Shopping for a Billionaire 3

by Julia Kent

  When a steady contract is at stake, I’m willing to leverage my (not so big) sense of dignity to keep the client happy.

  Unfortunately, I took the same approach with Monica all those years, letting her digs and condescension chip away at me for the sake of Steve.

  “You’ve gotten married?” she gasps, craning her neck around the credit union, looking for an obvious suspect. “Where is he?”

  Amanda reaches for my hand and pulls me close, her shoulder banging against mine as she bends down and kisses my cheek. “He is she. Me. We’re the newlyweds.”

  Monica’s social mask doesn’t just crack. It shatters. “You’re, you’re…” Her mouth twists like she’s accidentally eaten a live gecko. “Lesbians?” The word emerges like that goopy, growling head from John Hurt’s stomach in Alien.

  Amanda looks at her watch and doesn’t answer the question while I do my best imitation of a twelve-pound sea bass being pulled onto a ship with a hook in its eye and mouth opening and closing, unaware of its pending slow, painful death.

  “We both have an appointment in thirty minutes, so could we move on?” Amanda says to Jim in a don’t you dare say no voice. Powerful and commanding, she’s also casual in an enviable way. I almost want to date her. Wait. I’m married to her. I can’t date her.

  Jim rallies. “Of course, of course! Monica, so good to see you,” he says as he reaches to shake her hand. She snatches it away, and instead those demon eyes glare like twin rubies, pointed at me.

  “You’re a lesbian? A married lesbian?” Her tone is that of a preschool teacher explaining that there are seven continents to a group of three-year-olds, as if I don’t know what I am saying and she’s correcting me. She sounds unhinged.

  “Yes,” I say in an out-breath, the word floating off on the air like a fart. She flinches.

  Then her entire face morphs. Jim goes back to his desk and mutters something about getting the paperwork in place. One claw-like hand reaches for my upper arm and pulls me a few feet away from him, and now her words come out in a hurried hiss.

  Amanda follows us, still holding my hand and grinning like a Disney character. If Monica is Maleficent, then Amanda has somehow turned into Dopey in seconds.

  “You like women.”

  “I love women!” I chirp.

  Her frown deepens, eyes flickering left and right as if retrieving memories to process. My hand starts to sweat and Amanda lets go of it, wiping it on her skirt. She shoots me a pleading look, as if to say there’s nothing we can do about this.

  And you know those news reports about people who have cars suddenly plunge through plate glass windows into storefronts and houses?

  I now consider them lucky. Oh please God, send one now.

  But no. Instead, Monica says, tapping a manicured index finger on her peach-coated lips, “It all makes much more sense now.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Amanda and I say at the exact same time in the exact same WTF? tone.

  Monica’s face transforms as she thinks, the locked jaw softening as seconds pass. “Oh, dear. No wonder you and Steve didn’t work out. You were looking for a Boston Wife and he was looking for a wife in Boston.”

  A Boston Wife. I’ve heard the term before. Antiquated phrase used to mean lesbianism long before it was socially acceptable to say lesbian.

  “I dated Steve and loved Steve and he rejected me,” I say, a red cloud of fury growing over my head, ready to unleash a torrent of poison on Monica.

  Jim clears his throat. Did he overhear that?

  “Can you blame my son?” Monica is clutching imaginary pearls so hard I think she’s giving herself a tracheotomy. “He sensed it. He’s intelligent, and he’s a man. A red-blooded, masculine man with needs. You clearly couldn’t give him what he needed, so he left.” She sniffs the air. The gesture is so snobby it makes me bark with laughter. Dame Maggie Smith could take lessons on aristocratic pretension from Monica.

  “We are talking about the same Steve, right?” Amanda asks me. “The same guy who wore his socks during sex and who insisted on making you buy all the Japanese tentacle erotica on your book account so it was never traced back to him?”

  “Some things are meant to be private,” Monica whispers in a scathing voice.

  “Monica, he buys old Japanese prints from the Meiji period and puts them on his bedroom walls. Haven’t you ever taken a good look at what’s going on in those paintings? The octopus hanging on to the woman’s half-naked body isn’t there to be cuddled,” I add.

