Pretend Married (A Billionaire Love Story)

by Nikki Wild

  The buried memories she’d drudged up.

  I needed to blow some steam, and fast.

  While wandering along the French Quarter, surrounded by bar upon bar, I gave some serious consideration to popping into any one of them and drinking myself into a blinding stupor.

  Luckily, I was thinking clearly enough to recognize how fucking awful an idea that would be. I could imagine Jess’s furious face, screaming obscenities at me:

  What if you’re caught on camera?

  What if they drag you out to the street?

  What if you hurt somebody?

  Grow the fuck up, Lex!

  With a low growl and an absent-minded wave of my wrist, I banished the apparition from my thoughts. Sure, Jess was going to be pissed – both as my best friend and my publicist – but I couldn’t help but require some time to simmer down.

  That was, even if I did keep her fears in mind. After all, if she knew where I was and what I was doing at the time… I was aware that her perceived thoughts on the matter weren’t exactly incorrect.

  My eyes scanned the windows of another bar as I passed by. This one, however, caught my eye. Two words: billiards tables.

  I allowed myself a sliver of a smile.

  Now… there’s a thought.

  My heel turned, and I found myself strolling into the bar. The bouncer at the front, some fat fuck picking his teeth, let his jaw slacken as he spotted me.

  “Whoa, partner,” he shook his head. “Not sure this is exactly your kind of place… whatcha want from in here?”

  “Pool table,” I grunted.

  “Lots of places in town with a pool table,” he observed, lifting his chin to stare me down his fat, pudgy nose. “Places more suited to a man of yer, uh, refined tastes…”

  “Where’s the closest one?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Well, then,” I smiled, “that’s just too far.”

  He shook his head lightly. “Suit yerself.”

  I gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement as I passed into the bar. I could see why he had tried to steer me elsewhere. This was a bit of a rougher place: darker, grittier, and with an obvious change in clientele. Black leather and cut, plaid jackets dominated the scene… a scene in which I stood out like a sore thumb.

  But I was already committed to the course.

  A few pairs of eyes wound up on me as I passed through the entrance, and those eyes belonged to men who elbowed those to their side. Within moments, like a great wave of attention, half the bar was staring at me.

  None of them seemed to be making trouble. No one stepped into my way or brushed against my shoulder; nobody called me out or shouted for me.

  See? I thought to myself. These gentlemen know how to be civilized.

  I stepped towards the bar, pushing a bar stool aside and falling into place near a great, slovenly man and his equally fat wife. Dressed in comically undersized cowboy/girl attire, they studied me carefully and gnawed on what was either gum or, more likely, chewing tobacco.

  “Bourbon, neat,” I requested.

  “Well?” The bartender tried to clarify.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  A bigger, grizzlier guy himself, the bartender nodded once. He dropped a few cubes into a tumbler and poured some whiskey over it, and I handed him some cash.

  “Yer change, sir.”

  “Eh,” I closed an eye at him, quickly gritting my teeth in thought. “Keep it.”

  He looked dumbfounded for a moment. I might have accidentally handed him a twenty instead of a ten, not that it was particularly any skin off of my back. After all, I was still getting used to American currency, even with the big numbers in the corners.

  I downed the drink and requested another, being certain to tip him a little more appropriately. This one, I carried over to the only free pool table around.

  Digging around in the pockets, I withdrew the lost pool balls and racked them all up. Buffing the tip of a cuestick with the chalk, I dusted my hands, then broke the pyramid and began to play myself.

  My residual frustration with the events of the night was throwing me off my game, but I managed to keep the cue ball from flying off the table. Still, my playing was substantially less than ideal, and I was starting to think that I was embarrassing myself.

  I lost a game or two with other players before I really started to finally hit my stride. Guiding my anger into careful precision strikes, I began dominating the corner. My resolve strengthening with each turn, I continued proving to myself that I was the reigning alpha on more green fields than one.

  An hour passed as I downed another two, maybe three drinks. My playing continued improving, surprisingly enough. I was starting to draw some attention from the other tables, and players began watching me instead of their opponents during their games.

  I was keeping an eye on some of them, too, and this particular kid caught my focus. He was a really sloppy player, scattering the balls poorly and accidentally ricocheting the cue ball off the table on more than one occasion. Some of us started to chuckle at his ineptitude, although I noticed the passion in his eyes for the sport.

  Give it a few years, kid, I thought to myself. With dedication like yours, you’ll get good at this…

  The cue ball sailed off the table again.

  …Eventually.

  It was after that game finished that I noticed him handing bills to the other player, a look of dejection and defeat across his face. He’s gambling? Is he hoping Lady Luck will kiss his cheek?

  My opponent bought me a drink after I won, and the kid crossed my path. By now, he’d played just about everyone near the pool tables, and I was the single contender left.

  “Want a round?” He asked.

  I studied him for a moment.

  “Nah, kid. I’m good.”

  “You sure?” He asked. “I’ll bet ya a hundred bucks.”

  “Hundred dollars, eh?” I asked, sizing him up with different eyes. “That’s more than you’ve been giving the others…”

  “Dad’s rich. I just enjoy playing with his money, even if I’m not too great at this,” he shrugged. “I think I’m starting to get a hang for it.”

