Faking It (UnReal #1)

by J. D. Hollyfield

  Faking It

  Copyright © 2015 by J.D. Hollyfield

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editor: Vanessa Bridges, PREMA

  Cover Designer: Nicole Blanchard, IndieSage

  Formatter: Champagne Formats

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by J.D. Hollyfield

  Love Not Included Series

  Life in a Rut, Love Not Included, Book 1

  Life Next Door, Book 2

  My So Called Life, Book 3

  Sinful Instincts

  FAKE IT TILL YOU make it.

  That’s the motto I live by. Because when you’re a tiny diva-in-training, the one thing you can do is paint pretty little visions of a magical future for yourself. You prance through life, hearing everyone’s aspirations on what they plan on being when they grow up, yet all the while, you just know you will become someone so much better than that.

  I worked it right from the starting line and I grew up to be exactly what I always knew I would be. And that is completely fucking awesome. Sure, we all define awesome differently. My nail lady just told me that her husband bought her a bucket full of perennials to plant on her day off. She told me that was awesome. I thought that sounded horrible. I mean, hello? Who actually wants to participate in hard labor? Not fucking me. Sure, I don’t voice that, mainly because I don’t want her to get mad and mess up my pedicure. I have a very important date tonight, and I don’t need to make my favorite little nail lady angry.

  I’ve been coming to Linh for the last two years. She’s a tiny little Vietnamese woman who came to America to give her family a better life. Too bad she spends more hours in the nail salon hovering over hands and feet than actually seeing her family.

  “Wow that’s sooo great Linh, I’m uber jealous. Totally wish I could do some gardening,” I lie. Because I would rather wear generic lip-gloss for a whole hour than play with dirt.

  “Lexi, you come to my house. You help me,” Linh insists, completely misreading my faux excitement. Clearly I don’t come here every other week and have her perform wonders on my hands and feet so that I could turn around and botch them up with anything close to hard labor. Shit, if I could have someone dress me, I would. Now that I think about it—

  “You come. I make you food. Introduce you to my son. He good boy.” Linh goes on plucking away at my cuticles.

  “Oh, so wish I could Linh, but you know, I have a date tonight. Maybe next time,” I boast.

  Linh looks up for a nano-second and pins me with her “You no make Linh happy” glare. “You always have date. Never make husband. You come meet my son.” Dang Linh! Nothing like having your nail lady rub the fact that you are single in your face. And in her eyes, apparently, a hussy. It’s no sweat off my back though. I love being single. I get to do whatever I want. I don’t have to check in with anyone. I get to taste a variety of life. (Take that innuendo as you will.) I mean who wants to be tied down to a guy, kids, and the whole mundane white picket fence nonsense for the rest of their lives? Pffft. Not me! I’m living the grand life. If I wanted to experience any of that nonsense I would go visit my best friend, Chrissy, who traded in her Players card for the family movie night. Which I’m not jealous about or anything.

  Or anything.

  Okay, so maybe I’m totally lying about that. The whole single and ready to mingle persona? Yeah, fake. Sham, Impersonator! I secretly cut out pictures of pretty little houses, dinner recipes and family photos where everyone flipping matches and I hide them under my bed. At night when no one is watching, I stare at the images of the things I really wish I had. I know. Pathetic, right?

  Blah! Okay, enough confession time.

  I shake off the scary truth, plaster a fake smile on my face and return to the matter at hand. “Sorry Linh, no can do, chica. Real date this time, pinky promise.” Thankfully my phone rings saving me from anymore of her son talk. Do I even bring up the fact that I’m going on twenty-seven and I think her son is still in junior high? I glance at my caller ID and see a picture of Chrissy, and her niece Pippa which I took the last time I visited, and a genuine smile spreads across my face. “Yo yo Betty Homemaker, how’s my favorite domesticated bestie doin’?” I answer in my chirpy voice.

  “Ha ha. She’s doing just fine. A little sore but fine.”

  “Ew, I don’t want to know. But wait, I do. What did that hunk of a man do to you now? Any chance you took photos?” I joke. I met Chrissy six years ago, totally by mistake. I was trying to find the room of a drunken guy who slipped me his number at the bar. Too bad the guy was so intoxicated he didn’t even write the correct room number down. Either way, I met Chrissy that night and she’s been my sister-from-another-mister ever since.

  I hear her sighing on the other line. “Stop or I’m hanging up,” she warns my pervy little mouth. “The only comment I will add, though, is that the body can bend in some interesting ways,” she finishes which prompts me to choke on my gum.

  “Holy shit Chrissy, you can’t just say that and not have any sort of pics,” I bellow out. Chrissy went home last year due to the death of her sister. The tragic visit turned into a second-chance love story for her and her high school boyfriend, now fiancé, Ian. While she was out there, they rekindled their relationship and fell back in—or never stopped—love with each other. It’s such a cute love story, even if it makes me want to puke. Nope not jealous. As my ex sidekick, Chrissy now resides in her hometown in Oregon, with her sister’s daughter and her hunk of a fiancé.

