Hard Fiancé: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penny Wylder

  I want to be honest with him, tell him I'm starting to doubt the whole nature of this. Only I say nothing, I let him keep going.

  “Syl,” he says, resting his cigar in the tray and standing up. He stalks around the desk, his steps smooth. Sitting on the front edge, he cups his hands in his lap as he tilts his head. “I can't do this without you. I know you know that. I'm relying on you, not him, just you.”

  “It'll take both of us, not just me.”

  Rolling his hand, he nods in agreement. “Of course, but if you're leading, he'll follow. We both know who Phade is. You're a pretty girl, he's going to follow you wherever you go, like a dog in heat. He'll smell you from a mile away, and he'll be there if you call.”

  “So basically you're assuming he only thinks—”

  “With his dick,” he says matter of fact, cutting me off. “Of course he only thinks with his dick. History speaks for itself. Which is why we're doing this to begin with.”

  My step-father stands back up, picking up his cigar and resting it in his lips. He strolls around his office like he doesn't have a care in the world, looking over the pictures on the wall.

  They go back over a decade. He has pictures of himself with so many past fighters, some he represented, others were ones he met along the way.

  “You remember this?” He points up at a picture on the wall of him standing with a man who goes by the name Fly Back Jones. He was known for his choke hold, and his ability to lock people on their back until they finally tapped out.

  Shaking my head no, he looks back over his shoulder at me and smiles. “That's too bad, because you were there. I'm pretty sure you were three, maybe even four. You kept running around the ring the whole time and your mother had to chase you.” He laughs to himself and goes back to looking over his photos. “So many memories.”

  I'm scanning the pictures, and that's when I notice something. There isn't one picture of my mother or myself on that wall. I've been to hundreds of fights since I was young. I don't remember all of them, but there are plenty I do.

  And not one of his pictures shows his family too. Even his desk is void of any family pics. My step-father's face is everywhere, but the family who's stood by him doesn't seem to exist.

  I can't be here anymore, I don't want to be around him right now. I'm irritated that I've been so obtuse and could never see any of this before.

  It took Phade planting the seed in my brain for me to finally see the whole picture. Daniel Cross is not the man I thought he was.

  Standing up, I fix my skirt and let out an audible breath. “All right, well if there's nothing else, I'm going to get back to work.”

  The phone on his desk rings, so he flips his fingers that I'm free to leave as he picks up the receiver. Giving him a fake smile, I close the door quietly behind me.

  “He's happy today,” Carla says as she stocks the copy machine with paper.

  “Yeah, a little too happy, I think.” Walking to her desk, I lay my arms flat on top and pick up a paperclip. Flipping it in my fingers, I ask, “Hey, have you seen Claudia yet today?”

  Carla thinks about it for a second, her brows furrowing into the bridge of her nose. “Yes actually, I saw her a little while ago. I think she's in the PR office.”

  Tapping the top of her desk, I smile. “Thanks.”

  I'm walking down the hall, when I spot Claudia getting in the elevator. “Claude!” I call out, waving my hand. “Hold the door!”

  Her eyes get big as she stares at me with a blank expression. She doesn't reach her hand out to hit the button or move to hold the door open. I know she sees me, but it's like she doesn't hear me.

  “Claude, I need to talk—” Throwing my arm out, I try to make a dash for the elevator. The doors are closing and she still isn't moving to hold them for me.

  Claudia isn't smiling, she's just staring at me, flat faced, limp arms, and no smile.

  Shit. . . She must have seen the paper.

  I should have been the one to tell her first. I had the chance and I let it slip away.

  Now, one of the only friends I have, finds out about this shit with Phade through the media. I can only imagine what she's thinking. She's probably thinking I lied to her, that I'm a shitty friend, and I don't care about our friendship.

  Damn it. This isn't how I imagined any of it going.

  In my mind it was all perfect, it was packaged beautifully, and decorated with a bright pink bow. My hold on this situation is slipping through my fingers like wet spaghetti. I can't grasp it, no matter how much I try, nothing is going the way I really want it to.

