Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance

by Christie Tegan

  Marley: ?????? I don’t understand.

  Fletcher: Maybe that’s part of the problem. I saw you with your friend at the party. So did many others, I’m sure.

  My friend? What is he talking about?

  Then it dawns on me. Oh my God, he must think I was fooling around with Rico. My first response is panic at losing Fletcher although, let’s face it, I never really had him, did I? Only for one night when he was drunk.

  Then my Irish gets up. Rushing to judgment is his standard MO.

  Well. Fuck. Him.

  Though my heart is cracking in two, my thumbs fly angrily over the keyboard on my phone.

  Marley: So that’s why you abandoned me. Appearances are deceiving—you should know that by now. That man you saw me with was holding a very large knife to my chest. Thank God there was a smart and kind man nearby. He figured out what was going on. Saved me from being kidnapped. So, fine. Goodbye. I’ll be glad to see the end of this stupid arrangement. And you.

  I type all of that out and then decide not to send it.

  Screw him. He’s done with me? Well, I’m done with him too.

  I have a large amount of cash stashed away in my personal bank account from him as well as my own savings. He’s the one who insisted on depositing it there. I’ll consider it payment for all of the trouble he put me through. I’ve got to get out of Chicago now that Rico knows where I am. That man will never stop until I’m six feet under. It’s time to go.

  My rescuer shows up again. “Miss, I managed to get a car for you.”

  He doesn’t give up easily. Because I can’t come up with another excuse, I start to follow him, but I can’t stop myself from distrusting him. It’s not impossible that he’s working for Rico, and together they’re trying to trick me into getting into their car. Maybe this was the plan all along—to lull me into a false sense of security. “Excuse me,” I call out to him. “I still have to duck into the ladies’ room. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Okay, hurry up, or he may not wait.”

  “I will,” I promise.

  As soon as I’m out of his sight, I start looking for a rear exit. My rescuer seemed legitimate, but I cannot afford to trust anyone. I also don’t know where Rico is at this moment. Fortunately, I find a side door and pray to the universe that there’s no alarm on it.

  I realize that I have to run, and time is truly of the essence. My thumbs fly across the keyboard of my phone, sending a text to both Tara and Cilla. I tell Tara that I’m on the way to her place and to wait up for me. Then I slip my phone back into my purse and head out into the dark night.

  I’m doing mental bookkeeping by the time I finally reach the loft, having spent nearly thirty minutes trying to hail a cab at the first major avenue I ran to. And running in spike heels is no easy feat. Or easy on the feet. I waited until I got a few blocks away from the party address just to be on the safe side. How much money exactly do I have in the bank? How many boxes of clothes did I leave in my loft since Fletcher demanded I order a whole new wardrobe? Where in the hell should I relocate? So many questions that need instant answers.

  Tara is already waiting on me. Poor thing, my text woke her up. She must have lots of questions for me—questions I don’t yet have answers for. I’m taking things one small step at a time. The only thing I’m certain about is that I’m never stepping foot in Fletcher’s townhouse again. I fulfilled my part of our arrangement, and now I can do what I want as soon as the divorce is finalized in a few months. Yes, I’ll lose a few possessions, but I can live without them. It’s not the first time I’ve done that, but I hope it will be the last.

  Or I can send Cilla or Tara to get them for me. I feel too savage toward him to ever go back there.

  I’m free again to do what I want to do when I want to do it.

  Freedom should feel good, though. Right? Why then do I feel so damn miserable and sorry for myself?

  Tara stands aside to let me in. She’s wearing a long green T-shirt and nothing else. Her hair is all askew, and her eyes droopy. “I’m sorry, Tar. I just couldn’t go home. Or… not home—his house.”

  “Oh boy.” She sighs. “Listen, you look as exhausted as I feel. Let’s go to bed and talk in the morning. All right? I made up the bed in the guestroom, but if you want to sleep in the master, that’s okay.”

  “No, I-I…”

  “What?”

  “Tar, can I sleep with you in your room? I’m a little freaked out about what happened tonight.”

