Fake It Real: A Billionaire Fake Marriage Romance

by Zahra Girard

  He keeps his eyes on the patient while he talks to me. It’s obvious how concerned he is — that canyon-sized frown hasn’t left his face the entire time he’s been here.

  “David,” he says. “David Belweather.”

  I smile at him. “Nice to meet you, David. I’m Melody. And what’s that good boy over there’s name?”

  “That’s Rex. He’s a Great Dane-Husky mix.”

  I look over at Rex on the table and my smile gets bigger. Even though he’s in obvious gassy discomfort, he’s still wagging his tail and sitting exactly where I left him. He’s a beautiful dog, big like a Great Dane, but with a darker, fluffy coat and some black and white spotting from his husky genes.

  “We’re going to make sure he’s comfortable, set him up with a little IV to keep his fluids up, and give him a little something to soothe his GI tract. He should be right as rain in the morning. There’s no fever, and his heart rate is normal, which is really good. He probably just ate something that upset him.”

  David has his eyes glued to Rex. “You think so?”

  “I’m pretty sure, David.”

  “He’s my best friend. Only friend, really, since my wife passed,” his voice shakes a little. “He’s the one who makes sure I get up each morning to take a walk.”

  I look over at Rex again, who’s whimpering and moving a bit like he wants to get off the table and get closer to David. I head over and pet him while Alice comes back in with the IV. Even though Alice knows how to hook an IV up and has done it plenty of times on her own, I do this one myself.

  “You’re going to be all right, boy,” I whisper as I slip the needle in.

  Rex doesn’t make a peep. Except when he lets out a bit of gas and then he whimpers and puts a paw over his face like he’s embarrassed.

  “He really is a sweetheart, isn’t he?” Alice says, petting Rex while I double-check the dog’s vitals. I’m pretty certain of my diagnosis, but I want to make sure as heck that this dog is going to turn out fine.

  “Did he eat anything unusual lately?” I say.

  David shrugs. “Not that I know, but it’s possible. I lost track of him at the park for a little while and he’s always been curious,” he pauses, considering. “It was after that when he started having problems, and I know the fire department had a bbq at that park the other night.”

  “Well, there you go. Rex probably helped himself to some leftover steak when he shouldn’t have,” I say, still petting the dog. “We’ll need to keep him overnight for observation. Al, can you take David up front and get him set up with the paperwork?”

  She nods. Though I’m all focused on making sure Rex is comfortable, inside I’m heaving a great big sigh of relief. Finally, a paying customer.

  Out front, I hear Al saying goodbye to David, and David calls out goodbye to Rex, who burps and then barks happily, then burps and makes the kind of mess that has me holding my nose.

  The little bell we have hanging on the front door chimes to signal David’s departure.

  “Drinks later? Once we get Rex settled in?” I call out to Al. “My treat.”

  “You sure?” she answers, coming down the hallway.

  She stops. She sees.

  “Oh.” She sniffs. “Shit.”

  I nod. “Yeah. So… Drinks?”

  She nods.

  “Drinks.”

  Chapter Two

  Melody

  I step out of my car in front of the Rook’s Roost and pause. Above me, the sky glows a deep violet, slashed with brush strokes of orange and scattered streaks of red piercing wispy white clouds, leading to a bright, blazing ball that’s slowly subsuming beneath the horizon of the Pacific.

  The air drips with brine that tickles the inside of my nostrils, clean and brisk and if I strain my ears, I can hear the seabirds caw at one another and the crashing sound of the changing tides.

  I never planned on putting down here in Rockaway Bay; it’s small, it’s a stopover, it’s far from anywhere. But it’s beautiful.

  I saw that sunset when I stopped here on my way to somewhere new and I just knew that this was the place. I’d settle here and I’d make it work.

  At least I got half of it right.

  “You all right, Mel?” Alice asks.

  “I’m fine. The sunset’s beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”

  She nods, snaps a picture on her phone, and then motions for me to hurry up and stop staring.

  My phone buzzes at me — Alice Meraux has just posted a new photo.

