by P. Dangelico
Walking up to the door, I say, “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Champ.” Slamming it shut, I lock it. Because I really don’t put it past him to come in while I’m sleeping.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning while I’m busy preparing breakfast, elbows deep in eggs, he thunders into the kitchen. There’s power to his stride and energy of purpose surrounding him. Basically, he means business and he wants me to know it. His relentless stare is making my hair curl and I can’t even get a kink out of it with a hot iron. The only reasonable thing for me to do is to continue stirring the scrambled eggs and pretend he doesn’t exist.
“What’s it going to take?”
I don’t dare look at him. Instead, I shovel some eggs on Sam’s plate. “Strawberry or grape jelly?” I ask Sam, who is sitting at the counter.
“Strawberry,” is Sam’s slow reply because his attention is completely on Calvin, whose attention is completely on me. I spread the jelly on Sam’s whole grain toast as slowly as possible.
“I’ll have some eggs,” the big man looming over me eagerly announces.
When I look up, I don’t like what I find––at all. He has his game face on, the one that’s won him championships and some shit.
Exhaling deeply, I get a plate, push the rest of the scrambled eggs on it, and add a few slices of toast. He has not yet given up on trying to stare me into submission, even as he devours his food.
“Sam, why don’t you go brush your teeth and I’ll meet you in the playroom after I speak to your uncle.” Sam doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s up the stairs before I can even finish my sentence.
I brace myself for the onslaught of Cal’s force of will. Bend not break is my motto today. I am determination with a capital D. “Okay. Give it your best shot so I can say no, and we can go about our business like this never happened.”
“Name your price.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone’s got one, honey.”
Honey? “I’m starting to worry. Is this what dementia looks like, or is it just regular garden variety stupidity? You’re a gorgeous, famous professional athlete. Walk out the front door and ask the next woman that walks by to do it––or man, whatever tickles your tail. But it won’t be me.”
“You think I’m gorgeous?”
Huh? What? Where do I go from here? How did I even get here? But I’m not given time to respond. Nope. He doesn’t even slow down when he sees the expression on my face––an equal amount of anger and frustration.
“Look, I need someone I can trust to keep me from getting molested every time I walk out that door.” Hands buried in his sweatpants, he shrugs up his big shoulders and bites the inside of his cheek. “I need you.” That’s the second time he’s used those words so clearly the first wasn’t a slip of the tongue.
Had he mentioned the money one more time it would have been so easy, soooo easy to refuse. But having him stand there like a big lump of sorry ass man, looking distressed and asking for my help jolts my cold, dead heart to life. I can hear the crack. I’m starting to break.
“Is that a yes? Your lips are movin’ but nothin’s coming out.” The twang is back.
Can you kill someone with a glare? “What exactly is your diabolical master plan?” I say, going with full-on scathing sarcasm.
“You come with me everywhere I go and pretend to be my girlfriend.”
“And I get?”
“Money and protection.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d joined the Cosa Nostra.”
His eyes narrow and magically he’s back to being his usual arrogant self. “You know what I mean.”
So I call his bluff. This should fix him. “It’ll cost you. I want to go back to to grad school and get a masters in child development. You can pay for all three years.”
“Done.” Not a blink. Not a blush. No hesitation whatsoever.
“You said that a little too quickly. Do you have any idea what kind of money we’re talking about?”
“’Bout three hundred grand?”
The thrill that chases up my spine at his words really is beneath me, shamefully so. Immediately, the pathetic me makes a pitch for him…
He did pay you a hundred thousand and put you up in a beautiful room when you had less than fifty bucks to your name. He pays for food and lets you use his car. He asked you nicely.
My standards have officially hit rock bottom.
“Please,” he says in a low, quiet voice. That one softly spoken word is my Achilles heel. My undoing. One look at the vulnerable anticipation on his face kills my resolve, the crack splitting wide open.
“You don’t have to pay me,” I groan.