  Eyes widening, Monica looks like she might pass out. I start to feel guilty. I could really grind the knife in right now, but I don’t.

  “Your red-blooded, masculine man has some really weird Hentai fantasies,” Amanda says flatly.

  “Wait,” Monica says, eyes clouded with confusion. She pulls out her phone and taps into what looks like her text message screen, then reads something. “Steve told me you’re dating Declan McCormick now.” Low whistle. “Impressive.” Her eyes flicker to Amanda. “You accept the fact that Shannon is…bisexual?” That word seems easier for her to say than lesbian, but it still manages to come out sounding like she’s accidentally bitten into a piece of chocolate-covered poop.

  I freeze. Amanda does, too. What can we say? How do I explain to my fake wife that I have a real billionaire boyfriend?

  Amanda laughs. “That’s just business.”

  Monica’s eyebrow shoots to the sky. “You’re pretending to date Declan McCormick? Even Jessica Coffin made a comment about you two as a couple.”

  Amanda grimaces. I know she follows Jessica on Twitter. This is a mess. Certified, Grade A, failed-shop mess. If I admit I’m dating Declan, the entire mystery shop falls apart. If I don’t, Monica will start up the rumor mill into a DEFCON 1 level, complete with whooping sirens and fainting blue bloods.

  I’d rather have my hand stuck in a toilet while eating hazelnut-flavored horseradish.

  Amanda is cutting her eyes over to Jim so sharply she looks like she works for Wüsthof, and she squeezes me with more affection than a three-year-old meeting her first creation from Build-A-Bear. “Right, honey? You’re just dating Declan to make a solid business deal even better.”

  Monica is eyeing me like my mom eyes a seventy-five-percent-off sale at Gaiam. “That’s right.” Fake smile. “I’m working on being more aggressive in business.”

  “Steve would be proud,” his mom mutters. “He tried so hard to help you develop that killer instinct.”

  I open my mouth to say something, and Amanda presses her finger against my lips in what looks like an affectionate gesture.

  “So you’re really, truly not dating Declan McCormick for his looks? His charm? His money?” Monica persists.

  “For his company’s money,” I say, instantly hating the words on my mouth. Trying not to blow my cover means I’m about to blow chunks. Amanda squeezes my hand and nestles closer. I feel green. I’m Kermit the Frog right now.

  “Everyone’s so much happier now, aren’t we? Steve certainly is.” Amanda’s words make Monica back down. She reaches into her purse and fiddles with something on her phone, then looks up at the wall clock.

  Tight smiles all around. We look like the “After” picture from a two-for-one coupon for plastic surgery.

  “Your mother must be very happy to have one of her girls married off.” She pauses. “Again, I mean. I know Carol’s divorced.”

  Oh, no.

  “It was a simple, civil ceremony,” I shoot back. “Not an actual wedding.” I squeeze Amanda. “We’re holding a wedding and reception quite soon.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “At Farmington,” Amanda blurts out.

  Amanda doesn’t realize that Monica is on the board of directors for Farmington Country Club.

  “You can’t.” Monica’s voice becomes low and roaring.

  Jim happens to wander over at this exact moment. “Can’t what?” He’s holding a stack of printouts. I see a mortgage disclosure statement
thicker than a thirteenth-century French stone castle wall in his beefy hands.

  “Can’t have a wedding at Farmington Country Club,” Monica says in hushed tones.

  His expression is bemused. “Why not?”

  Monica blanches. “Because it’s not done.”

  “Weddings are done all the time there.” His eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. Go Jim! You’re getting one hell of an evaluation. At least, after I go puke in a trash can and take four Xanax.

  Monica stiffens. “Of course.” Smile so tight she could slice cheese with it. “We’ll see about that,” which, when translated from Bitchspeak, is actually Oh hell no they won’t.

  Jim gives me a searching look, then grants Amanda one as well. “Shall we?” He holds up the stack of papers. “You newlyweds have a home and a life to start building.” He gives Monica a cold look. “Right this instant.”

  She frowns and pretends to answer her phone, her exit remarkably anti-climatic.