  All I can do at this point is damage control. And I will, after I talk to Claudia and explain everything first.

  She deserves to hear the truth from me, not the lies we feed to the paper.

  11

  Phade

  Smack!

  Smack! Smack!

  Spinning on my heel, I kick the bag and throw a hard jab. It feels good to let loose like this, it always has. Nothing feels better than doing what you love for a living.

  “Phade, what's going on?”

  Turning to look over my shoulder, I give a head nod. “Hey man,” I say, taking the chance to wipe the sweat off my face.

  Frank Delatorro, or as the fighting world calls him, Brick. He's six feet of solid muscle, with a neck as thick as his biceps and thighs the size of tree trunks. His ears look like nothing but scar tissue, complete cauliflower ear, and his nose bends in four different directions from being broken a dozen times.

  He moved here from Long Island a couple years back. Daniel found him in a gym one day while at a championship match, not long before he came for me.

  Frank's good, but he's not me, no one can be me. Which is why Daniel is going through all this trouble to keep me around. It pays to the be golden boy.

  “You ready for the semi-finals coming up?” Dropping his duffle bag onto the ground, he starts to stretch. “I hear there's some stiff competition.”

  Shrugging a shoulder, I ball my hands into fists and do a double jab combo with a knee strike. “You sound worried.”

  Frank gives me a look, and a toothless grin. “Fuck you man, I never worry.”

  “You sure?” I ask, hitting the bag with an elbow and shin kick.

  “Fuck you,” he says with a laugh. Frank sits on the bench and takes the tape out of his bag. “What's this I hear about you and some chick tying the knot?” He's wrapping his hand tight as he looks up at me. “Daniel's daughter of all people?”

  “What do you want me to say, Frank? You know I love those brunettes.” Holding out my arms, I give him a smile.

  “I'm not gonna lie, man, it was surprising to see. I never thought I'd see you on one knee like that. No one even knew you two were even dating.”

  “Maybe that's because it's no one's fucking business.”

  Chuckling, he clenches his hands, checking the tape. “Well, better you than me. No more fun for Brass Knuckles. I mean seriously, marriage changes everything, nothing will ever be the same for you.”

  “Says who?” Holding the bag, I wave Frank in to get a few hits of his own on it.

  “Says every man in the history of men who ever popped the question.” Giving the bag a right and then a left, I dig my feet into the mat as he gives it a full power kick. “Shit, my father used to warn me against it.”

  “It won't change nothing.” I exhale hard as he kicks the bag and I tense my muscles to stay in place. “The people that say shit like that just married the wrong person.”

  And my engagement isn't real, that helps too.

  It's a mutual understanding.

  Frank chuckles as he takes the bag and holds it for me. “You think she's going to let you go out every night like you normally do?” Shaking his head, he answers his own question. “No, no she isn't. You'll be lucky to go out once every few months. And then when the kids come along—say goodbye to your freedom all together.”

  “Fuck you, I don't need permission to do shit, and
I'm never going to answer to anyone.” Landing an upper cut and a few back to back jabs, I grunt as I kick hard. “It's still my life, no ring is going to change me.”

  “Oh yeah? Then you can come out tonight with me, grab a few drinks, have a little fun?”

  Don't do it. You're supposed to be cleaning up your image.

  I want to listen to myself, it's the smart thing to do. “We do have the semi-finals, we should probably train.”

  Besides, I'm planning on taking Sylvia out on a date tonight, surprise her with a nice walk in the park, at a public place where more pictures can be taken. Her binder was full of ideas, ways to push our engagement through the media to make it look real.

  I'm just going to put my own spin on it. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it in a way that looks and feels like me. No one would believe that we met at some charity event, no one would believe that I ice skate or donate my time to rebuilding historical buildings. But, she has some really great ideas, and it's easy for me tweak them just a little to fit my personality.