  I give it a like.

  “Come on, happy hour’s almost over.”

  We hurry through the parking lot of the Rook’s Roost, even though we really have no reason to hurry. The bar’s owner, Jim Bishop, hasn’t charged us full price in ages.

  Inside, the bar is everything a dive bar aspires to be. It’s dark, but inviting, and every bit of wood shines with the polish of decades of use. It feels like the kind of place that’s been around as long as Rockaway Bay’s been a town, like civilization just sprung up around it, lured by the promise of cheap cocktails and tasty beer.

  “The usual, ladies?” Jim says before the door’s even shut behind us.

  “Thanks, Jim,” I call out.

  We smile and wave to the locals that we recognize, and by the time we’re at the bar counter Jim has my drink — an extra strong mojito — done and Alice’s strawberry daiquiri in the works. The air fills with the scent of fresh berries as Jim fires up the blender, and my eyes light up and my mouth waters at the scent.

  Grinning, he hands a few extra berries to Alice and me.

  “They’re in season. Got a nice batch of these just this morning from a buddy of mine. He’s got a whole mess of ‘em growing on his property.”

  They’re sweet and tart and succulent.

  “Jim, for my next round, gimme a daiquiri, too.”

  He winks at me. “You got it,” he says, handing the two of us our drinks. “And these, ladies, are on the house.”

  “You’re kidding. Come on, Jim, we’re not that poor,” Al says. “Well, we are, but we have pride.”

  He laughs. “Business has been real good, lately. The other night, all the firemen came in here after their bbq, and those boys can drink. Plus, last night, Doc Anderson came in before he skipped town for his annual trip to Pebble Beach and bought the whole house a round. Twice.”

  “Well, we’re still going to tip you. Generously,” I say, now even more determined than ever to deny just how poor I am.

  “Ladies, you just drink your drinks and let this old man enjoy the fact that he’s treating the two prettiest women in town, ok?”

  I sip my mojito and blush a bit.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Al says.

  The two of us wander through the bar to find a table. It isn’t as easy as it usually is — the summer crowds are starting to come through, people stopping over on their way to somewhere else on the Oregon coast. Portland, Salem, Coos Bay, Cannon Beach.

  “Sit down, girls,” our friend Alanna calls out, beckoning to Al and me from across the room.

  She’s got a cigarette pinched between two fingers and a man wrapped around another.

  We join her at her booth. It’s her and her man on one side, sitting so close together you could probably cram another two people in, and Al and I on the other.

  I’ve never seen this guy before, but, then, I could say that every night I run into her.

  “Alice, Melody, I’d like you to meet Bruce,” Alanna says, gesturing to each of us with her cigarette. “Bruce is new in town,. He’s stopping over on his way to a Cardiologists conference in Portland.”

  “Hi, nice to meet you ladies,” Bruce says, holding out his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I say and shake his hand awkwardly. Al does the same.

  He seems nice enough. His brown eyes are kind, his smile’s genuine, and he’s got a nice crop of brown hair on his head, though it’s cut in a slightly-unflattering way for the shape of his head.

  Bruce
is also about twenty years Alanna’s junior and, as smart as he might be, he’s in way over his head with her.

  “Be a darling and get us another round, would you?” Alanna says and Bruce dutifully hops up out of his seat. The second he’s up and headed towards the bar, Alanna breaks out a shark-like grin. “Do you see the ass on him? It’s all muscle — he played football back in college.”

  “You are insane,” Al says, though her eyes drift after Bruce. “But you’re also correct.”

  “It’s not insane. We’re both entirely honest with each other about what we want and expect. We’re consenting adults,” she says. “To be fair, I do have a slight feeling this one might become a bit clingy tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ve told him this is going to be a one night thing, right?”

  Alanna gives me a look that can only be defined as the physical embodiment of duh. “Of course, Melody. But I don’t think he realizes what kind of epiphany he’s going to have tonight. In which case, I just want to give the two of you fair warning that, should he decide to get clingy, I might skip town for a while.”

  Alice and I both shrug.