“Take the money. I want to pay you.”
“I already have a sparkling reputation as a crook by proxy, I’d rather not add ‘paid escort’ under my name as well. We’ll try it your way, for a while. Who knows, maybe you’re right. But if any of this starts to go bad, I expect you to fix it.”
“You have my word. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
I look up in the silence and find his expression strangely serious. An ominous foreboding parks itself in my gut. However, I’ve just given him my word––all I have left of any value––and I intend to keep it. Let the doomsday countdown begin.
“He’s your boyfriend?” my mother screeches.
“Keep it down. I haven’t explained it to Sam yet.
Sam is still inside petting my cat, Dozer, and watching a rerun of Phineas and Ferb. Or what used to be my cat and is now my mother’s. That nasty beast took one look at me, turned tail, and plopped down on Sam’s lap, a big grin spreading across the latter’s face.
“But he’s a Titan,” my dear father shouts. Yes, he’s shouting. The man that barely made a peep when I explained that my husband had embezzled millions of dollars is close to shouting over an imaginary boyfriend because he plays for the other team. Head shaking, he tears his disbelieving gaze from me long enough to flip the burgers on the outdoor grill. Just now I notice that he’s wearing an apron. Across it, ‘Mr. Hot Stuff’ is written in flaming red letters.
“I said it’s a fake. We’re not dating. He’s not my boyfriend.” I’m almost shouting too now.
“He’s a fugazi?”
Gooood grief. “Yes, Dad.”
“Why would you do this? A fake boyfriend? Why would anyone want a fake boyfriend?” chimes in my mother again.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. “Nobody wants a fake boyfriend and I didn’t do anything, Mother.” Trying to convince my mother of that is going to be tough sledding. “Did you not listen? This was all Calvin’s idea…but the plan has merit.”
As much as I want to throw Calvin under the bus, I’m not going to. On the drive over, I thought and thought, and even if I still believe it’s too much risk for very little reward, for me that is, I have to admit that he’s much more media savvy than I am. He’s been in the public eye for most of his life. He should know about this stuff, right? Maybe this farce can clean up my image a bit. In other words, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m trusting him to know better. Trust. Yes, I’m using that word in the same sentence with someone of the male gender. This is a shocking turn of events. However, it’s not the gender I’m trusting, it’s the man.
“Can I tell the guys at work?” my father has the nerve to ask.
“I’d rather you didn’t. We’re not advertising it. I just thought you should know in case it got out.”
“What do we tell our friends?” My mother is truly at a loss. I almost feel bad for putting her through this, involving her in more of my personal drama. “I’m a very bad liar.”
“I know, Ma. If they ask…just tell them…I’m homeschooling his nephew and we’re still getting to know each other. It’s not serious.”
“A fake boyfriend,” she grumbles, her shoulders slumping as she walks into the house. “What has this world come to?”
By the time my mother wraps up enough leftovers to
feed a small nation, and I tear Sam away from her persistent hug, we get home around nine. The best part of the evening was when my mother’s fancy cappuccino machine got clogged and my father decided to take it apart and fix it. Sam was by his shoulder, watching as if it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. The kid definitely has a bright future as an engineer if he wants one.
As soon as I park the Yukon, Sam is on his way to get ready for bed. I’m in the kitchen, putting away the leftovers, when a rap on the countertop causes me to glance up. Calvin is sitting on one of the stools, the weight of his stare heavy on me. He’s so large and imposing that he actually makes the massive island look regular sized.
“Did you eat?” I ask tentatively. I don’t know how to talk to this man. I don’t know if I’ll get grumpy Shrek, or the guy signing autographs that made me cry. This moment is no different. He shakes his head slowly. “Do you like meatloaf? It’s lean, mostly veal. I can warm it up for you.”
He gives me a brief nod that makes me feel like I just won something important.
“Where’d you go?”
Wow, actual words. Turning toward the gas stovetop, I get busy warming up his food.
