Faking It: A Small Town College Bad Boy Romance

by Hunter Rose

As I get into the Cobra, I pull out my phone. One missed call. For a second, I silently beg the universe to let it be Vanessa. Then, I look at the screen and see it’s a missed call from my father.

  I dial his number. On the second ring, I hear my father’s voice on the line, and I smile, knowing everything is coming together perfectly for tonight. Is it cheesy of me to say I’m excited for tonight?

  “Hello,” he says.

  “Hey, Dad, I missed your call. What’s up?”

  “Just letting you know that Carlo will meet you tonight to give you the keys. Be careful, and don’t have her out too late.”

  “Sure thing, Dad. Thanks,” I say, hanging up the phone. Tonight is going to be a good night. I can just feel it.

  8

  Vanessa

  American literature keeps me company as I lie on the couch and read. I’ve always loved reading. Ever since I was a little girl, books have always been an important part of my life. I love how I can pick up a book and be transported into another life. Another dream. But, as I sit here and read, I can’t stop my mind from wandering to Trace and our date tonight. I have a few hours before Trace comes to pick me up. Nerves jangle deep within my stomach. The butterflies are restless. His deep, dark stare is already enticing me into submission. The book I’m reading can’t hold my interest; my thoughts keep drifting to Trace.

  How am I supposed to not fall for his charm?

  Maxine comes strutting through the house as if she’s a runway model. And honestly, she looks like one. This breaks me out of my reverie. She tosses her sunglasses onto the table and puts her big Prada purse on the couch. She comes from a wealthy family and has everything: designer bags, sunglasses, shoes, and nails. Yes, you heard that right—she has designer nails.

  She also has supermodel looks, including long, dark hair and gorgeous hazel eyes. People love to gawk at her. Sometimes even I catch myself staring at her beauty. Everyone who sees her wants her, but she is a handful. She is very meticulous and loves to throw temper tantrums. We work together, as her father wants her to learn responsibility, and the moment we met, we hit it off. She loves to talk, and listening has always been my strong suit. We’re a perfect match.

  But sometimes it’s more than that. I’m so glad I met her, because I had nothing when I first arrived from Ohio.

  “Hey, chica, what’s up?” she says, flopping onto the couch and throwing her legs up over the side, as she exhales loudly.

  “Hey, just reading. What are you doing?” I ask, closing the book and setting it on the table.

  She smiles. “Don’t you have a date tonight with Trace?” She draws out each word as if she is taunting me.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to wear?”

  “I don’t know. Probably what I have on. He said to dress casual.”

  She glances at my khaki shorts and red tee and scowls at the superhero graphic on the front. Then, she throws her legs over the couch and plants her feet firmly on the ground. In one quick movement, she is standing. “Ugh, no way. You’re so not wearing that.” She grabs my hand and helps me off the couch.

  “Why not?” I ask, as I follow her to her room.

  “I don’t care what that boy said. You are not showing up in that.” She points at my clothing and frowns once again.

  And then, it makes me frown. “Well, what do you think I should wear?”

  “Let’s go through my closet and find you something fabulous.” She opens her closet doors and clothes spill out. They are everywhere: hanging from hangers, thrown at the top shelf, puddling on the carpet. Scarves, hats, bags, and dresses are shoved in haphazardly, creating the biggest mess I have ever seen.

  I gape. “How can you find anything in here, Max?”

  “What?” She turns and looks in the closet again. “Everything in here is organized.”

  I stifle my laugh when I see she is serious. Not able to see an outfit so easily myself, I peer inside further as she thumbs through her clothes. When she spots a dress way in the back, she screeches. “Yes.” She pulls out a light-blue, halter-top sundress.

  “Oh wow.”

  “Here, try this on.” She thrusts the dress into my hands, and I grab it before it drops onto the floor.

  “This isn’t casual.”

  “It is casual. This is Trace casual. You can’t show up in shorts and a stupid t-shirt. He won’t be impressed.”

  A little offended by her comment, I take the dress and head into my bedroom.