  Checking my phone quickly, she still hasn't messaged me back yet. I'm hoping to see her name on my screen, it's an easy out with Frank. Dropping my phone back down, I stretch my neck and get ready to wail on the bag.

  “Isn't that what we're doing right now?” Holding out his arms, he looks around. “I think we're earning a nice cold beer and some food.”

  Glancing at my phone, I check it again for a text. I've messaged her a couple times, and still nothing. “Syl and I are supposed—”

  Frank cuts in with a stupid smirk on his face. “Someone's pussy whipped already.” I kick the bag hard, sending him jumping back a foot. “Damn, Phade, we're just training, go easy.”

  I don't take orders from anyone. Not even my own mother. So for him to think I'm going to just start following Sylvia around like a lost puppy—he can kiss my ass.

  I also don't like the way he says it. It sounds demeaning, like he's talking about Sylvia personally. She's not like that, and even if she is, he shouldn't be a dick about it.

  “Don't say shit like that.”

  “Like what? What did I say?” He gives me a confused look, arching a brow.

  “Just, watch what you say, and how you say it. She's my fiancée.” Folding my mouth at the corners, I dip my head and point in his direction. “Remember that.”

  “All right, I get it.” Digging his shoulder into the bag, he leans over and grips it hard, bracing for my next kick. “Well, you coming out tonight or not?”

  Taking a long step back, I take a second to catch my breath and focus in where I want to hit the hanging bag.

  It doesn't have to be a bad thing if I go. I don't have to get wasted to have fun. I'm sure Daniel would advise me to stay home, but showing my face is always good for business.

  Sylvia and Daniel both think I need this fiancée shit to show I'm straightening up my life. But why can't I have the best of both worlds? Why can't I still go out, and just not get drunk?

  I'm not an alcoholic, I don't need to drink to have fun. The fake engagement is great for magazines and the newspaper, but meeting people in person is where you really connect with your fans.

  Everyone loves when they see me out in the city, and the rush I get from it is hard to deny myself. When they see you, when they can reach out and touch you, their excitement is like a drug.

  I'm not sure I can really go without it. A little taste won't hurt, not if I stay in control.

  One night out isn't going to destroy shit. I'll go for a few hours, make an appearance, and call it a night. No shots, no getting drunk, no losing control, no fighting.

  The rules are easy to follow. How hard could it be?

  “I'm in.”

  The music pumps out of the speakers as the lights pulse to the beat. Frank is like a fucking social butterfly. He's high-fiving people, fist bumping, and hugging almost everyone we pass.

  I throw a smile out beside him, trying to enjoy myself. I'm nodding here and there, taking a picture every few feet, and forcing a smile to go with it.

  It just feels weird, like something's missing. It's a lonely feeling, like I'm walking solo in a storm made of fire. I'm smiling, but I don't feel happy. I'm laughing, but nothing's really funny. People are talking to me, and I'm acting like I'm listening, but I really don't care.

  I don't even know why I'm here, I don't really want to be here, but old habits die hard.

  I wish Sylvia were here.

  We squeeze through the crowded club, making our way to the bar. When we reach the bar, Frank leans over and yells into my ear, “What are you drinking?”

  Shaking my head, I wave a hand. “Nah, I'm good.”

  I don't need to drink to have a good time. I can be here and have fun without the alcohol. Even though I'm 'engaged', my fans still need to see me.

  “Awe, come on, Phade. One drink.”

  “I'm good, Frank, really.”

  “Phade,” he says, slapping a hand on my shoulder. “One drink won't kill you. Come on, just one.”

  It's just one, I can handle one.

  “Okay, just one.” Holding up a finger, I give him a stern look. “Just one, and nothing too strong. I need to function later if you know what I mean.” Grabbing my dick, I stick out my tongue, and grin.

  Frank tips his head back and opens his mouth wide, letting out a cackle like a hyena. “One drink?” he asks between loud inhales. “When did you become such a fucking pussy? I swear, man, you're losing your fucking mind.” He leans over the bar, waving his arm to get the bartender's attention.