“My parents. They were dying to meet Sam.” He nods absently. “Cal…where are his parents?” I place the dish in front of him and wait patiently for his answer. His brow tightens into a scowl and his eyes move to the food he enthusiastically digs into.
“My sister’s in rehab. I don’t know where his father is. They were never married. He stuck around for a year. We haven’t heard from him since.” Frustration and anger radiate from his expression, tension rolls off the rigid set of his shoulders.
“Is she going to be okay?”
He meets my eyes and pauses for a beat. “I don’t know. She’s just like my mother.” As the confession leaves his mouth, my heart lurches. We’re wading into very personal waters here and I don’t want to overstep.
“How?” Curiosity gets the best of me.
Narrowing, his eyes move off into nothing. I watch his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “A drunk.” I can tell by his posture and expression how it hurts him, how sensitive he is about it. I’m dying to know more. Although he’s being so forthcoming, I’m almost afraid the spell will be broken if I push.
“Is that why I never see you drink?” A small shrug. That’s the only answer I get. A teeny, little baby shrug. “They’re lucky to have you.” The words are out of my mouth before I have time to stop them. His gaze meets mine. Then he gets up and walks to the sink, and I know he’s done talking about it. He looks pensive as he washes the dish. “There’s a wedding I have to go to next weekend.”
I’m too busy thinking about what he’s just told me. I’m barely listening, but I catch it, something odd in his voice. Wedding. Okay. Sure. Whatevs. Wiping his large hands on a paper towel, he turns and stares me right in the eyes and says, “You’re coming as my date.”
“I’m going as his date,” I say past a mouthful of maraschino cherries I snagged from the bar well. I waited all night to tell Amber. Yes, I’m a coward. And I didn’t even consider telling her about his quarter million dollar offer.
She slips her arms into her jean jacket and simply stares. Amber speechless is a rare thing. “Da fuck??” she finally screeches.
“I know, I know, I know. I had it out with him the other day, but he’s convinced it can benefit both of us.” I grab my purse and we begin to walk out the back door. It’s like someone pushed the button on spring, the weather getting remarkably warmer overnight.
“I can’t wait to hear more about this stinking pile of bullshit.”
“He doesn’t want women hanging all over him, and he seems to think that his superstar, king of New York status can whitewash my tarnished reputation.”
“I don’t know, Cam––” she offers, her skepticism coming through loud and clear.
“I know. I’m hoping it can distract people long enough to forget about Matt.” What I don’t say, though we both know, is that it’s impossible for me to say no to someone who asks for my help. Impossible.
“If he hurts you, so help me God they’ll find him floating on the Hudson in five separate coolers.” That’s Amber for you. Girlfriend always has my back.
“I admire your creativity, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
We spot the Range Rover waiting at the curb at the same time. Hanging out the window, he’s signing autographs for two young dudes who look like they can’t believe their luck.
“Your chariot awaits,” Amber drawls.
“You want a ride?”
“It’s warm out. I’m hoofing it.” Calvin glances up and when he catches us standing there, his eyes hold mine. “Too bad you can’t use him for sex. He’s hot as fudge.”
“I believe the expression is ‘hot as fuck’.”
“Why is that a thing? There must be a lot of optimistic virgins out there using this verbiage because at best the odds are fifty/ fifty when in reality it’s closer to seventy/thirty in favor of it not being hot at all––” There’s no stopping her once she’s on a rant. “Where as fudge is almost always hot.”
“Duly noted. Hot or not, he’s the last person on the planet I would use for sex. Even if that was even remotely on my mind, which it isn’t.”
“It will eventually. You’re too young to be alone.”
“Doesn’t matter. Everything south of the border is dead. My cooch is broken.”
Snorting, Amber replies, “Your cooch is not broken. It’s just…taking a refreshing nap, waiting for a hot as fudge babymaker to come along.”
