His Virgin Bride: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Kara Hart

  Jackson

  Yeah, I must be insane. I must be out of my God damn mind. It’s either that or I’m such a narcissist that I can’t control myself around any woman who gives me so much as a smile. I can’t help myself. I just love all the attention.

  So yeah, I smacked her ass. Big deal. It’s not like she didn’t want it. When she scowls at me, I can practically taste the anticipation coming from her. It’s that palpable history we have. It’s the way she looks at me with understanding. She doesn’t have to figure me out. She already knows what I am, that I don’t give two fucks about anything. Sometimes, you just know what a woman is thinking, and I definitely know she’s picturing me doing awful things to her.

  I open the door of my Maserati and watch her bend over to get in. Fuck, I want to do terrible, unspeakable things to her. I want to revert to a primal state, drop to my knees, and eat her from the door of this sports car. I smile to myself and chuckle a little, knowing she has no idea what kind of thoughts I have inside this filthy brain of mine. I keep them locked away in there, knowing it’s just fun and games.

  I get in and turn the car on. I shift the gears, driving full throttle to the nicest bar I know, The Lantern. We zip through the sunny streets, speeding by at least twenty Subarus on the way.

  “Be careful!” she screams. I cut another corner and feel the car lift by an inch and she screams even louder. “Dammit, Jackson! Stop, you bastard!”

  “Just hold on, baby!” I yell. “We’ll get there in less than 30 seconds!”

  We get there in one piece, but she’s freaking out. When I stop the car, her hair is all over the place and her breathing is rapid. “What? What’s the matter?” I smile.

  “Fuck you, Jackson,” she huffs. “I hate your guts.”

  “Aw, come on,” I laugh. “No need to get mad at me. We’ve got business to discuss. That’s your favorite thing to do, right?”

  She just growls at me and gets out of the car in a hurry. The Lantern is high class and I brought her here for a reason. She may be well off in a high-paying job, but she’s not quite as privileged as me. She doesn’t go to these types of spots. If there’s one thing I love, it’s showing off my money to women.

  The host standing in the front of the restaurant and bar looks her up and down. “No,” he says. She’s wearing a simple outfit, jeans and a tight, white t-shirt. It’s not exactly up to the dress code standards. I watch as she fights the guy, which I love.

  “What the fuck?” she says, confused. “No? This is a bar, right? Let me in.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but no,” the guy says. I laugh a little, standing back against the wall.

  “Listen, you prick. Let me in,” she says with a fierce attitude that fills me with some odd sort of excitement. I crease my eyes, watching her. She’s a woman who will fight to get what she wants. It’s admirable and pretty fucking sexy. Man, I need to stop saying those things about Fiona. She’s a childhood friend. That’s it. I have to remember that.

  “Ma’am, I’m calling security,” he says. He motions over to two big guard-looking guys. They’re not that big, to be honest. I mean, I’ve dealt with scarier dudes on the field.

  They walk up to Fiona and one of them grabs her arm. “Hey,” I call out, ready to end this charade. “Get your hands off her, pussy.” I say the words with a giant smile plastered on my face.

  “Sir, back up or we’ll have to use force on you,” he says to me. I toss my ID at the host and watch as his jaw drops.

  “Oh no, no, no, no,” he mumbles to himself, starting to stutter. “Get your hands off her! Now!” the guy screams.

  “What?” the bouncer says.

  The guy hisses at the bouncers. “This is Jackson Leeman, from the Black Wings, and his girlfriend!” The guy backs off completely, throwing his hands in the air.

  “I had no idea, sir,” he says. “I apologize.” I half expect him to fall to his knees and start kissing my ring.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “But if it happens again, I’ll make sure you never get work in this town again.” No idea how I’ll do that, but it seems like a scary enough thing to say.

  “I am not his girlfriend,” Fiona says.

  “Honey, it’s alright,” I smile. “Our anonymity is safe here.” I turn to the host with a whisper. “It’s our anniversary.”