  I’m a little unsure about changing what I already have on. I mean, he did say “dress casual,” which I have. I take off my clothes anyway, though, and slide the dress over my body.

  When I turn to the mirror, I am shocked by what I see. The dress is divine. It hugs and tugs at my curves perfectly. Wow.

  Maxine barges in. “Do you have . . .”

  Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen.

  My cheeks redden. “What do you think?” I ask, rubbing my hands down the front of the dress, not really sure if I can leave the house in this outfit.

  “Damn, you look hot. The dress looks better on you than me.” She rushes over to stand side by side next to me. We stare at ourselves in the reflection.

  “Do you really think this is okay?” I ask, running my hands down the material once more.

  “Yes. Now how are you going to wear your hair? What shoes are you going to wear?” She places her hands on her hips, waiting for the answer. Shoes? Hair?

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know.”

  Throwing her head back in laughter, she casts me a mischievous smile. “I have just the thing.” She wiggles a finger to follow and heads back to her room.

  With a few minutes to go until Trace is here, I look at myself once more in the mirror. My hair flows softly around my face in large curls. My makeup is light and casual. It’s great, but all of this hype has made me more nervous to see Trace.

  The doorbell rings, and I hop at the sound. Before making my way to the door, I smile at Maxine, and she gives me a wink. My fingers shake as I open the door to see Trace in khaki shorts and a red graphic T-shirt. What the heck? Well, I’m glad I changed, or we’d be wearing the same outfit.

  “Wow, you l-look amazing.” His eyes look as if they might pop out of his head. He even seems kind of nervous as he stands there, which calms me.

  “Thanks. So, are you ready?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.

  “Yeah, you bet.” He heads to his car, and I follow alongside.

  “Great, let’s plow.” I draw out the word plow as I quote one of my most favorite movies, Pretty in Pink.

  He gives me a strange look and smiles. “Jon Cryer?”

  “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “I have three older sisters.”

  “Aww, did they make you watch a bunch of chick flicks growing up?” I smirk.

  We walk to his car, and he opens the door for me. Impressive.

  “So, where are you taking me?” I ask, curiosity brimming. I climb inside and, just before he shuts the door, he leans his head in and says, “It’s a surprise.” Then, he shuts the door and walks around the car. I lean over the seat to unlock his side.

  Opening the door, he beams at me. “Thanks.”

  He puts the car in gear, and we head through the streets.

  We drive east while we chit-chat about school. When he parks the car, we’re at the marina where I can see all the boats. Well, ‘boats’ is an understatement; ‘yachts’ is the precise word. These yachts are breathtaking, and I glance at Trace. His smile grows as he gets out of his car.

  “Are we going on one of these?” I ask, stepping out into the bright sun.

  Before we set foot on the docks, he stops by a small shack and talks to a Spanish man, who gives him a key.

  White yachts line the wooden decks as far as the eye can see. The warm wind sways the masts, and I smell the misty scent of the harbor. Trace takes my hand and leads me out onto one of the wooden docks. I stare at each boat as we walk past. Ther
e are some smaller boats, and then a few bigger boats. Many are grander than any boat I have ever seen. I tense when he stops in front of one of the big ones. It’s white with blue trim, and a massive deck with two chairs next to the leather steering wheel. It probably isn’t called a steering wheel, and most likely has some fancy nautical term, but I have never been on a yacht or even a boat before.

  Trace drops my hand as he jumps onto the boat. Like a fish out of water, I watch awkwardly, though he makes it look effortless.

  “Are we really taking this thing out? I have never done this.”

  “It’ll be fun. Give me your hand.” He reaches his hand out and grabs mine. I step over and land my feet onto the deck.

  “Wow, this is really nice,” I say, as he takes me on a tour of the ship.

  He shows me the engines and the cabin down below. We walk around the galley, which is, apparently, a fancy term for the kitchen.

  He shows me the master bedroom that is complete with a queen-sized bed, and my palms begin to sweat. We walk back out onto the deck as he heads to the front to prepare for our trip.