  “Sorry sista, no photos, you will have to use your imagination.”

  “Shit! Trust me, I already am,” I respond. Is it wrong to fantasize about your best friend’s man? Probably. But if you saw that guy, you would rub one off just on principal.

  “Okay, so enough of that. I called for a reason. I found a potential artist for you. I think he would be great for the gallery. I sent it to Cornelius and he’s down, but it would require you to travel to Los Angeles and do a little bit of convincing to get his work at St. Markey.”

  If I haven’t mentioned it yet, I am currently the Executive Art Director at St. Marke
y, the hottest gallery in San Francisco. Not that it’s something to brag about since I was perfectly fine with the minimal responsibilities before I had “executive” added to my title.

  “Okay you’ve pegged my curiosity. Define do?”

  That gets a good snort out of my bestie. “Not that kind of do. For starters his name is Hunter James. He was living in France but currently resides in Los Angeles. His work is the up and coming, and his paintings are selling like hot cakes all over the West Coast.”

  “Okay, so why haven’t you just called him and used your magic?” I brush off the key point that it’s not her job anymore. Chrissy used to be the Executive Art Director at St. Markey before stepping down six months ago and bequeathing the executive role to me. Cornelius who still denies crying like a baby when she resigned refused to let her go completely, so she now works as a freelance director scoping out the new and ‘it’ artists. She’s like a magician when it comes to landing clients. “I mean, if anyone could reel him in, it’d be you.”

  “Well thanks, but I tried. He’s very private. Doesn’t do public exhibits or appearances. It took me over two weeks to actually get in touch with him. He barely even took my call.”

  “Then how do you think I’m going to do any better?”

  “Well, for starters you’re the new Executive Art Director now at St. Markey not me. And since Cornelius is your boss, it would look better if you did the work. Not his ex-employee. Plus, well, you’re you. You’re hot, flirty, have a magnetic personality. He’d have more trouble saying no to you.”

  Okay so she got me on all the hot and flirty part. Possibly, also, that it is my job now. “You’re hot too. Wanna come with me? Like old times. Reel him in together?” I say, remembering some of our best memories working at the gallery together.

  “Sounds like a great plan,” she says with a laugh. “But no. I can’t take time off from the center. It’s too busy during the summer. Plus, I’m not sure Ian would enjoy me going, knowing it’s to use my charm to hook a client.”

  Ahh, the jealous fiancé. See I guess there’s one perk of being single. No guard dog. “Okay, so what’s the catch? Is he like some old creeper and you need to sacrifice your, as you worded it, hot and flirty best friend to land this artist?”

  Chrissy laughs again. “Well that, unfortunately, I cannot answer. Like I said before, he is very private. There aren’t any pictures of him online. Trust me I searched. I know you.”

  Interesting. “So when would I have to go?”

  “Well…” She stalls. Not a good sign.

  “Kinda soon,” she replies.

  “Christina, soon can be defined as many different times. Soon as in the next couple of weeks? Days?”

  “—Hours actually,” she spills.

  “What?!” I shriek, causing my leg to twitch hitting poor Linh in the head.

  “You no move! You ruin nail polish!” she scolds me. “Shit. Sorry Linh. Big tip, girlfriend.” I place my phone back to my ear. “Okay, say that again?”

  “I know! I’m sorry, but like I said, he was super hard to get a hold of, and when I did, he gave me very little wiggle room with the meeting. Per our short conversation, it sounds like he is living in the penthouse at the Willington hotel in LA. He told me he was free for only forty-five minutes tomorrow morning. So that means I need you on a plane and prepared to swoon this guy by nine am.”

  She’s insane. “You’re insane. Chrissy, I have a very important date tonight. I’m at the salon getting my nails done, and next I’m going to get a top-notch beaver wax,” I state.

  “Lex, you just told me your typical Tuesday night plans. Can’t you reschedule? I can have you home by tomorrow night. The following day at the latest. In and out, I promise. And your beave fur won’t grow that much in twenty-four hours. I swear if you’re not proper by the time you have your date, I will personally groom you.”

  I try and consider her offer. Not the personal beaver wax part, but taking on this client. I really need this date. I’ve been stuck in a real dry spell this past year, and at this point in my life, if I’m having zero luck in finding love, I’m at least going to find a screaming, white light behind the eyes, toe-curling orgasm. Plus, this guy just might be The One.

  “I don’t know, Chrissy,” I say.

  “Please Lex! Trust me; this will be great for your career. If you land Hunter James, you can buy a live-in groomer and possibly a nail lady too!”

  Man that does sound tempting, but dammit, so does getting my bits played with. And by something not battery operated.

  “What time would I have to fly out?” I ask, debating, but not making any promises.