  Alarm widens her eyes. “That bad?”

  “Worse. Can I?”

  “Of course. Do you need to shower or anything?”

  “No, I’m too tired to do anything more than brush my teeth and wash my face.”

  “Do you have a toothbrush?”

  “I left some in the toiletry drawer. Are there any left?”

  “Probably. Go ahead and use the bathroom. I’m hopping back into bed.”

  “Is the alarm system set?”

  “Yes, I engaged it as soon as we closed the door. You’re safe, honey.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in bed in a sec.”

  I find a toothbrush and paste in the drawer and then wash my face with Tara’s cleanser and use her moisturizer. I take off the dress and stockings. I’ll have to sleep in my lacy underwear unfortunately. When I reenter the bedroom, I see Tara laid out a long T-shirt and fluffy socks for me. Aw, that was so sweet that I almost start to cry. I unhook my bra gratefully and slip the pink cotton shirt over my head, bringing the fluffy socks to the bed. I collapse onto the vacant side of the mattress, too exhausted to even let the extreme stress of the evening keep me awake.

  A bad dream kicks me out of my slumber and, alarmed and disoriented, my eyes fly open. I see by the weak streaks of light in the room that dawn is just breaking. I sit up and look next to me. Tara is sleeping soundly, her breath sputtering in a type of quiet snoring. I gingerly fold back the covers so as not to wake her and tiptoe out into the hall to use the guest bathroom. A ten-minute scalding hot shower later, and I feel better. My main issue now is that I have no clothes to wear that aren’t packed.

  My hair only towel-dried, I wrap the damp towel around my body and head downstairs to make some coffee. While that’s brewing, I go back upstairs, and at the back of the guest room closet, I find the boxes of my stuff. I could kiss myself for labeling each one meticulously so that I know where the majority of the clothes I’m going to need are located. Pulling out a black duffel bag—not sure if it’s mine or Tara’s—I start loading clothes into it, only leaving out something for me to wear now. The dress I wore last night will be my gift to Tara for her inconvenience with possibly more to come if asshole Creed tries to find me eventually—which he will since he needs my signature to officially divorce me.

  For today, since I’ll be travelling, I lay out a pair of light gray jeans, a white cotton Henley shirt with long sleeves, a light-gray sweater, and a pair of gray Converse sneakers with teal accents. My sunglasses are in my clutch purse along with a few items of makeup, my wallet, and my phone. That’s all I brought with me last night, the sunglasses only in there by accident. I empty the contents of the clutch onto the floor then pack the empty purse in the box. In yet another box, I dig for a casual gray fabric backpack listed as being inside. When I packed my stuff, I wrote every item inside in black Sharpie on the flap in case I needed something. At the moment, I want to heartily clap myself on the back for my organization.

  Of course, I find the backpack at the very bottom after clawing through the whole box. I pull it out, and it’s smashed but otherwise perfect. In it I stuff my sunglasses, makeup, a small tub of Vaseline that I filch from Tara’s bathroom, the toothbrush I opened last night and travel-sized paste that was in the drawer (thanks to my dental hygienist), my wallet that luckily I had with me at the party, and an unopened bottle of water that Tara had on her bedside stand. I’ll need to pick up some sunscreen and other toiletries on the road.

  Time to wake up the girlfriend and sa
y goodbye. It’s almost half-past seven, and though I’m leaving, I have no idea where I’m going. I just know it has to be far away.

  “Tar,” I whisper and gently shake her shoulder.

  “Mmm.” She rolls over, away from me.

  “I’m going now. I just wanted to say goodbye. For now.”

  She quickly turns her body toward me. “You’re going? Where?”

  “I have to leave Chicago. It’s not safe for me to stay here anymore.”

  “Why? Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  I sigh. “Rico happened.”

  Bolting up, she grabs my arms. “He found you?””

  “Yes. We were at a party last night. Fletcher stepped away for a few minutes, and the bastard came at me.”

  “Why didn’t you just get Fletcher to help?”