  He unfastens the ropes that hold the yacht to the dock and starts the engine. Should I ask for a life vest?

  We motor out into the Intercoastal Waterway, passing all the million-dollar homes, and I picture Trace growing up here. Most likely a spoiled, rich kid, but he doesn’t act it. It delights me how down-to-earth he is.

  We make our way into the vast ocean as the sun sets. Watching the shoreline get further and further away soothes my soul as I snuggle up next to Trace.

  I look to him as he maneuvers the boat, watching him closely. His arms are like those of a well-trained athlete, who has spent many hours doing all kinds of vigorous, sport-related activities. His dark hair blows in the wind, and the wildness of it makes my heart flip in my chest. When he smiles, his teeth are so straight and white, he looks like a dentist’s wet dream. But his eyes are the best part about him: so deep and alluring, they can make anyone bow to their power.

  I grab a hair tie from around my wrist and pull my hair back, out of my face, as I smile at Trace.

  The yacht slows, and we idle in the ocean. He turns and takes my hand, and my heart flutters.

  Out on the deck, he leads me to a table. “Have a seat and I’ll get dinner.” He motions to a chair, and then rushes down into the galley to bring up the feast he has prepared. The stars make their appearance as we dine on fresh Mahi-Mahi with a gourmet rice pilaf, all topped off with a mouth-watering citrus pesto. He laughs about how he cooked the food, but then finally confesses that he had it prepared especially for us.

  While we eat, he produces a champagne bottle and two flutes. The cork pops in his expert hands, and he pours us each a drink.

  Handing me a glass, I shake my head and laugh. “Wow, you sure are trying hard to impress me.”

  He stops pouring and sets the champagne bottle down, stalking over to me. Then, he places both hands on either side of me, resting on the arms of my chair. Leaning in close, super-close, he whispers softly, “I wouldn’t say that. I would just say that I am trying.”

  Aww, love, hearts, swoon. Stars float through my head as I remind my girly parts to calm down.

  His lips are so close to mine, I have to take a deep breath and smile. His dark, bottomless eyes dumbfound me—they seem to have no beginning and no end.

  A panty-melting smile breaks from his lips, and I utter, “Oh.”

  He walks back to his seat and raises his glass. “To a new beginning.”

  I glance sideways at him as I clink my glass against his. “Cheers.”

  I sip on the bubbly fizz and I am so happy I’m here tonight. Letting the bubbles calm my butterflies, I smile at how relaxed I am. The thought of dating had scared me before, but now I feel secure with Trace.

  “So, back to corny eighties chick flicks, which is your favorite?” I ask, placing my glass on the table.

  He snaps his head back in laughter. “Oh, you can’t be serious.” He pops his knuckles as he watches me.

  “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.” I say playfully, in a sing-song voice.

  “No, I want to know what your favorite horror movie is,” he says, taking another sip of his drink.

  “Okay, you first.”

  He mulls it over, rubbing his hands together. “I think I would say, umm, Footloose.”

  I laugh. “Mmm . . . there is something about Kevin Bacon, all sweaty in that tank top.”

  “I didn’t watch it for sweaty Kevin Bacon if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He smiles, rubbing his fingers through his hair.

  “Oh no, I would never. I mean every guy’s favorite movie is Footloose.”

  I hum the theme song when he cuts in. “I never said it was my favorite movie, sweetheart.” His eyes grow serious. “And I can prove my love for women, rather than Kevin Bacon, if you’d like me to show you.” He runs his finger down his jaw, suggestively.

  My insides become a complete pile of goo, and I blink rapidly, trying to pick up my jaw off the floor and recover. “Okay, my turn,” I sputter, as quickly as possible.

  “Right, what is your favorite horror movie?” he asks, leaning back in the chair and stretching his arms behind his head.

  I gulp, trying to remember my favorite horror flicks. But, truth be told, I hate horror movies. They frighten me. But I pick a movie at random. “Friday the 13th.”

