Pretend Married (A Billionaire Love Story)

by Nikki Wild

  “You’re my publicist, Jess,” I told her after a quick, refreshing sip. “How do I get my big, grinning mug on a commercial?”

  Jess sighed. “Do you want me to answer as your friend, or as your publicist?”

  “Both, obviously.”

  “Well, as your publicist, you need to clean your fucking act up – and fast. No more of these stunts. The only reason you even have a ghost of a chance anymore is that the entire country bloody well loves you. You’re a national icon, regardless of the pair of lips around your cock at any given moment. If you really want this sponsorship deal with the Patrovo Corporation… something’s gotta give, and it’s gotta give now.”

  I read her eyes thoughtfully, tempted to lash out about my various trophies, athletic stats, or how vital to pop culture I already was.

  But I trusted Jess.

  I valued her.

  And as an old friend and a talented representative, I let her speak to me in ways that would earn scathing destruction under any other circumstances.

  “So that’s Publicist Jess speaking,” I commented gruffly. “What about the other one?”

  “As your friend?” Jess asked.

  I nodded quietly.

  Her eyes flashed wildly again, and that smirk slipped back across her lips. As I felt a heavy pit in my stomach, she leaned forward, whispering as if anyone could hear us in this private pub room.

  “I think I have an idea…”

  My skepticism somehow found a new height. “An idea, yeah?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Am I going to like this?”

  “Well, that depends…” Jess mischievously remarked, taking another swig of her drink.

  “How do a few weeks in America sound?”

  “Why the bloody hell would I want to go to America?”

  Jess slapped a hand down on the table. “Because in America, nobody knows your name.”

  20

  Riley

  The canvas sang with streaks of color as I dashed my palette knife along the taut material. Beneath my deft strokes, a serene landscape was springing to life, filled with clouds, mountains, and trees… and for the foreground, a hilltop pasture.

  This was what I lived for.

  Painting came naturally to me. On my mother’s side of things, a thick streak of artistic creativity ran in the family. My grandmother had been a skilled seamstress and designer. My mother had been particularly skilled in sculpting.

  That left me: Riley Ricketts, the painter.

  Happiness was an empty canvas and a broad spectrum of vibrant paints, all ready for the skillful dance of my wrist. I favored a water-based style, coating the blank vessel of my artwork with a thin layer of clear-coat before adding in the surreal colors with a palette knife, a half-inch brush, or the edge of whatever expendables I had nearby.

  I’d painted with sponges, crushed chocolate wrappers, Lego bricks, even steel wool. A consummate improviser, I worked with whatever was accessible and necessary to achieve the effect.

  Although the gift came almost as naturally to me as breathing, I’d found myself in a bit of a bind these last few months.

  The magic had gone away.

  Whatever invisible muse had been guiding my work, it had scampered off into the night. My art still came as easily as ever, but it felt uninspired. It never looked the way I wanted it to.

  Despite the protests of my few close friends, I let each failed piece languish in the spare closet. They called it the Closet of Doom. It had become a graveyard of forgotten canvases… a tomb for failed passions.

  I glanced down at the canvas before me now, seated comfortably on the easel. As I wiped clean the palette knife in my hand and lifted a blue-tipped brush, ready to enhance the clouds above, my hand hesitated waveringly.

  No, I thought to myself.

  This won’t do.

  As if I were a disappointed parent, I dipped the brush back into the cup of water and beat the Devil out of it against the metallic easel frame. Down went my pallet, set aside for later use, and the brush dropped into my easel-side container.

  I stretched my limbs, intertwining my fingers outwardly above my head. The light was already turning, casting my small studio in the throes of twilight. Soon, Reiko would be here, ready to cast off another dismal day running her boss’s sandwich shop. Maybe Connor would join us tonight, although I was growing less and less patient with his passive-aggressive advances.

  It was obvious he wanted to date me, but I’d held the same sisterly affection for him that I had since junior high… for whatever reason, that apparently wasn’t enough anymore.

