Man Card

by Sarina Bowen

  I love my parents, but they often make me crazy. Ever since my life blew up five years ago, they’ve become the most overprotective people in the world. They mean well, but it’s a little hard to take. I can’t even explain this to poor Braht, who’s getting all their laser-like attention, because I do not talk about Dwight. Not ever. Not with anyone. If I don’t talk about him, then he’s not real and not a threat.

  My parents show Braht to the upstairs bedroom. “We put you two up here, where there’s some privacy,” my mother says. I pretty much want to die, because that means she’s imagining that I have sex with Braht.

  Since I imagine that pretty often, too, I guess that makes two of us.

  My dad ushers us outside for a pre-dinner moment on the porch. The last of the day’s slanting sunbeams warm us while jazz filters out to from the living room. Miles Davis. “Some Kind Of Blue.”

  It’s Dad’s favorite. He likes to listen to Miles while he cooks. Mom is not a cook—she’s the type to produce takeout meals and dessert. She can make exactly one killer dessert, and I look forward to having some later.

  For now, I can hear the waves on the shore, while the scent of roasting turkey curls around us. The air is cool and beautiful, and everything is right with the world.

  Mom hands out portions of hot cider, and I wrap both my hands around the mug, reminding myself to stay calm. Braht is sitting next to me looking all smug and infinitely fuckable. And Mom sits in a rocker, watching Braht and me with undisguised curiosity.

  I have to hand it to Braht. He’s played his role perfectly so far. He charmed the pants off my parents when we arrived. He carried both our bags into the house and made all the right noises of admiration during the nickel tour.

  Now he’s right beside me on the porch swing, one leg crossed primly over the other, one of his arms draped casually over my shoulder. He’s laughing at a dreadful joke my father told. Something about a chipmunk who walked into a bar.

  I’m clutching my mug in both hands, trying not to notice his clean, expensive scent.

  Or the fact that my nipples are hard.

  A timer dings from inside the kitchen. “I’ll get it!” my mom says.

  I use it as an excuse to leap to my feet. “Can I help?” I follow my mother inside, leaving Braht to fend for himself with Dad.

  Mom and I set the table together. “It’s so nice to finally meet your man,” my mother says. She is giddy.

  Naturally I feel like the worst daughter on Earth. Not only am I deceiving her, but making Braht play along, too. I can’t even think of a suitable response that isn’t digging my own grave a little deeper.

  I fucking hate deception. I, of all people, should know better.

  “He’s so…refined,” my mother continues. “A true gentleman.”

  The image of Braht stroking his erection on a chaise lounge flits through my brain, and I have to wonder what Mom would say if she knew the real Braht. Heck. She’d probably love him anyway. My mom is on my side no matter what. I should be grateful, but it’s often just so stifling.

  “Do you think it’s…serious?” she asks, hope shining in her eyes.

  Oh, hell. “Uh.” I try to remember exactly when I invented him. “Too soon, Mom. You have to wait at least eighteen months to ask me that.”

  She nods and I can almost see her filing away the date as a reference. “Stuart!” Mom calls. “The turkey’s brown and has popped a boner!”

  She means the turkey timer. She looks at me and raises her eyebrows, and I’m sure she’s going to suggest someone else pop a boner and give her some grandchildren already.

  To save myself, I volunteer to mash the potatoes, because a girl can’t be expected to answer prying questions over the sound of the mixer.

  The meal is both lovely and terrifying.

  I began the hour worrying that Braht and I hadn’t really prepped for this and that the whole charade would come immediately unglued if Braht decided to ad lib in the wrong direction. If he told my parents, say, that he and I were going to hike through the Grand Canyon together, the gig would be up. Because I’d never hike through the Grand Canyon, not unless a sherpa followed me around with a portable shower and a featherbed.

  My parents have known me for thirty-five years, right? Their bullshit meter is well calibrated.

  Or is it? Everything Braht says at the table makes my mother smile. Everything. She wears the expression of a lovesick puppy all throughout the meal. She fawns over him, offering each dish three times. At least.