  “He must have seen Rico’s hands on me—like, from a distance—and thought we were together, so he caught a major snit and huffed out. I think he must have taken Tristan, my bodyguard, with him because I had to be saved by a total stranger. Thank God for that man, or I may have never been heard from again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rico told me he had a special room built just for me. Tar, he was ready to kidnap me.”

  “Holy shit.” She rubs the sleep from her eyes and then drops her hands back into her lap. “So now what?”

  “Now, I get as far away from Chicago as I possibly can and start a new life. I can’t go back to the career I was building here because of my marriage to Fletcher Creed, asshole of the year. If I’m in another state and I disguise myself, I might be able to do a job here and there.”

  “What about money for now? Are you flush?”

  “Yeah. He insisted on making a large deposit into my checking account for my travels, so I have that along with my savings. It’ll have to do.”

  Tears spring to her eyes. “Oh, Marls. I’m gonna miss you like crazy.”

  “Me too.” My eyes also well up, and I reach over to give her a tight hug. “I’ll get in touch though. Do me a favor,” I say, sniffling. “Get a prepaid phone. I’ll call Cilla and give her a number of a prepaid phone I pick up and also get yours from her. That way no one can trace my calls. Okay? And I’ll let you know where I end up.”

  I pull up the sleeve of my sweater and wipe the spilled tears. I squeeze her hand. “We’ll be together again soon. I promise.”

  “Okay. I’ll get the phone as soon as I get up and out. Please get in touch as soon as possible.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  I hurry out before I burst into tears.

  On the way down, I swing my backpack on my shoulder, snatch up my duffel, and sprint downstairs to get a coffee. I should already be on the road before anyone can find me—Rico or Fletcher. I’m so done with men.

  The problem—other than my heartbreak of unrequited love and my serious fucking anger of being accused of something I didn’t do—is that I have zero idea of where I’m going. I think I should take a bus first, so there’s no travel record. If I rent a car, I’ll have to use a credit card and that can be traced. If I fly, same thing, plus my destination will be recorded and for the right dollar amount, will be shared, no doubt. Wherever I eventually land, I need to get fake documents, I think.

  Squaring my shoulders, I decide on first things first. Get a prepaid phone. That way I could call Cilla and tell her to give my number to Tara but only after she gets a prepaid phone too. Cilla might be able to give me some good advice.

  I duck into a discount pharmacy and buy a phone. I call Cilla as soon as I step outside.

  “I just checked, and you need a photo ID to buy a long-distance bus or train ticket,” she says after I give her the rundown on my current situation.

  “Shit, really? Now what?”

  “Don’t panic. Listen, dickface Rico doesn’t know about me, so if you come here, you’ll be safe while we figure out your next step.”

  “Two problems. You’re leaving for Europe again, number one. And two, Fletcher knows where you live.”

  “Marls, Fletcher is the least of your problems. You’re just angry with him and with good reason. But the one you need to fear is Rico Holland. So get your ass here, and we’ll get you a photo ID so you can take the train somewhere far away.”

  I head straight over to Cilla’s family’s estate via the ‘L’ and a lot of walking. Naturally when you need to hail a cab, there’s never any available. Like when it rains. She’s waiting for me with open arms—literally. She squeezes me in a tight hug.

  “I’m so sorry you’re going through this crap. Come in.”

  Being the resourceful woman that she is, Cilla found me a photo ID. It’s a blond woman my general age, but that’s about all we have in common.

  Cilla leans over my shoulder to look at it again. “I think we could do your makeup to look more like her. I doubt they’ll be that scrutinizing.”

  “Yeah, okay. It’s worth a shot. Renata Avery,” I say, noting the name. “Dare I ask whose is it?”

  “Renata’s,” she laughs. “She’s a neighbor. It’s a school ID, and she’s done, so she’s okay with losing it. So where will you go?”

  “Um, not sure. What do you think about LA? It’s big enough to get lost in, right?”