  Worries for another time, I decided, bending to the side to stretch my back.

  I heard the door squeal open, and the slight clatter as it slid back into place.

  “You in the studio?”

  “Yeah. You can come in.”

  Reiko Sugiyama leaned against the doorway, already dressed in her street clothes. With a cute, round face and soft features, her casually fierce eyes reinforced everything that her sheer force of presence said: Don’t fuck with me.

  Despite her lithe form, Reiko’s snarkiness and intimidation were the things of legend. I’d only ever witnessed it secondhand, but my other best friend since junior high was a sight to behold. There wasn’t a single bone in her body that lacked confidence, and she walked with her head held high and a strut that showed the world who was really the boss.

  It was a shame that she was so lazy.

  With just a pinch more ambition, she would have already left her job: babysitting a bunch of teenagers barely able to string along a decent club sandwich.

  “Whatcha got there?” Reiko asked, nodding in the direction of the canvas. “No, no, let me guess… another one of your recent failures, am I right?”

  “Maybe,” I answered apathetically.

  “Yeah, I thought so,” she sighed, pushing off from the doorway and sauntering over. Her black boots clanged against the hardwood floor as she bent over beside me and peered at the canvas. “You know, whatever it is that you hate about your art these days, I just don’t see it. This looks just as fucking fantastic as your usual shit.”

  “Shit being the operative word,” I replied, wandering towards the kitchen to give her privacy with the painting. After hours of being in the zone and away from my bodily needs, I was positively parched.

  “You know what I mean!” She called out from the studio room. “I just don’t get it. People would kill for talent like yours. Tell me, explain it to me… what makes this suck to you?”

  Pouring myself a glass of water, I ripped the scrunchie from my hair. My mane fell over my shoulders, the unfurled locks eager for release.

  “I don’t expect you to get it,” I answered truthfully. “There’s something missing. A spark…” I walked back down the hall, settling against the doorway as she had before.

  “Well, I’ll trust your judgement,” Reiko grinned over her shoulder, before her smile faded into concern. “But you’ve been on this warpath against your own work for, what, months now? I know you say you lost your spark or whatever, but maybe this stuff is better than you think?”

  She turned back to the mostly finished landscape, clearly admiring my efforts. “I mean, this doesn’t belong in your Closet of Doom. If that’s what you’re doing with it, let me put this up on my wall. I need art for my bare ass apartment anyway. Hell, I’ll take half of that closet right now.”

  “You know I can’t let you do that,” I reminded her. “I can’t let this out into the wild. It’s fine here… where it’s safe… at least, until I can figure out what’s wrong with it, maybe clean it up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know…”

  She looked a little glum, but I appreciated that Reiko understood my artistic selfishness. The idea of something inferior that I’d created with my own hand being out there, even on a close friend’s wall… the idea bothered me.

  Hell, Connor had tried to sneak off with one of my castaway closet paintings, and I’d furiously banned hi
m from my apartment for two months. It had been a breach of my trust as a friend and an artist.

  Reiko understood.

  “Alright, well, I know there’s no convincing you otherwise,” she finally conceded, standing up straight. “Anyway, I like it. It’s good.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I smiled.

  “…Oh! I almost forgot the whole reason why I’m here!”

  She grinned ear to ear, clasping her fingerless gloved hands together. “Get yourself cleaned up, woman. We’re going to the French Quarter tonight.”

  “Oh yeah?” I tilted my head. “Why’s that?”

  “Because the guitarist in that band I like is a bartender down there, and he tells me that this rugged, British dude showed up a few days ago. He’s been coming in every night since, mostly keeping to himself. I think you need a little something different, so you’d better get glammed up and get your flirt on.”

  Now that was intriguing.

  “I don’t know… Maybe I don’t feel like going out tonight,” I replied, trying to bury the little devil of excitement creeping up inside me.