  When they're close enough, he orders our drinks, and I have no clue what he's getting us. I can't hear shit between the music and the banter of the people around us.

  The bartender grabs a couple glasses and starts pouring several different alcohols into them. Giving each one a stir and a garnish of mint, he slides them across the smooth surface.

  Frank takes his and passes me mine. Holding up his glass, he sucks it down in one giant gulp. “Well, you're not going to let me drink alone are you?”

  “Bottoms up.” Saluting him, I tilt my head back, and swallow the entire glass. “There, feel better.”

  “I will,” he says, passing me another glass immediately with a smile. “Let's consider this your pre-bachelor party party.”

  Shaking my head no, I hold up my hand, not wanting to take it. “No, I said one.”

  “All right, then let's make this your one.” I eye him for a moment, giving him a serious look. “I'm serious, last one, I won't push anymore on you. Scout's honor.”

  “You were never a scout.” Under hooded lids, I arch a brow.

  “Guilty, you caught me. But, what the hell, just take the drink, dickhead.”

  “Fine, but this really is the last one.” Taking the glass, I suck it down quickly, feeling it burn the back of my throat.

  “Phade Manson and Frank Delatorro, I never would have expected this. Daniel let you guys out of your pens together?”

  Frank and I both turn at the same time to see another well-known fighter, not one of ours, Gil Flanigan, the Irish Breaker. He's one of those fighters that will do anything to win, even if that means fighting dirty.

  Daniel had the chance to sign him, but after a few low blows and a questionable thumb in the eye, he chose not to.

  “I didn't think you fuckers were allowed to come out this late,” he says as he leans against the bar, and takes a sip of his beer.

  “How you been, Gil?” I ask, setting my empty glass down and wiping my mouth dry. “Haven't seen you since—”

  “I left the Cauldrin when I went pro?” He smiles, the same fucking smile I remember. A crooked grin, with his pencil thin lips and asshole dimpled chin. “Yeah, it's been awhile.”

  “Right,” I agree, rolling my eyes as I shoot Frank a look.

  “So, what's this I hear, Phade—” Gil turns mid-sentence and says something to the bartender, then turns his attention back to me. His eyes study mine, and I have the urg
e to kick that fucking smile off his face. “Are the rumors true, has the infamous, single forever, Phade Manson, really gone and gotten engaged?”

  “You heard right.”

  The bartender slips three drinks across the bar and Gil passes one to Frank, then tries to hand me the other as he holds his own. “Here, a congratulatory drink.”

  I don't want to take it. I told myself one, and I've already had two. But it would be rude of me not to, so I bite my tongue, and give in to him this one time.

  “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”

  “You should. Your life is over.”

  I don't respond. I won't respond. He's trying to push me, I can see it in his eyes, in the smug grin that's spreading from ear to ear, and the way he's reclining back against the bar as if he won some bet. He wants a reaction, but I'm not going to give it.

  “Yeah, so they say. Guess I'll just have to see it for myself.”

  “Sylvia Fontain of all people too, now that's some fucking shit right there.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, not sure where he's going with this.

  “What do I mean?” Gil laughs, his eyes glistening as if he's got a secret. “She's Daniel's daughter right?”

  “Yeah, so?” My tone shifts, and I suddenly feel protective. Protective of Sylvia, protective of our relationship. Protective of what's mine. “Why the hell do you care?”

  Gil dips his head, looking into his drink and swirling it in a circle. “Someone's got their period, huh? You bleed from your pussy now too?”

  “Fuck you, Gil.” Snapping my shoulders square, I stiffen my back. “Did you come here just to start to shit, or are you always just a dick?”

  “Relax, I'm not here to piss you off.” Setting his glass on the bar, he nods at the bartender and taps his glass for her to make him another. “It just seems really convenient that all of a sudden you're with her, popping the question. What's in this for you?”

  “What the fuck is your problem?” Taking a step in, I hold out my arms. I can feel myself getting angry, frustrated, maybe even a little uncertain because even I don't know the answer.