  “What do you even do for a living that you can just skip out when some guy gets inconvenient?” Al asks, eyebrow arched.

  “I get by,” Alanna says, pondering the glowing end of her cigarette.

  “Are you a spy?” I say.

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  Al snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it! She’s a serial killer.”

  Alanna scowls. “I am not.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” I say.

  “What the hell? How?”

  Nodding, Alice continues on explaining her theory. “Think about it. I’ve never seen Alanna with the same man twice. Not once. She goes home with them, they disappear, and somehow, she has enough money that she can go off for stretches at a time and she never has to work a real job. Obviously, she’s killing these men and stealing their assets.”

  “Probably harvesting their organs, too. Or maybe she’s eating them. That’s why there’s no bodies,” I add.

  “You monster,” Alice gasps.

  “I am not a serial killer,” Alanna practically shouts, just as Bruce returns to the table, carrying a pint of beer and a glass of white wine. “And I am not a cannibal.”

  “Alanna?” Bruce asks, looking entirely befuddled. “What are they talking about?”

  “Nothing, darling,” she says.

  Al takes the glass of wine out of Bruce’s hands and takes a sip. Her eyes shoot open wide. “Chianti! I knew it! Run, Bruce!”

  Bruce stays put. But only because he looks too confused to know just how the hell to react.

  My eyes narrow and I give him a stern look. “Mister, you are one wrong step away from having your liver eaten with a side of fava beans.”

  Alice and I both do the Hannibal Lecter creepy sucking noise.

  Bruce starts backing away.

  Alanna stands up. “They’re joking, darling. It’s just a silly game.”

  Al and I share a profoundly frightened look before looking at Bruce.

  I nod, reluctantly. “Yes. Whatever she says.”

  “Please don’t hurt us, Alanna. We don’t want to end up like the others,” Alice says.

  “Argh, I could kill you two,” Alanna growls.

  “Alanna-bil the Cannibal,” Al and I say in unison and we scramble out of our seats, with Bruce following right behind us.

  We get about ten feet before we stop and Bruce about runs into my back, pushing between Al and I and heading on towards the exit.

  I reach out and grab his hand and plant my feet hard to bring him to a stop.

  “Dude, we were just messing with you,” Al says.

  Bruce looks unsure.

  “She is not a killer cannibal,” I say, patting him on the arm and using the same voice I use with a reluctant animal. I call it my Alpha voice. It works. “Be a good boy, go back to the booth and enjoy your date.”

  “Yeah, go get laid, dude,” Alice adds.

  Bruce, almost reluctantly, heads back to sit next to Alanna. Al and I wave to her to say we’re sorry, before we get our own places at the bar.

  “She is going to eat him alive,” Al says, sucking up the last drops of her daiquiri. “She’ll probably skip town again, too. Bruce is totally a clinger.”

  I nod. “Do you know what she really does for a living?”

  Jim plunks a second set of strawberry daiquiris down in front of us and I tuck into mine right away. It’s delicious, and sweet, and creamy, and boozy. Perfect.

  “Nobody knows,” she says, shaking her head. “She just showed up one day when I was in high school, and settled in like she’d lived here forever. I’m not even sure Alanna is her real name.”

  “Maybe she is a killer,” I say, almost whispering, despite the fact that Alanna’s on the other side of the noisy bar.

  “No way,” she says, affecting a posh accent. “Killing is beneath Alanna Greco, darling.”

  There’s a rap-rap on the bar right next to me and I look up to see Jim, holding his phone in the crook of his shoulder, while stirring two martinis with his free hands.

  “Yes, Sheriff Dawes, she’s right here,” he says, telling me with his eyes that I better pay attention. “Both of them are here. Uhuh, yes, I’ll let them know.”

  Al and I are both staring at Jim while he finishes mixing the drinks and then hangs up the phone. The man doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t mince words, either.

  “You both need to get back to your clinic, right now. Someone’s been stabbed.”

