  I get a middle finger emoji.

  So jealous.

  I know how to walk in heels. And a dress with a train. The first rule is to not look at your feet. But that’s exactly what I’m doing when I crash into Jake’s chest in the hall. His hands grab my arms to steady me and, have mercy.

  His touch is warm and strong and a fire ignites in my panties—if you can call the little strip of lace I’m wearing under my dress panties.

  My gaze travels over him.

  He’s dressed in a tux.

  A black one.

  With a bow tie.

  Not much different than the suit he normally wears. I mean, why do women get all bent out of shape when they see a man who always wears a suit, wearing a tux? Other than that weird thing that goes around their waist that looks like a back brace, isn’t it the same damn thing?

  Still, he’s smoldering. All blue-gray-green eyes and dark hair. Tall and broad and cocky and brooding and studying me with a heated expression—my heels. Dress. Breasts. Neck. Face. Eyes.

  “D-do I look okay?”

  He clears his throat and takes a step back, suddenly stoic. “You’ll do.”

  I’m not even mad. I grin because I know he likes what he sees. And he’s just too much of a cocky bastard to admit it.

  “We need to go over a few things.”

  I do a little heel-kick river dance, snap and point my finger guns at him. “What’s up?”

  “First. Don’t ever do that again.”