  “That’s exactly why you need to get out. You’ve been holed up in this apartment trying to get your mojo back. Maybe you’re looking for spark in all the wrong places,” Reiko said, grinning mischeviously.

  “And you think I’ll find inspiration in some British guy’s pants?”

  “It worked the last time, didn’t it?” Reiko laughed.

  I wanted to protest, but she was right.

  One of the more defining characteristics of myself, besides my penchant for painting, was that I was a total Anglophile. I religiously watched the BBC America channel, following such British staples as Doctor Who and Sherlock. I’d only been to England once on a summer’s break, but it had confirmed my every suspicion:

  I loved England.

  I’d come back from that trip full of inspiration.

  Everyone close to me knew that… and to hear that there was a British guy here in town who’d fallen into routine at a nearby bar… Maybe I was due a little fun…

  Besides… This was our usual night to go barhopping. We’d skipped the last few when she’d been overwhelmed with work, and I hadn’t really been myself lately. Knowing that the English card was on the table added a whole other layer of excitement.

  “What makes you think that he’s into someone like me?” I asked thoughtfully, casting her a look.

  “Geoffrey tells me that this guy’s been turning down the most sex-starved vapid chicks around,” Reiko recalled. “Hell, he’s wandered back out alone every damn night. Whether or not he scores later, there’s no telling, but none of them are successful, award-winning artists… maybe he’s into someone with a few brain cells?”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Why don’t you just go find out for yourself?”

  “Your guy must have told you something,” I insisted. “Dish out the details. Get me amped to get pretty and scope this guy out.”

  The door clattered open again, and I inwardly sighed. I knew exactly who it was, although Reiko didn’t appear to hear the sound of encroaching footsteps.

  “Fine, fine,” Reiko conceded, thinking for a moment. “Usually comes in wearing a nice suit… sandy-brown hair, broad but streamlined build… handsome as fuck… that’s all that the dude told me.”

  “Handsome as fuck? Did somebody call me?” Connor asked, poking his head through the door.

  With his floppy hair and boyish good looks, enhanced by squared glasses, Connor completed our happy little triad. If only he wasn’t so obviously attracted to me, I thought to myself as he flashed me a sly smile.

  “Nah, wasn’t describing you, bro,” Reiko sneered playfully.

  He shrugged off the retort. “Who else could it have possibly been?”

  “Just this rugged, British dude down at the bar,” she answered enthusiastically. “I’m trying to convince Riley that we need to go check this guy out, because seriously I think she might be able to score him.”

  I couldn’t figure out if she was blissfully ignorant of his fixation on me, or if she was just effortlessly cruel, but Reiko offered this tidbit of information up with the giddiness of a schoolgirl.

  “Oh, I see,” Connor answered quietly, retreating into a stoic face. “Is he at our usual spot?”

  “Sounds like it,” I shrugged. “I figured it was worth a check. You up for tagging along?”

  Connor looked crestfallen, but he bravely slapped on a smile. “Fuck yeah, I’ve been looking forward to this drink all goddamn day.”

  “Rough day at the record store?”

  “Definitely. Ever since Bowie shuffled off the mortal coil, we’ve been sold flat out of his records. Meanwhile, we’ve been swamped.”

  “Would have thought you’d like the business,” I shrugged. “Aren’t you having trouble making the lease some months?”

  “Well, yeah,” Connor grinned. “But it’s just me and Tiana there during the day and, well, we’re not staffed to deal with a glam rock god up and dying on us… if it’s not people pissed that we’ve run out of his discography, it’s people bugging us with a ton of questions about related artists…”

  Overlooking the one-sided romantic fixation between us, I carried a lot of respect for Connor Carelli. While I was in some galleries and Reiko managed someone else’s sandwich shop and followed around that band, Connor had chased his dream of owning a bonafide record store.

  The location was shit, the parking was worse, and the place was held together with a barebones staff and a lot of improvised renovations… but Connor’s little record shop was his. Not only that, but he’d developed a reputation for carrying a carefully curated selection of classic obscurities and important memorabilia.