  Chapter Three

  Melody

  I’ve accomplished a lot in my year here in Rockaway Bay, I think as I park back in front of my office. I’ve got my own business — even if it is failing — and I’ve started a new life. It’s an accomplishment, it’s something to hold on to, even if I’m so close to losing it.

  And now I’m host to a crime scene, apparently.

  It’s such a proud moment for me, I almost feel like stopping in the parking lot and taking a picture with Al before we go inside. That way, when I’m older, I can look at the pic and wistfully rub the screen of my phone, with a tear in my eye as I remember one of the lowest points in my life.

  Al and I both hop out of my car and run inside.

  Sure enough, there’s Sheriff Phil Dawes. One of Rockaway Bay’s finest.

  Phil’s in decent shape, has buzzed blond hair, blue eyes, and is crazy-tall. Any chance he gets, he’ll tell you about his time playing college basketball for USC thirty years ago, before an ACL injury sidelined him forever. He was a center and, according to him, he blocked shots with authority.

  Now he spends his time blocking crime, also with authority.

  He’s not the only one in the front office. And the new guy draws the breath right out from my lungs. Whoosh. And not in a bad way.

  Green eyes that just seem to stare into me, medium-length dark hair that’s perfectly disheveled. And a smirk. It’s a smirk that on any other face would upset me or irritate me, but, on him, on his stubbled, handsome face, that smirk twists my insides and makes me feel warm all over.

  He looks like pure sex, and smells like whiskey, smoke, and spicy-sensual cologne.

  So the two of us, we burst into my front office in a huff expecting the worst and then stop and stare.

  Al grabs my arm and squeezes. She’s feeling it too.

  We share a look.

  Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.

  “What?” I say. And I barely force that word out.

  Way to be eloquent in front of the hot guy, I think.

  The new guy, that I just cannot stop staring at, holds up one of his cuffed hands and I see it is covered in blood.

  “Fun town you got here,” he says, dryly.

  “There was a stabbing at The Crossroads, that biker bar a few miles down the highway, and this one put three bikers in the hospital,” Phil says, his voice very matter-of-fact
and cold. “I need you to patch him up.”

  “They thought it’d be a good idea to try and borrow my bike,” the hot guy says. “Turns out, those bikers aren’t that smart.”

  “That’s a man,” I say, pointing. Again. So eloquent, Melody. Way to make a first impression. Somehow, my tongue keeps going. “We’re veterinarians. We don’t work on people — we work on cats and dogs.”

  “That man is not a dog,” Alice adds.

  “There’s quite a few woman that would disagree with you on that point,” the mystery man says.

  He seems remarkably calm for a man whose hands are so red looks like he’s been finger painting all day. He might be dripping blood everywhere, but he’s also just plain dripping with confidence.

  How much blood has he lost? A pint? Two?

  Sheriff Phil grabs the guy by the arm and starts dragging him towards one of the back examination rooms.

  “Ladies,” he says over his shoulder. “I understand this isn’t exactly your purview, but Doc Anderson’s out of town and, well, Rockaway Bay ain’t the biggest place; there’s no one else to stitch him up. Don’t worry about getting in trouble — Good Samaritan laws in Oregon are pretty forgiving and I ain’t going to report you. So, you going to help me or what?”

  Al and I share a look and then we hurry up to follow the sheriff. Once in the room, she goes about getting from the cabinets the equipment we’ll need — gauze, stitches, needles, surgical tape, iodine — and I carefully pick at the man’s shirt and start to peel it back.

  Sitting as he is, every bit of his eight pack abs is taut and on display, and his pecs stand out on his chest like solid slabs of muscle. They flex and move and I look up at him and there’s that smirk again.

  Safe to say, the patient works out.

  “We’re going to need to get this off you, so we can clean the wound and stitch it up, ok?” I say.

  He chuckles.

  “Do you really think I’m going to object to a beautiful woman wanting to take my clothes off?” he says, winking at me.

  And then he slips his shirt off and my mind slips out of focus as I take in the sight of him — his muscled form stretching and extending as he takes off his shirt — and, when he tosses it into the corner, he gives me this look that quite blatantly says he’s happy to keep stripping.