  “The last flight out is at ten o’clock tonight.” I peek at my watch performing minimal math to figure out how much time I have. I can move up my date, plan our entire wedding and still be out in time to pack and make the flight. Just then my phone dings from a text. I pull it away from my ear to see it’s my date, Jeremy.

  Gym Jeremy: Looking forward to giving you a real work out baby.

  Ugh. Okay, so maybe no wedding plans will be made. He seemed nice enough, though. Not so smart but he was good looking everywhere else, and at this point in my life, I’d just settle for a warm body. Judge all you want but I’m in major need of releasing a ton of built-up whatever is festering inside, and I am sick of taking it out on my array of nightstand toys. If you asked, I would admit that I am not hard on the eyes. I’m feisty, confident, petite, and have a bangin’ body, complete with a full C-cup chest. D on a good boob day with the right reinforcements. I have never had trouble catching the eye of the opposite sex. Trouble is, I might’ve caught their attention, but I have yet to meet someone who has caught mine.

  I’ve always played it like I wanted wild and no attachments, but in reality, I’ve just never found it. After a while I just gave up. I waved my white flag and abandoned all hope on that four-letter word. But the other alternative always blew up in my face. Every time I would get close to slappin’ skin with a guy, they would say or do something to completely turn me off. I would then end up faking something horrid like explosive diarrhea and leave. I know—sounds super horrible for my reputation, but having explosive shits may have been better than the sexual experience awaiting me. Trust me.

  I don’t bother texting Jeremy back. Disappointed at my non-existent wedding plans, I bring the phone back to my ear. “Fine, I’ll do it. But book me on the ten o’clock flight, no earlier. I have a lot of work to do before then.” I finish just as Chrissy begins squealing.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Chrissy squeals through the phone. I hear movement followed by the voice of my favorite little mini come across the phone. “Hi Aunt Wexi?” Pippa, Chrissy’s four-year-old niece says to me.

  “Hey there baby cakes. How’s my favorite princess doing?” Adoration pours from my voice for that little girl. Chrissy’s sister, who she was estranged from, died last year in a tragic car accident, leaving Chrissy as the sole guardian. “Good guess what? Cissy and Eeen gave me two new dolls to pway with ‘cause I stay in my room for a whole hour!” At that I hear Chrissy mumble, “Oh great,” knowing I know exactly why they would have bribed that little girl into staying clear of the “adult room.”

  “Wow! That’s great baby girl. I miss you,” I admit, because I do.

  “I miss you, Wexi. I make you pampakes when you come, okay?”

  Ugh, just the word makes me cringe. Not that I was ever a big fan, but there is nothing like barfing up frozen pancakes. Little Pippa’s version of making “pampakes” is reheating frozen ones that have been reheated and frozen more times than I’ve watched Legally Blonde. Seriously love that movie. I let them both go, because I need to start figuring out my schedule. I have exactly six hours to finish grooming, pack, and get some.

  All in time to get on a plane and entice a reclusive artist.

  Awesome.

  I’M THIRTY MINUTES INTO my date and already I want to claw my eyes out. I let Jeremy choose the place since I c
ould care less about eating. I just needed enough vodka to build up an adequate amount of liquid courage in order to go home with him and liberate a few of the pent up wild fantasies— minus any marriage proposals—that have been filtering through my brain over the last several months. This, of course, led us to a burger place on the outskirts of the city.

  Strike number one for him.

  Mistake number two billion for me.

  He hasn’t stopped talking about his weight lifting competitions since we sat down, and I seriously believe that in a matter of minutes my ears are going to start bleeding. I might welcome the blood too, if it means I won’t have to hear another word about how he goes all beast mode at the gym. I sit there and smile as if I give a shit about his epic weight lifting career. Every time he finishes a sentence he laughs obnoxiously then slams his beer, waving his hand to the waitress for another. The only reason I haven’t gotten up yet and taken off is because she also brings another martini every time. That and my vagina is holding me here hostage. She clearly wants some action more than me. It’s also obvious my friend down below doesn’t have ears.

  “So yeah, you gonna come watch me, babe? Kick that guy’s ass? It will be fuckin’ hot to have you in the crowd when I over bench him.” Jeremy rambles on but I’m still barely listening. I can’t help but stare at the greasy piece of hamburger he has hanging from the side of his lip. At one point I almost smack it off his face. I figured I would do us both a favor by shutting him up while cleaning him up. I mean, what a nice date am I? Right?

  “Oh yeah, for sure. Super-hot. Can’t wait,” I reply, fake as can be. Because realistically, I won’t see this guy again after tonight.

  He looks up from his phone and throws a smug smirk my way. “Babe the way you’re looking at me, I think you wanna get outta here.”

  Yuck.

  It’s kinda sad that he mistakes what I’m sure is my disgusted face for an I-want-booty face, but c'est la vie and all that, I guess. I am on a time schedule so I agree. “Sure, let’s get outta here. Your place?” I offer so it’s easier to bang and run.