  It’s going pretty well when I almost wreck it without his help. “Braht, can you pass the butter?” I ask. And the second the words leave my mouth, I hear the error.

  “Braht?” my mother asks.

  “Nickname!” I squeak.

  Braht shrugs calmly. “Fraternity brothers. They thought Hunter was a stuffy surname.”

  “What’s your first name, then?” my father asks. “Ash always refers to you as Hunter.”

  “Ah. My first name is Sebastian.”

  Sebastian. It suits him. It really does. Not that I care.

  Let’s face it, Braht is a little too good at slipping into the boyfriend role. He dons it like a cardigan sweater. He has an answer for every one of my parents’ questions. He calls us an “office romance” even though all I’ve done is glare at him since he appeared in my branch of the realty for the first time last week.

  Then my mother asks how we became a couple, and I have a moment of pure terror wondering what he’ll say. And since I’ve just put a roasted Brussels sprout in my mouth, I can’t even leap into the breach and take charge of the question.

  I’m still chewing as Braht tells my mother that he noticed me the very day I went into the downtown location for my job interview. He tells her that he hid behind stacked cartons of copy paper to get a better look at me sitting in the owner’s office.

  I can’t help being impressed at the way he makes the whole thing sound believable. And oh, the irony. My real job interview happened at the lowest point in my life, just a few months after I’d lost my former job in a commercial real estate firm. It’s easy to get fired when your husband has been indicted for embezzling money from your employer.

  After I finally extricated myself from Dwight’s criminal activities—by proving to the police that I wasn’t a criminal, only the world’s biggest idiot—I’d begged every real estate firm in West Michigan for a job. It was only by luck that VanderMollen gave me a second chance. They were opening a new branch and were short of help.

  Braht nudges me under the table with his foot. For a second I’m annoyed that he’d try to play footsie, but then I realize I’m spacing out and he’s trying to point out that Mom has just asked me a question.

  “Sorry?” I flail.

  “Ice cream on your pie, honey?”

  “Of course,” I say quickly.

  “I’ve never known Ash to turn down ice cream,” Braht says. He’s laying it on pretty thick. But my mother is eating it up with a spoon, and I don’t even blame her. Braht is a charming fucker. And so confident. He’s practically reclining in his dining chair, wineglass draped in his hand, head thrown back like a wanton lord at the feast. His skin is honey toned in the candlelight.

  You know that game—kiss, marry or kill? It’s been well documented that I can’t decide between kissing Braht or killing him. But after tonight, I think my mother will assume we’re halfway to the altar.

  This is bad. She’s going to be devastated when we break up.

  Dessert is mom’s Dutch apple pie and coffee. I try to eat it slowly, because this is my favorite dessert in the world.

  “Eat up, Ashley,” my dad says, frowning at me. “You’re a little thin. Been workin’ too many hours again?”

  “No,” I argue immediately. Even if it’s true. The month of October always stresses me out. It’s the anniversary of Dwight’s imprisonment.

  “We know you always feel a little tense in the fall,” my mother says softly.

  Goddamn
parents. They’re going to ruin this moment, when I’m supposed to be communing with a slice of pie. I search my brain for a change of topic and come up blank.

  “Did Ashley tell you I’m taking her to a spa next week?” Braht asks.

  “What? That sounds lovely.” My mother beams at him.

  “True story,” Braht says, even though it’s an utter lie. “Nothing but good food and massages for three days straight. Mani-pedi beside the pool. The works.”

  My father gives Braht an appreciative glance, and my mother forgets to prod me. She offers everyone another scoop of ice cream instead.

  And for a moment I forget that this is just a big scam. I admire Braht’s fine features in the candlelight and wonder how it would feel to have side-by-side pedicures beside a pool.

  Then I give myself a mental slap and finish my pie.

  7 The Tower of Power

  Braht

  Dinner is a blast. I eat my weight in turkey with all the fixings, while Ash watches nervously. The Power family indulges in all the usual Thanksgiving foods, except there’s also green tomato chow served with a slice of tourtiere, a spiced meat pie.