  “Sorry about that,” Jim says as we settle in. I’m guessing another hour or so of paperwork and then we can leave. If only my credit score were higher than my bra size.

  “No problem. It happens,” Amanda says. Her tone is neutral but I know she’s testing Jim. My body is about to supernova with anger and parts of me will turn into ribbons of flesh that stretch into the parking lot and strangle Monica, so I stay silent and just brood.

  “The truth is all over Shannon’s face,” Jim points out.

  “The truth?”

  He looks pointedly toward where Monica just exited, sighs, and pulls out the first paper from the stack, clicking a ballpoint pen. “Some people would rather hide behind a mask than be vulnerable and real.” His eyes are open and respectful, but something darker passes through them.

  And with that, Jim just got the highest score possible on this mystery shop.

  And I lost everything important to me because I couldn’t ditch my mask.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The first person to message me is my sister, who does it to my face.

  “Oh MY GOD,” Amy screams as she crashes through my doorway, nearly flattening the cheap hollow-core door. Her hair springs to life around her like Medusa snakes as her neck snaps up and down between freaking out at whatever’s on her phone screen and making eye contact with me that reminds me of the women in The Handmaid’s Tale when they are sent off to their assignments.

  “What did Mom do now?” I ask. Note to self: get deadbolt for bedroom door. Especially if I plan to have overnight guests.

  Which I do.

  “It’s not Mom. This time. For once.” She paces, her hair like a lady in waiting. I run my hand through my own locks and find a rat’s nest of straight, stringy hair. How does she manage to look like a cross between Merida and Christina Hendricks while I look like a drunk Cameron Diaz in Bad Teacher combined with Melissa McCarthy after that unfortunate diarrhea scene in Bridesmaids?

  Genetics.

  “Then who?” I reach for my phone to check messages from Declan. He was working late last night and then had a board of directors meeting for some big charity organization. We’re meeting tonight at my place for drinks. As in, he’ll drink me and I’ll drink him and eventually we’ll cave in to basic sustenance needs and order Thai takeout.

  “Jessica!”

  “Jessica…who?” I’m rubbing my eyes, trying to wake up. Before being so rudely interrupted I was in the middle of a dream where Declan and I were in a cabana on a beach on some tropical island, naked and tanned and drinking something fruity and delightful out of a half coconut…

  “Coffin!”

  “Jessica Coffin.” I say the name slowly, then open my messaging app.

  157 messages.

  Say wha?

  “Why do I have 157 messages? Steve isn’t THAT crazy!” I shout.

  Amy throws her hands in the air in exasperation. It just makes her look cuter. If I do it, I look like I’m swatting flies. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Her eyes are filled with panic and pity. “Your life blew up last night in cyberspace.” She pauses. “And, soon, real life. Have you heard from Billionaire Boy?”

  “What the hell does Declan have to do with anything?”

  The front door opens and someone shouts “Hello—oh, Jesus! Leave me alone! Those are new shoes!”

  “Chuckles!” Amy and I shout at the same time. The cat had his balls hacked off forever ago but sometimes he still marks his territory, especially on shoes with laces that go up the ankle. As Amanda stumbles into my room shaking her foot, I see I’m right.

  “Why are you wearing gladiator sandals in my place? You know Chuckles pees on them.”

  “Forgive me for forgetting that you have a cat with a lace fetish,” she says back, fuming. “They’re in style right now.” She grabs a towel draped across the back of a chair and starts wiping her foot, cursing under her breath as she teeters off to the bathroom. The faucet turns on just as Amy zeroes in on me.

  I cut her off. “Coffee? I can’t handle a crisis before I’ve had three cups.”

  “Tough luck, sis, because the crisis is here whether you’re caffeinated or not.”

  “And what, exactly, is the crisis?”

  She points to my phone.

  157 messages.

  “Read those while I make you a double espresso. You’re going to need it.” Her ominous warning makes me frown, and Chuckles wanders in with a disapproving look that makes me scan the room for laces of any kind.

  Fortunately, I have a taste in shoes that veers pretty close to that of a skateboarder, so I’m safe.