  “You want some pointers?” I asked.

  “Much obliged… but I’m one of those ‘learn as I go’ types,” he smiled toothily and scratched the back of his head. “I’ve gotta let my body figure it all out by itself, and then I just do whatever winds up working.”

  “Muscle memory,” I acknowledged, nodding to myself. “I know what you’re talking about. Friends of mine are the same way.”

  “So, you want a round, or nah?”

  I scoffed. “…Fine. One round.”

  “Sweeten the pot?”

  “Don’t need to,” I shook my head.

  “Oh, come on, bro,” he chided me. “Guy in a nice suit like you? You can afford to piss away a hundred bucks, losing to me.”

  Something clicked in my head. Looking back on it, it was less like an idea popping, and more like disarming the safety on a revolver.

  “That’s a lot of smack, coming from a kid with your losing streak,” I grinned. A few other patrons nearby were taking interest, nodding their approval.

  “Put yer money where yer mouth is.”

  I dug into my front pocket and whipped out my wallet, glancing through and pushing the wad of hundreds aside, looking for some twenties. I counted out a hundred in the sheath and slipped it back into place.

  “Alright, kid. Hundred bucks,” I agreed. “What about you? You’ve been bleeding dollars all night. What have you got left?”

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and showed me a handful of crumpled twenties. “I’m good for it,” the kid nodded.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, setting us up for a fresh game. “I like to know my opponents when I face them on the green.”

  “On the green?” He asked, shaking his head. “That’s a weird way with words you’ve got yerself there… name’s Dylan. You?”

  I thought
for a moment. “Alex.”

  “Alex,” he nodded. “Well, Alex, ready to get your butt whooped?”

  An amused smile crossed my lips. “By all means, friend.” I lifted the triangle, leaving a perfectly shaped pyramid of balls in position, and set the cue ball right into place. I stepped back, waving towards the table with my wrist.

  “Ladies first,” I goaded.

  Dylan’s face fell. “Ain’t no lady.”

  “Prove it.”

  A sly smile spread across his face, and he buffed the end of his cue stick. Spectating players stepped aside as he strolled over into position, lined up his shot, and broke the triangle… knocking two solids straight into their pockets, and leaving complete disarray that put stripes at a disadvantage.

  My teeth gritted as I surveyed the aftermath with a second’s glance. That’s not luck that made that shot work…

  I tried to line something useful up, but it wasn’t happening. Instead, I decided to knock some of the balls further around, and spent my turn splintering the battleground.

  Dylan took advantage of this, knocking another solid into the pocket. His shot sent a second one towards the corner, but it hovered near the edge of the hole – clearly lined up for another perfect shot.

  “You’ve hustled me,” I acknowledged. I couldn’t really be angry. I’d fallen hard for his little ploy. Some of the patrons chuckled in agreement; after all, they’d already made some money off of the kid, and it was all at the expense of the suited, foreign newcomer.

  Dylan looked wounded. “Just a few lucky ones, man. I knew my fortunes would change, sooner or later…”

  I didn’t buy it for a second, even as I sank in a striped ball per turn. With each successive move, Dylan blocked me, sent one or two balls in, or completely fucked my approach. When he got to the eight ball, he banked it off three bumpers before burying it in the corner pocket, just to be an ass.

  And he was smiling wide as can be.

  “You got me Dylan,” I said, tossing the twenties on the table. “Well played.”

  Dylan didn’t move. He looked down at the money like I’d just insulted him.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  I looked back at the table, the five twenties spread across the green felt.

  “That’s one hundred dollars. Don’t spend it all in one place, kid.”

  He took a step toward me, then another. I stared down at the scrawny kid as he grabbed my shirt, twisting it in his fist. “We were playing for the thousand dollars you’ve got in that fucking wallet of yours.”

  I almost wanted to laugh in his face. I could crush this kid. I could kick him hard enough to send him sailing across this godforsaken bar. I reached up and peeled his hand free, holding his wrist in the air.

  “So you’re a hustler and a thief?” I asked, anger starting to well up inside me. The little prick thought he could jack up the bet now that the game was over?

  The other players – most of who weren’t even playing anymore – shifted uncomfortably or hesitantly moved closer. In response, I released his hand, holding my hands up in restraint.

  “Take your money, and get away from me.”

  “Pay me what we agreed on,” the kid shouted.

  “Your money is on the table. Sod off.” I replied, turning away. I was finished with this discussion. I wanted to get back to my drink and forget any of this happened.

  I had no such luck.

  A hand gripped my shoulder and spun me round. Before I could react, the kid’s pitiful little fist made contact with my chin. I stared at him in disbelief. I’d grown up on the streets. I’d been in my fair share of fights in and out of the bars and I’d never seen someone throw such a weak arse punch.

  “You little piece of shit!” I shouted, thrusting a quick jab into his face. I didn’t want to hurt the kid, I just wanted to bloody his nose a bit and teach him a damn lesson. What happened next was something right off the green. Dylan fell backwards and exaggeratedly flung himself across a pool table as if I’d just hit him with a goddamned truck. He was screaming and flopping on the floor. The kid was faking it!