  Usually they have tourtiere for Christmas, Marie, Ash’s mom, tells me, but she remembered Ash mentioning something about Hunter loving meat.

  It’s really startling how much Ash’s fake boyfriend and I have in common. It’s almost like Ash was describing me. Now, it’s true I wax vegetarian at times, but that’s just to cleanse the old Brahtty system. I do, on occasion, appreciate a good piece of meat. I appreciate it even more when Ash appreciates my meat. Ahem. Anyway. Those pies! They’re so good I want to roll around in the leftovers.

  Canadian Thanksgiving. Who knew?

  After dinner I wash dishes with Mr. Power, and we compare all our favorite golf courses. I can’t help but like her parents and be a little envious of Ash. This is what a healthy, normal family looks like. A warm house, soft lighting, great food, and they’re actually here. So unlike my own family.

  Talking to Ash’s parents is easy. Talking to Ash…is less easy. If only she’d give in to the inevitability of us.

  “I like your folks,” I say an hour later as I lie in bed.

  “Braughsntt. Rawrrkakt,” she says from the bathroom. She’s brushing her teeth.

  “When you and I are married, your parents and I will get along great.”

  I hear a choking sound from the bathroom. Then violent spitting, followed by rinsing. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” she says eventually.

  Grinning up at the ceiling, I realize I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a long time. It’s not my fault if Ash is stressed out from a long evening of deception. Lord knows I’ve had plenty of practice imagining what life would be like if we were a couple. I played my role perfectly. It wasn’t even hard.

  Other things are hard, though. And when Ash walks out of the bathroom a minute later, she actually gasps. “Jesus Christ.”

  The sheet is covering my erection. Sort of. I’m as hard as my Big Bertha driver, and my cock is pointing at the ceiling. It’s not my fault, though. I’m well fed, and Ash is wearing a threadbare Pink Floyd T-shirt that might be a relic from the eighties. When she moves, her breasts press against the soft fabric of the moon and jiggle a bit.

  It’s that press and jiggle that gets me.

  Slowly I wrap my hand around the base of my cock, pulling the sheet tight, giving her an even better view. “You’ve seen it before,” I point out. “But I’m happy to give you another look…” I stroke myself again. It feels good, stroking myself, her watching me. I think I see her nipples starting to pebble.

  “Why are you naked under there?” Her face flames.

  Dumbest question ever. “I’m still in character, honey bear. And Hunter wants you. Badly. But I don’t think you’re playing your role very well right now.”

  Actually she is, though. Her eyes are dilated. And her gaze can’t decide where it wants to land. She takes in my bare chest and my arm muscles flexing as I stroke myself over the sheet. Then she focuses in on the Tower of Power itself.

  “Have another taste?” I invite her. It’s a miracle that I can say this casually, because I’m dying right now. That hungry look on her face is everything. “You did such a great job last time. Most women can’t handle me.”

  She swallows roughly and closes her eyes. “You have the biggest ego I ever saw.”

  “You can’t see my ego, sweetie. You can only see my cock. My fraternity brothers referred to it as The Bratwurst.”

  “Wait.” Her eyes pop open. “You changed your last name after college. To Braht.”

  “Yeah.” Stroke. Stroke. Unnngh. I’m watching her lips move and wishing they were worshipping my dick.

  “Oh my god.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Some men name their dicks. But you named yourself after your dick?”

  “Don’t judge. It’s a little inside joke I have with myself.” Reluctantly I take my hand off the Bratwurst and tuck my arms behind my head. My Tower of Power stands firm. “Kill the light, baby.”

  “I’m not your baby.” She grabs the other pillow off the bed. “I’m sleeping on the floor.”

  “No you’re not.” I grab the pillow back from her.

  “Then you’re sleeping on the floor.”

  “Also not happening.”

  She glares.

  I smile. “Ashley, I’m not going to touch you.”

  “You’re not?” Is that disappointment on her face? Of course it is.

  “Nope.” I pat the bed. “Get in. Believe me—I’m not a fan of fucking women who aren’t begging for it. We’ll just talk.”