“No thanks. Any kids that man manages to spawn will be mini Shreks.”
“Grumpy and cute?”
“Yup.”
“I like Shrek.”
With a huff, I grumble, “So do I.”
Before heading off, Amber narrows her eyes at Calvin, lifts a finger to her neck, and ever so slowly drags it across her throat. I have to give him credit––Calvin doesn’t so much as bat a thick black lash.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning we leave for the Hamptons bright and early. I’m elated to learn that Sam is coming with us. Both the bride and groom have a couple of kids from prior marriages, as well as the ones they share, which means there will be plenty of kids in attendance for him to play with. Sam seems to have a hard time communicating with other kids, something I noticed at the playground, and frankly it’s been bothering me for a while.
When I asked Calvin what the dress code for the wedding was, he magically produced a number of garment bags from Barneys and handed them to me without a word of explanation. There are so many things wrong with that I don’t know where to begin, however, I wasn’t going to spend money I don’t have to dress the part of a fugazi girlfriend. Hence, I accepted the clothes without complaint.
The weather is unusually temperate for early May, the road to the Hamptons clogged with traffic. While Sam is busy watching Minions in the back seat, my gaze strays to the make believe boyfriend sitting in the driver’s seat.
A long, muscular arm is extended, his wrist sitting on the wheel while his large mitt hangs down. His sleeves are rolled up and I spot the intricate scroll of a tattoo on the inside of his arm. I’d noticed it a while ago, and even though I’m insanely curious, I’m still not brave enough to ask about it. He got a haircut. Hallelujah. It’s not too short or long, and I determine this suits him.
“What are you staring at?”
“Your haircut looks good.” I inspect some more. “What happened? Did you run out of razors?” The bottom of his face is covered with scruff, though at least it’s neat. For this, I get a grunt. Then my eyes skim over the pale, lavender shirt he’s wearing––clearly no issue with his masculinity––and designer jeans. I just can’t help snickering. Personally, I like his clothes, but I’d rather pull all my teeth out with a monkey wrench than admit that to him.
“You got a problem with something?” The inquiry is delivered with a bit of
an edge to his voice, his eyes trained on the road ahead.
“Seriously, what’s with the clothes? When I met you, you looked like someone scraped you off the bottom of a moonshine barrel and now you’re Derek Zoolander?”
After a long, long pause, he says, “I like clothes.”
“You don’t say.”
Another decade’s worth of silence, and he adds, “I never had any growin’ up…other than what we got from church.” His twang is more pronounced than ever. Lord have mercy. Why didn’t he just kick me in the teeth? It would’ve hurt less. My poor, poor bleeding heart can’t take it. I’m a pathetic sucker for a hard luck story and his are beginning to pile up.
“And what is the deal with the beard,” I question, desperately trying to lighten the mood.
“People don’t recognize me.”
“You mean women.”
He shrugs, his face as still as death. It’s so easy for me to read him now, to make his gorgeous ass squirm…like fishing with dynamite. When did that happen?
“Yes, what a hardship it is to be a sex symbol.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a semi-disgusted look on his face. “Maybe posing naked on the ESPN magazine body issue wasn’t the best idea, Champ.” The tortured look on his face is so precious I wish I could get a picture of it.
“That wasn’t my idea,” he snaps.
“Oh really? Whose was it then?”
He grumbles something in a super low voice that sounds like, “My ex.” Hmm. Interesting. His eyes dart from the road to me. “You saw that?”
I didn’t. Amber mentioned it. However, I’m having too much fun to stop now.
“Who didn’t? You were on the cover––naked. Did they grease you up for that picture? You looked shiny.” He looks like he wants to melt into the floorboard of the car. I have to turn my head away from him and bite my lower lip to stop the laughter from busting loose. “What’s so horrible about women finding you attractive anyway? Present company excluded of course.” At this I get a slow turn of his head, a narrowing of eyes, and a small twitch of his plump lips.