  He sniffs the air, narrows his eyes, and looks at the phone in my hand. Go ahead, he seems to say. Make my day.

  Now my cat is giving me Dirty Harry lines. This is worse than I thought.

  “But before you read your messages, you need to read Jessica Coffin’s Twitter feed,” Amanda explains as she comes out of the bathroom shoeless. “It’s…well, honey,” she says with a compassion that makes my heart race. “Honey, you need to have that coffee in you.”

  ‘Honey’ is what Declan calls me, I almost cry out. It sounds pathetic and ominous when Amanda does it.

  “How bad can some frozen woman’s Twitter feed be? What does it have to do with my life?” They’re scaring me. She’s just some woman Steve dated. Some woman who wanted Declan.

  “Remember yesterday at the credit union?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “How we ran into Steve’s mom?”

  “Get to the point.” Amy brings me a coffee and I take a sip, burning my tongue. The coffee could peel paint, it’s so strong, but that appears to be intentional.

  Oh, boy.

  “Monica must have said something to Steve who said something to Jessica.” Amanda and Amy share a look that makes my blood run cold. Chuckles smiles. I should rent him out as an interrogator for the Russian mob.

  Oh, this is bad. Really bad.

  “And Jessica—what? Mentioned me on her Twitter feed?” I make a huffy laughing sound. Ludicrous. What’s a Tweet going to do to me? Hurt my Klout score? Ouch. You hurt my fake internet feelings.

  They look at me with alarm. “Yes,” they say in unison.

  I glare at Amanda. “I knew that tentacle porn comment would bring us nothing but trouble.”

  I reach for my phone in slow motion, like something out of The Matrix, except instead of feeling like I’m part of some kickass save-the-world moment, I feel like an insect that is two seconds away from being crushed by the windshield of a Mini Cooper.

  Amanda holds her phone out to me as Amy stares at her and whispers, “Tentacle porn? Do I even want to ask?”

  @jesscoffN says: Lesbians who date billionaires to make big business deals. Sounds like a reality TV show or a trashy romance novel

  “That’s it?” I laugh. “No one cares.”

  “Look at the stream that follows,” Amy says in a voice you’d use to tell someone they’ve walked around in front of the CEO of their corpo
ration with their skirt shoved in the waistband of their pantyhose.

  @bigdealmkr: Let me guess. SJ? Unbelievable

  “SJ? Shannon Jacoby? What? People talking about me online using my initials? C’mon, guys, this is…” My voice disappears as I read the rest. Bigdealmkr is Steve. I remember the day he picked his username.

  @jesscoffN: @bigdealmkr I guess some people are so desperate they’ll stoop to anything, even cheating on their wife to make a business deal

  “What? What?” I scream with laughter. “This is fucking hilarious!”

  “Keep reading,” Amanda urges, nudging my elbow so I’ll drink more coffee. I suck down half the now-cooler cup and my eyes scan the page as I scroll through.

  About twenty people asking Jessica to “dish” or “spill.” Obviously scheduled tweets from Jessica for places to eat or shop.

  “This is nothing!” I insist. And while a creepy, cold electric feeling is growing in my gut, I stand by that. I mean it. This is just stupid online social media crap that doesn’t affect me in real life. Right?

  “Look at the one that Tweets Declan.”

  “Declan?” That cold electric feeling sparks like someone’s flipped a breaker.

  @jesscoffN @anterdec2 How’s business?

  “That’s no big deal.” But my voice is shaking. I’m quivering, the vibrations deep inside, like a flock of birds has been scared by a distant gunshot and needs to flee, flying straight up without a plan or a pattern. Just panicking and needing to move.

  Thousands of birds inside me begin their sudden migration, but there’s no way out. They bang into my bones, my skin, my muscles.

  “He never responds,” Amy says quickly, eyes wide and so blue I want to swim in them.

  “Why would he? He knows it’s bullshit.” But that’s the problem, I fear: does he? When you don’t know what people are saying about you to others behind your back, all you’re left with is your own crazy imagination. And I have a penchant for self-torture that is so strong I should headline at a masochists’ convention.