  “Just to let you know, the guy usually leaves around 9PM,” Reiko cut in. “So, if we’re going, we’d better get down there soon. Unless you think you can seduce him in half an hour, at any rate.”

  I glanced at the clock. Despite the fact that the sunlight outside was only just waning now, it was already 7:30 PM. “Fuck these summers and their long hours…” I muttered to myself. “You two make yourselves comfortable. I’ve gotta get changed.”

  “Don’t forget, your head is a canvas!” Reiko reminded me. She was used to me completely forgetting to wipe the paint smears off and apply a little makeup. “Put that artistic touch to work and get your face on!”

  “Yeah, yeah…” I smiled, pushing past them to dive around the corner and into my bedroom. I reached into wardrobe and snagged a couple of items – a nice dress, a decent belt, a few accessories...

  As I whipped off my oversized tee and my pair of black leggings, I suited myself up for what could be an interesting night.

  I scanned my face in the mirror, tugging over my makeup bag from the top drawer beneath my sink. A little foundation, some contouring, maybe just a little refined shape to my eyebrows… I had the time to put this together.

  The sounds of some old sitcom played from the living room. Undoubtedly, Reiko and Connor had made themselves comfortable on my couch, chilling with the Netflix on my old Xbox. At least they were occupied.

  “Alright, Riley,” I whispered to myself as I lifted the first instrument of my quick, studious makeover. “He sounds like a catch, and he’s looking for something…” I smiled confidently at myself in the mirror. “You are gertting your mojo back! You are getting laid tonight by a thick, British cock. Time to get on the war paint…”

  21

  Lex

  While I nursed a Newcastle, I quietly ignored the young piece of ass that was giggling loudly in my ear with her cute southern drawl.

  Jess’s idea had been great on paper.

  In England, there’s a fresh scandal waiting around every corner for you. Brett Barker wants someone wholesome, and spoiler alert, Lex: that just ain’t you, you know?

  You’re not just a bad boy.

  You’re THE bad boy.

  You’ve gotta chill the fuck out somewhere
that nobody recognizes you. Lay low for a couple of weeks… maybe find yourself someone out of that damned life. Someone intelligent who can do more than just look good on your arm or your damn balcony.

  You need to go to the one place where nobody knows your name… America.

  It was true.

  Nobody here had recognized me.

  Nobody here knew my name.

  I couldn’t tell whether to be relieved or offended. Tellingly, I seemed to cycle between the two at any given moment.

  Of course, people here were equally obsessed with football, but they were fixated on the wrong one. Over my drinks every night, I’d stared up at the screen as some talking heads loudly and bombastically speculated over sports footage on some asinine show called SportsCenter.

  Needs a new name, I thought to myself. I haven’t once noticed them mention even a hint about the most beloved sport on the planet.

  So far, we’d been here a week.

  It had been my idea to visit New Orleans. I figured, I could disappear for a little while, find one of those pretty Southern belles I’d heard so much about, and kick back and ride out the tabloid cycle.

  No harm, no foul.

  Jess had been less than enthusiastic about that prospect – she’d wanted to get me away from the party scene, not drop me smack dap into the party capital of the Western Hemisphere. But with a little convincing, she’d been onboard with it.

  After all, she could drink her weight in wine, and New Orleans was a city rich with historical significance and culture. I wondered if there might really be some voodoo out in those swamps, and she was eager to at least check out the world-famous port city.

  Now, I’d heard the stories of belligerent Americans and how raucous they could be, but I hadn’t been prepared for the Deep South.It seemed that all there was to do down here was (a) drink, (b) drugs, (c) fuck, and (d) stare at the goddamn television.

  And I had to stay away from almost all of those things on this little trip… Lay low, stay out of the news, and come back to the UK a kinder, gentler Lex… The kind of Lex who gets his face on a cereal box instead of a tabloid.