  “Oh, well, a table just opened up!” he exclaims, leading us to a table. “Right this way. And happy anniversary, you two!”

  “Again, I’m incredibly sorry,” the security guard says with a look of shame across his face. The whole thing is hilarious.

  Fiona whispers at me as the host leads us to our table. “Can you please just chill out for once in your life? It’s getting really old.”

  “Come on,” I whisper back. “I’m just having some fun.”

  We order two Mojitos followed by some shit I can’t really pronounce and we’re gifted three free drinks on the house. It’s funny, when you’re this rich, you expect to pay extra for nice things. Instead, they just give you everything for free. Take that sports car, for example. I got that in a sponsorship. All I had to do was stand next to one, take a couple of photos and hold a football in my hand. A few hours for a free car. The whole industry is just insane.

  In the darkened light of the restaurant, Fiona gives me a stubborn look. Still, I’m staring at her tits, practically spread on the table for me. “So,” I say. “What am I going to say in this interview? What points do you want me to drive home?”

  “You need to play up your good sides,” she says. “The nice guy in you.”

  “Oh, God.” I sigh. “Nice guy? Me? I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

  “I know I do. But you’re a football player. You know how to act a little, right? You need to tell the world that things have been hard for you lately. Adjusting into the pro lifestyle has been difficult. You’ve gotten caught up in things, but you’re ready to take your life in another direction.”

  “Sounds… boring,” I say, yawning.

  “That’s because it is,” she says. “But you have to do it and you have to prove to the world that you’re ready to change.”

  “How can I do that?” I ask, still staring at her cleavage. Her nipples, I swear, are poking through the fabric. She’s not even wearing a bra. “Why didn’t you wear that dress I told you to wear the other day? You’d look so good in a nice, short dress.”

  She ignores that last bit. “First, you’re going to sell that sports car.”

  I think I feel my heart stop for a second. I feel sick to my stomach. “What?” I ask her, not registering what she just said to me.

  “You need to sell the Maserati, Jackson,” she repeats, annoyed by my response.

  “You’re kidding me, right? You have to be joking?” I laugh. But she doesn’t laugh back, nor does she smile. “No. I won’t do it. I can’t do it!”

  “Seriously? You’re acting like a baby. You can buy a new one later. Did you even pay for it?” she asks.

  “That’s not the point. It’s my personal item. I deserve it. I earned it, dammit,” I protest.

  “You have two more cars you can use. I think you’ll be fine,” she exhales sharply. “Look, do you want my help or not? I thought you wanted to make your mom proud of you.”

  I run my hands through my hair and sigh. “Fine,” I say, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ll do it. If that’s what it takes, I’ll fucking do it.”

  “Look, I’ve seen suspensions get overturned for things like this,” she leans forward, pushing her tits against the table even more. I’m not drooling, I swear. Okay, I kind of am. “If the league thinks you’re turning over a new leaf, they could let you play the Arizona game. Isn’t that something you want?”

  What I want is to dive into her chest. I cough and shake the thought away. “I doubt that’ll happen,” I laugh. “That’s a rare occurrence and the league executives hate my guts.”

  “They don’t hate you, Jackson. You have the best stats in the le
ague right now. You show the most promise out of any other player,” she says. “Just don’t fuck this up. They want to see you flourish.”

  “No.” I laugh with a slight tinge of anger. “They want to see me play by the rules. They want to use me however they see fit. They don’t give a damn about me and I don’t give a damn about them. I’m not someone who plays by the rules. That’s why I’m here in the first place.”

  “You’re here because you play ball well, plain and simple,” she says. “And you signed up for this. It’s not like you’re being made to play the game. You knew there were rules when you came into this.”

  “Yeah, well—” She cuts me off and I fall back into my chair.

  “Just do this for me. It’ll be an easy ten minutes of your time and it could save your ass. Plus, you’ll make me a very happy woman,” she says.

  I smile. “I know what else would make you happy, baby.”