  “Yeahhhhh, it is. But you’ll probably never be able to do the kind of work you were doing again, especially there. You know that, right?

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, everyone’s a phony there. Besides, you can’t exactly advertise your services, and word of mouth won’t work all the way from Chicago, plus it can get your location known to the wrong people.” She pauses. “Do you have enough money to tide you over until you can get established in some type of employment?”

  “That’s one thing I can thank Mr. Creed for—he insisted on making a large contribution to my checking account for my trip to Europe. But, yeah, I still have to find some kind of job very soon.”

  “What were you thinking of doing?”

  “I have no idea, but I think I definitely need false docs. Don’t you think?”

  “Probably. I might be able to help you there. What are the other choices besides LA? Do you have any?”

  “Seattle, Portland, San Francisco—a big city is best.”

  “Rate the cities in the order you think you’d like them most. Start out with number one and then spend a few weeks there, and if it gets on your nerves go to the next.”

  “Sensible plan. So Los Angeles it is then.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s a long bus drive. Take the train and get a sleeper.”

  “Yeah, I guess I should. Hey, I need to disguise myself right now in case Rico has anyone watching the stations.”

  “Good idea. Ooh. I have a short black wig that will work. Come on.”

  An hour later I don’t recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Sheesh, maybe if I’d used this wig, Fletcher would never have recognized me from one assignment to the other, and I wouldn’t be in this rotten predicament. The problem now is that my phony ID photo has blond hair.

  Again, Cilla is unflappable. “No problem. I just thought of something.” She runs upstairs and comes bouncing down a minute later with another ID in her hand. “Look!”

  It was a photo of a woman with almost the same exact dark hair color, and it was a driver’s license that was still in force. “Where’d you get this?”

  She holds her slender forefinger to her grinning lips to shush me. “She’s my brother’s girlfriend. Yasmine Kruge. She left it here weeks ago and hasn’t picked it up. You can mail it back to this address when you get to LA.”

  “I’ll do it the minute I sign a lease for an apartment. Will that be OK?”

  “Sure. She doesn’t drive anyway. The girl is never in one place long enough to have a car or a home. Right now, they’re in Greece.”

  “All right, good.” I blow out a deep breath. “I’m going.”

  “Will you call me when you hit LA?”

  “Yep.
I will. And thanks. I always appreciate your advice.”

  “No prob. Love you, Marls. You better keep in touch.”

  “I totally will. And don’t forget to give my number to Tara and make sure you tell her not to call me with anything else but a burner. Or maybe at work if she gets a job.”

  “Oui.” She walks me to the door. “Safe travels.”

  Forty-five minutes later I’m at Union Station. I find the shortest line and buy a one-way premium class ticket with a sleeper to Union Station, Los Angeles. From Union to Union.

  I’m on my way.

  31

  Marley Jacobs

  Two tediously long days later, I check into a small hotel tucked into a dead-end street in West Hollywood. I’m tired, lonely… yes, even scared. I’m wondering if I did the right thing. I pull out my burner phone and call Cilla. She gives me the phone number of Tara’s new drop phone.

  “Omigod, Marley, he’s been blowing up your phone,” Tara nearly shouts in my ear when she answers on the first ring.

  “I figured as much. What’d he say?”

  “Instructions. Kind of mean.”

  My heart starts thudding at that information. “Like…?”

  “Like the fact that despite the separation, you cannot go back to your life of lying for a living. He said that if you comply with all the requirements he lists going forward—before and after the divorce—that he’ll make sure you have sufficient funds.”

  “Oh, fuck him. He’s afraid I’m going to make him look bad. Read me his exact words.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Just read it.”

  “Okay. Here goes: ‘Despite our separation, you may not return to your career of professional deceiver even after our divorce is finalized. If you comply with the rules set forth in our contractual agreement, you will be given more than enough money to sustain your lifestyle. If you don’t, I’ll see you in court. I can promise you it won’t be pleasant or successful for you.’

  “Basically, that’s all he said other than things like ‘Where the hell are you?’ etc.”