  Her mouth opens and then closes again. She turns out the light, and I feel her slip into bed beside me. “Men don’t talk,” she says.

  “This one does. I’m not like other men, Ash. I’m Man 2.0.”

  There’s a pause, then she says “Thank you for coming.”

  “Unng.” Nobody is coming. Not the way I need to.

  “I…I don’t know why I feel the need to lie to my parents. They’ve been worried about me. I’m an only child, and they can be pretty intense.”

  “They’re awesome, Ash. They obviously love you.” My own parents kicked Bramly and me to the curb more than a decade ago, leaving me to fend for myself and raise their younger kid. Good times.

  “I know. I’m trying to apologize. Inventing Hunter was a cheap thing to do, and I learned my lesson.” She rolls over onto her belly, her cheek on the pillow. My eyes have adjusted to the moonlight, so I can see the perfect curve of her cheek as she gazes at me. “Really, I’ve been a terrible grouch.”

  “I forgive you.” I’ll do anything for you, silly girl.

  “Now what did you want to talk about?” She blinks in the dim light.

  “Oh, nothing big. I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed dinner.”

  “Thank you. Really. I’m glad.”

  “Everything was so tasty. I mean—don’t get me wrong, there are even tastier things in the world.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your thighs. Your skin is so sweet, honey bear.” She really does smell like honey. It drives me wild. “My tongue loves that spot where your leg meets your pussy.”

  “Braht!” she gasps.

  “I know. The truth is sometimes hard to hear. But I’m being honest here. I want to lick you all over. I wonder if you’d taste different in the bed than in the pantry? We could find out. You could lie right there and spread your legs. Maybe fuck yourself against the mattress while I put my tongue in your pussy.”

  “Stop,” she pants, even though I can feel her hips shifting on the bed. “Even if we were a c-couple we wouldn’t do it in my parents’ house.” She whispers the last part.

  “Sure we would. When we’re a couple, you’ll be the most sexually satisfied woman in Michigan. If this bed creaks, I’ll just take you into the shower and fuck you up against the tiles.”

  “Knock it off, Braht,” Ash says. B
ut then she gives an honest-to-god shiver of desire.

  Fuck. A new wave of wanting rocks through me. “You’ll be happy to know that this fun little chat is torturing both of us.”

  She puts her face in the pillow and laughs.

  “We can play this a couple of different ways. You can come over here and climb on my dick and ride me like a cowgirl who’s heard the dinner bell on fried chicken night. Or we can both roll over, facing opposite directions, and stare off into the deep abyss of loneliness.”

  “Overdramatic much?” she asks. Then she gives a little moan into the pillow. “Gaaaahh. I love fried chicken. And sex. Stop talking now.”

  “Fine. But I’m not going to touch you unless you ask me to.”

  There is silence on Ash’s side of the bed. She’s thinking hard over there. All I can hear is the pounding of the waves against the beach outside.

  “Just so you know,” I add. “…I put a condom on the night table next to me, just in case. Size XL.” I wait. Anything could happen. Everything should.

  That’s when I hear it. A whimper. Soft. An exhale. She’s so turned on she can’t hold still. Her hips shift against the bed. “I hate you,” she whispers eventually.

  “I know, baby duck. I know.” I listen to her tortured breathing for another moment before I speak again. “So what are you going to do about it? Feel free to torture me back. Put your hand in your panties. My Ash likes to be in charge, right? Make yourself come, honey. And make me listen to it.”

  There’s just enough light that I can see her eyes narrow. “You’d like that too much.”

  “Like it and hate it,” I admit. “I ache for you already.” That is far more honesty than is really wise.

  But fuck it. Nothing ventured, nothing banged.

  Ash rolls over suddenly. For a long moment nothing else happens. Her expression is unreadable. I actually feel a frisson of nervousness. That’s unexpected. I’m not used to feeling tense about anything.

  Casually, Ash slides a hand down the bed. She lifts her T-shirt, exposing her boob. Then she cups the swell of her perfect breast, closes her eyes and sighs.