  She gets up from her chair and slams a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Look, you asked for my help and now you’re just being a dick again. You just can’t help yourself, can you? Well, I’m leaving. I don’t care if you go on air or not. It’s up to you. If you do, let me know how it goes,” she says, walking away. She quickly turns around and grabs the ten-dollar bill from the table. “You can afford to pay this, right?”

  And just like that, she walks out.

  “Damn,” I say to myself. “She’s a catch.”

  Fiona

  I wake up the next morning to a slew of drunken texts from Jackson. They read as follows:

  I don’t want to have to sell my soul for the game.

  I’d do anything to win. Anything except spout a bunch of lies about how I’m reformed and good.

  I’m no good. That’s just who I am. Why can’t football fans just except it?

  Alright, fine. Ignore me. But that doesn’t change anything. My stance is firm.

  I give up. I want to play. I’ll do it.

  I have to laugh when I see the series. It’s like listening to a convict talk to his lawyer about going with the plea deal. Only, this is definitely the easiest move in the world for a sports player. All he has to do is say the right words, comb his hair right, and smile. How difficult is that really?

  I take a shower and get ready. Luckily, I never said anything to the show producers about cancelling. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around Jackson so much, but he’s essentially the same person. Stubborn as a mule, hard as a bull. He’s a bastard alright, but he tends to come through in the end.

  I drive over to his house and half expect him to open his door naked with a stripper dangling from his arm, but he doesn’t. He’s dressed in a light grey suit with his hair slicked to the side. He looks proper and youthful. “Wow,” I smile. “You came through. I’m very surprised.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to play this game,” he says, stepping outside. “More than anything.”

  “Good. Let’s go. They’re waiting for you,” I tell him, walking back to my car. We hop in and I turn to him before leaving. “And the car?”

  “What car?” he asks, looking wistfully off to the side.

  “That means you sold it, right?” I eye him carefully to see if he’s lying.

  “Yeah, dammit. I sold it.” He sighs. “You don’t have to rub it in my face.”

  “Sorry.” I pat his thigh and he rolls his eyes. “You can get another one later, don’t worry so much.”

  When we get to the station, they’re in a crunch to start. We run through the questions. “Lucky for you,” I whisper as they set up the cameras around us. “You have me to guarantee you a set of questions.”

  “I could have freestyled it,” he winks.

  “Hell no,” I laugh. “I don’t play that way. Here are the questions. Go over the talking points in your head. You’re done fighting, done drinking, and you’re over the eye catching headlines. All you want to do is to play ball—”

  “I do,” he interrupts me.

  “Fine, but keep listening,” I say, slapping his arm. He looks down at me with shock. “That’s right. All you want to do is to play ball for you mother. You want to make her proud. You don’t need to go into specifics about her situation.”

  He looks down, almost regretfully, but it passes within a few seconds. “And I sold the most beautiful, pussy-getting car in the world,” he says. Yep, any sadness he showed about his mother goes right out the window.

  “Alright, guys! We’re live in 30 seconds. You ready?” a cameraman shouts. Jackson nods and takes a deep breath.

  “You’ll do great,” I whisper. “Stick to the answers!”

  It’s not long before the cameras roll and the lights shine brightly. The host smiles through televisions across the world and I’m holding my damn breath. You better do this for me, Jackson. You better do this for yourself, I think to myself.

  “We’ve got a very special day planned for all you football fans today,” the host cheerfully says into the camera. “Jackson Leeman, wide receiver and possible player of the century, stands before us today for an exclusive interview. Jackson, thanks for joining us. How are you doing since that last game?”

  There’s a brief pause as the host sits there with a false smile on his face. I know the guy. His name is Steven Cornish. He used to play in New England before he messed up his leg forever. I’ve heard he’s been hard to work with ever since he left the sport to do television.

  “I’m doing, good, Steve. Overall, last game was a giant success for our team. We’ve still only lost two games in the whole season and, correct me if I’m wrong, I think that’s a new record for the Black Wings,” Jackson says. So far so good.