  He leans closer, removing his arms from their resting place. “No, it’s not.” His eyes penetrate right into the lying part of my brain and pull out my fib, as if he had the blueprints.

  “Well, to be honest, I don’t care for horror movies,” I confess.

  “Too scary?”

  “Yes. I can’t sleep at night after watching one.”

  He smiles and leans even closer, as he grabs the champagne glass. “I can help keep you safe.”

  I roll my eyes. “Typical guy comment.”

  He purses his lips and looks a little confused. “What?”

  “That is a typical guy comment, when the girl says ‘I get scared watching scary movies,’ the big guy leans over and says, ‘Don’t worry, baby, I’ll keep you safe.’ It is just a reason for guys to put their paws all over girls.” I bat my eyelashes at him and smile.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely. That’s why we take girls to see scary movies.” He takes a gulp of his drink and sets the glass back down on the table.

  I pick up my glass and salute him. “So, I figured men out then, huh?”

  “Well, that is just one of our many schemes.” He smiles as I take a sip of my drink, then grabs the bottle and tops off both our glasses.

  “Schemes, huh? I’m sure you wrote the book.” I tip my glass to him and smile.

  “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

  “I just know how you are with women.” I stiffen a little as the conversation takes a turn.

  He runs the glass over his lips as he peruses my body. His eyes start on my legs and linger around my chest, which is trying hard not to suffocate from getting an inadequate amount of air. To say he is affecting me is an understatement; this boy is making me downright hot. I almost want to start fanning myself, but don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  He shakes his head as he lowers his eyes to the floor. With a wicked smirk, he lifts his head to meet my gaze. “And what way is that?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, you know, slam, bam, thank you ma’am.”

  He erupts into a full, hearty laugh that makes his shoulders bob up and down. He leans forward and slaps his knee.

  I laugh with him as he leans in closer. “You really are quite adorable.” He pecks a kiss on my cheek and then sits back in his seat. Raising a hand to my face, I rub along my cheek. In one quick jerk of my other hand, I have that glass of champagne to my lips and guzzle it down.

  “Thank you.” I set the glass down, and he lifts the bottle to pour more.

  “Well, you are,” he says, as he chu
ckles nervously.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask, lifting the glass to him.

  “Absolutely.” He raises the glass of liquid to his lips and begins to drink.

  “No fucking?” I ask, smiling.

  He spits out his champagne, spraying it onto the floor.

  “What?” He laughs.

  I giggle. “Well, you said abso-fucking-lutely before. So, no fucking this time?”

  He shakes his head. “You are too much.”

  The bubbles from the champagne move through my veins and make me lightheaded. I set my glass down as Trace rises from his seat. “I’m gonna run down and see if I can find a little after-dinner snack.” He sets off, while I enjoy the night air. A few minutes later, he returns with a tray of crackers and various cheeses. As he sets it on the table, I grab a few crackers and take a bite.

  He takes a seat, grabs a piece of cheese, and pops it into his mouth.

  “Are you from Florida?” he asks, grabbing another piece of cheese.

  “No, I’m not. I moved down here to go to school.”

  He shakes a finger at me. “Ahh, there’s a story there. I can tell.”

  I drop my eyes to the floor, avoiding his gaze and his truth-seeking eyes.

  “No, not really,” I mumble.

  “Vanessa, you don’t have to talk about it.” He reaches for my hand and places his over mine. The spark from the coffee shop comes back and travels up my spine.

  “Let’s just say I’m happy I moved here.” I get lost in his eyes. Not wanting to reveal too much about my horrid past, I turn my head to watch the ocean water.

  “Fair enough. I’m glad, too.” He gains my attention, and our eyes connect.

  “You’re incorrigible.” I smirk.

  “What are you going to school for?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “Literature, poetry.” I sit higher with pride. Poetry is my soulmate and my one reason for living. I love putting words together to express my feelings. I will write a poem about anything.

  “Poetry, hmm. So, there’s a secret diary full of poems?” He pops another piece of cheese into his mouth, and I grab another cracker.