  What the hell?

  Another set of arms wrapped themselves around me. I wrenched an arm free and left a glancing blow against the redneck. Two more people tackled me to the ground. I went into self defense mode, arms and legs flailing until a flash of a badge came across my vision and I realized that an officer of the law was attempting to restraining me against the ground.

  “You’re coming with me,” he snarled into my ear. Every drop of adrenaline pulsing through my veins left when I felt the cold, constraining sensation of handcuffs around my wrists.

  “Wait – no!” I started to growl.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” the officer began, pulling me up to a stand. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

  I looked up, catching the kid’s eyes. He was grinning wide as he strode toward the door at the back of the bar. It was only then that I noticed my wallet in his hand. The little arse had pickpocketed me, and used the “fight” to cover his tracks!

  “Wait! That little shit!”

  The officer pulled my arms up tighter behind me, forcing a shout of pain and cutting me off. He continued rattling off my rights as I was pulled towards the front exit. The patrons were giving me a wide berth, regarding me impartially, but a face in the crowd caused my heart to stop on the spot.

  No… it can’t be.

  The unmistakable grin of Alistair Pritch filled my vision, draining the life from my limbs. I staggered, almost dropping to my knees, as the officer helped keep me upright.

  You see, I had realized in that very instant what had happened to me tonight.

  “You…” I gasped in defeat.

  My enemy simply nodded, standing directly in front of me, his wicked smile spreading wider across his lips.

  “That’s right, Lex. I’ve been waiting a long time to see you in handcuffs… and now, I finally had my opportunity. You’re an easy man to follow, did you know that?”

  “Stand back, sir,” the officer told him as he tugged me along.

  “Enjoy seeing me on a cereal box soon, Lex!” Alistair chuckled menacingly, blending back into the crowd. “And enjoy your night in jail!”

  He did this, I thought to myself. He set me up. He must have paid the kid to play me like a goddamn fool… but why is he here? And how did he find me?

  I knew, as the officer dragged me outside and towards his squad car, that I’d have plenty of time to consider these questions.

  I also knew that the answers wouldn’t come.

  32

  Riley

  When I climbed into the passenger seat of Jess’s rental sedan, I was still seething with anger from the earlier argument with Lex.

  Him getting arrested hadn’t helped matters.

  …Even if I felt personally a little responsible.

  Jess didn’t say anything at first, as we navigated through the streets and headed towards the parish prison. Instead, we sat in silence, quietly watching the rain sprinkle absentmindedly against the windshield.

  “I think this is the first chance we’ve had to really speak together,” Jess finally spoke up, keeping her eyes locked onto the road.

  “That implies that we’ve been speaking,” I observed, glancing over at her.

  A small grin crossed her face.

  “He really fucked up this time, didn’t he?” Jess asked.

  “Well, he’s in jail…”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Jess replied. “With you, I mean. I haven’t seen him so easygoing in years… For him to storm off into the night like this? To get into a fight? Lex has been the center of plenty of scandals, but he hasn’t been in a straight up bar fight since his early career… You two must have been in one hell of an argument.”

  “That’s not really your business,” I shrugged.

  Even in the darkness, I sensed Jess’s face harden into bitter resolve. “It act
ually is my business,” she quickly replied. “It’s my job.”

  “Your job? You represent him, right? You’re his agent or whatever? So what if we had a little spat?” I told her, challenging her darkened tone with my own. Who the fuck does she think she is, anyway? “Whatever goes on between us is none of your concern, like I said.”

  The car screeched to a halt.

  “I’m not his agent, Riley. I don’t land him gigs or whatever the fuck you think an agent for an athlete does. I’m his fucking publicist.”

  “Publicist?” I asked, creasing my brow. “You’ve been doing an excellent job with that, then. Because a friend of mine spent thirty minutes in Google and pulled up a treasure trove of disaster on your client.”

  “Lex Lambert is a World Cup football player,” she told me, staring at me with wide, wild eyes. “He’s one of the best players on the fucking planet of the most popular sport in the entire world. He’s also a loose cannon and a complete fucking prick, and he makes my life a tremendous hell.”

  “Then, why do you bother representing him? Is it just because he’s loaded?”

  “Because Alexander Lambert saved my life, you nosy little shit,” Jess angrily told me.

  “What?” I asked, feeling a sudden burst of shame that I’d turned on him… after he’d rescued me in my time of need.

  Jess’s eyes glistened with tears.

  “We met while we were both homeless. We relied on each other to survive. When he started pulling himself up and making a name for in the junior leagues, he didn’t for get about me. He immediately pulled me off the streets.

  “While he slept on a tiny fucking cot in the den, he insisted that I have a bedroom – with a locking door. He protected me. He never laid a finger on me or asked for anything. He was my best friend… Maybe my only friend. With his help, I followed in his footsteps. I got myself into a good university, and found a career that I love… one that allows me to return the fucking favor.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, allowing us to hear the chorus of honks from behind. Muttering something under her breath, Jess finally kicked the car back into drive, and we tore down the roads on our way to where he was imprisoned.