  “It is, indeed and congratulations on all your success,” Steve says. “However, we can’t forget the closing chaos that ensued that evening. It was something that doesn’t happen too often during games, an all-out brawl. The videos instantly went viral. Can you talk about that? Do you have any regrets?” On the TV screens around us, there is cell phone footage of the fight.

  Jackson looks down for a second and then pivots back at the camera. His eyes are misty and it evokes a certain amount of emotion. He chokes up for a second and exhales heavily. It’s perfect.

  “I regret it all,” he chokes up.

  “But it was sort of a cheap shot, was it not? I mean, according to what I saw, the player knocked you from behind,” Steve says. I’m getting angry at him for pressing the issue. He said he regrets it. Stick to that, dammit. “Do you feel you were within your rights to hit him back?”

  He takes a second to think about the question and I can feel my heart rocking my chest. “No,” he finally says, “I don’t. Violence is never the answer. Just because someone shoves me on the field, doesn’t mean I need to go crazy on the guy. I messed up during that game. I’m truly sorry.”

  “That’s noble of you, Jackson. For a lot of true sports fans and lovers of the game, I’m sure they really appreciate that. It’s not about the theatrics, is it?” he asks. I swear, I’m going to sock this guy now. He needs to stop pressing him. My heart is going wild still.

  “It’s not, Steve,” Jackson says.

  “You just said something important. You used the word crazy,” Steve says. Fuck. I’m praying he doesn’t go there, but I already know he’s going to. I hold my breath and look away. “Isn’t going crazy your thing?”

  “I’m sorry?” Jackson asks. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.” Oh shit. No. Come on, Jackson. Don’t do it. Don’t get angry.

  “Let me put it this way,” he says. “You’re sort of a loose cannon, right? I mean, with all the flipping off the fans, the fighting, and the drinking. You’d think it was sort of your thing.”

  Jackson takes a deep breath and looks at me, as if to say, ‘I swear to God, I’m going to destroy this guy.’ But, remarkably, he doesn’t. He takes a few more deep breaths and a tear rolls down from his eye. Yes, a fucking tear clings to his cheek. I’m so happy I could kiss him right now.

  I immediat
ely get a text from Joseph. Thank God, it reads. I smile and nod at Jackson, motioning for him to continue.

  “I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to be that kind of guy anymore. I love the game, you know? I live for it. And for some reason, I thought I had to keep up this image of being a badass or something. Because, growing up, I didn’t have much of a father figure to look up to, you know? So I took to drinking and I took to fighting, and I bought insane cars and lived a fast life. This fight was a huge mistake, but I’m glad it happened. Not because of the hurt I caused, but because it made me grow.”

  “How did it make you grow?” Steve asks in a calm and caring voice. “I want to hear more about that. I think your fans want to as well, Jackson.”

  “Well, I went home and immediately sold my sports car. I’m actually selling a lot of my things right now. I don’t need them. They don’t make me any more of a man. I’ve cut down on the alcohol too,” he says. “And I’ve just really devoted myself to training and focusing on the game itself. That’s what I really care about.”

  Steve smiles and nods, understanding. “Do you think they’ll suspend you during the Arizona game? I know you grew up there. It would be a sight to watch you step onto that field,” he says.

  Jackson shrugs his shoulders and exhales sharply. “Man, I don’t really know. I would imagine they’re not too happy with me right now,” he says. “I would love to play in my home state. My mother still lives there, you know? She watches every game. She used to take me to all my practices. I think she’s probably watching this interview right now. I’d like to make her proud of me. I’d like to play and win that game, but if they need to suspend me for my actions, I’ll understand one hundred percent.”

  “Well, alright,” Steve smiles. “Jackson Leeman, everyone. Football’s biggest star. Thank you for coming onto the show.”

  “It’s been a true honor and pleasure,” Jackson says, shaking Steve’s hands. The lights dim and the cameras pull back.

  “That’s a wrap!” a crew member yells.