Just Fake It

by Pierce, Haley

  “I would never join that,” I say flatly. I take a deep breath. “Listen to me. What you did at Rudy’s was nice. You stood up for me, which is something no one in this town has ever done for me. But everything you’ve done since . . . disgusts me. Do you understand?”

  He’s studying me, with a defiant smirk on his face.

  “I know this town is all about the money. But I’m not. And no amount of money is worth sacrificing my morals for and putting my son in danger. I’m out. I’ll return the money as soon as I can get to the bank.”

  I turn on my heel to go back to the room and start packing.

  “Wait. Wait, Lee. Come on. Let’s talk about this.”

  He puts a hand solidly on my shoulder. Oh, god, he’s too close. I can almost feel the heat of his body. I shrug him off, but don’t turn around. “Don’t. Don’t call me Lee. And put some clothes on. I can’t talk to you like that.”

  “Okay. Okay, look. I’ll put them all out. Right now. No more parties while you’re living under this roof. I promise.” He sounds desperate, his voice strained.

  I turn, but only to look in his eyes. They’re begging me, right now, sincere. “You’ll tell them all to leave?”

  He nods. “Right now. Just don’t go. I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour, and we can talk about this. Just give me a chance.”

  “Fine,” I grouse, though I feel like I’m making a mistake. This man isn’t a man. He’s an aberration.

  As I’m going back to my room, I hear him, shouting at people to get the fuck out. He wastes no time. I guess he can be serious and take charge, when he wants to be.

  Well, at least there’s that.

  A half-hour later, when I go downstairs, the place is a mess. He’s sitting on the couch in the living room, wearing boxer briefs, his legs up on the coffee table, among a mess of empty beer bottles and other debris. He’s thumbing something into his phone. Are those . . . lines of cocaine on that table? Lovely.

  He drops the phone on the cushion and pats the side of the sofa beside him, then clears away some scattered potato chip fragments.

  Like I would sit there, so close to him. He may be wearing boxer briefs, his face looking all disheveled, but he’s still gorgeous. And mostly naked. His massive cock is tenting those shorts so much, he might as well have nothing on. That’s a full-on, five-alarm, warning bell right there. I go to another chair, but stop when I see what looks like a used condom there. I cringe and decide it’s better to stand. Who knows what people have been doing on the surfaces of this home.

  He notices and says, “Don’t worry. My people will clean it up.”

  I roll my eyes. “Your people must love that.”

  “I pay them well.”

  As if the only thing that matters in the world is money. “Do you do this often?”

  He shrugs.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I’m sure you won’t like the answer,” he says, leaning back and yawning. “But since I went off the grid, I’ve had to take my fun home. Which means parties like this. And yes, I have a lot of friends, but they’re all discrete, and they’re all adults, and they all have images to protect. There’s nothing wrong with letting loose and having a little adult fun, even if the rest of the world, including yourself, might look down upon it. Like I said. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes for the next couple of months if it’ll get me that statue. But you’re the key. I need you to be all-in. So just name your terms.”

  I blink. How does he do that? Act like a horny teenager one moment, then a hard-driving business tycoon the next? “You’re serious?”

  He reaches over, finds a bottle of beer that’s only half-consumed, and downs it. “Yep. Bring it.”

  “Okay. One. No drinking.”

  He pulls the beer from his lips and stares inside, contemplating it. “At all?”

  I nod.

  “Done.”

  Hmm. That was easy. “Two. No drugs.”

  He grins. “Easy. I don’t do drugs.” He looks at the lines of coke on the table. “That’s for my friends. I don’t judge. Like some people.”

  He eyes me.

  I snort. I’m not sure if I believe him. Plus, he’s judging the hell out of me, right now. “I don’t want it in the house at all. Got it?”

  “Fine.”

  “Three. No parties. Four. No sex.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “No fun?”

  “If you’re going to have my son under this roof, this place has to be suitable for a four-year-old. There will be fun. Just a different kind of fun than you’re used to, I’m sure.”

  He brings a closed fist to his mouth, pressing it against his lips. “Don’t you like sex, Lee?”

  “No,” I say instantly.

  He shakes his head. “Aw. That’s a shame.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever have hot, dirty sex in public?”

  I stare at him. “Of course not.”

  “Geez, girl. You’re tight. You ever come?”

  I fight the blush on my cheeks. The answer: I never have. I’ve only had sex a handful of times. The first few were awkward fumblings with boys back home. The last? Steven Long. Maybe I’d like sex, if I ever had good sex. “Don’t go there.”

  One corner of his mouth raises in a smile. “That’s a no. And that’s the reason why you don’t like it. Allow me to help with that.”

  I scowl at him. “Can you focus?”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Right. Where were we? No parties, no sex, no fun. Jesus. You sound like Joel.”

  “Who’s Joel?”

  “My mentor. My warden. He hired my image consultants for me. You’ll meet him tomorrow, when we get this show on the road.”

  “I think I’m going to like him.”

  “He already likes you. He’s the one who told me to get you.”

  “Get me?”

  He nods. “Said from the way you were giving those guys at Emblem shit you’d have no problem putting me in my place.”

  “You told him about that?”

  “Yeah. Like I said. I thought he ought to know what kind of assholes were working at his studio. My mistake. He fired them, but wanted me to hire you.”

  “Or maybe the best thing you’ve ever done, if it gets you the statue. Right?”

  He smirks, throws his head back against the couch, and sighs deeply. “I’m going to be in hell for the next four months.”

  “Yep. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’d be a good wife. But a drill sergeant? I can handle that much better.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes rake over me from head to toe. He starts to lift the bottle to his mouth and then stops, his eyes glinting. “You don’t find me attractive? Not even a little bit? There isn’t one small part of that lily-white little brain of yours that wonders what it’s like to be in bed with dirty ol’ me?”

  I cross my arms over my chest again. All he has to do is look at my nipples or the way my face flushes to know what I’m thinking. I stick out my chin and lie. “Not even a little bit, Mr. Avignon. You’re far too self-absorbed and self-indulgent for my tastes.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. But that’s a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re looking like everything I could want right now.” He licks his lips. “And I bet I could make you come. Hard. In a minute or less.”

  The thought is almost too delicious to resist. The fact is, I’ve never met a male body that has turned me on as much as his has. And the truth? I bet he could, too.

  God. And I thought Steven Long was a mistake. Getting involved that way with Justin Avignon would be a catastrophe of epic proportions.

  “You’re drunk.” I point out. “Remember? I’m plain and innocent and not your type.”

  “You’re female. And I’m horny. That makes you my type, sweetheart.”

  My nipples are buzzing again, damn them. I whirl to leave, so he won’t see them poking through my camisole, giving me away.

  When I’m almost out o
f the room, he calls out, “Anyone ever tell you that you have a nice ass?”

  I reach for a pillow and toss it at him. He ducks and it knocks over a lamp, sending it crashing and shattering on the hardwood floor. It doesn’t faze him at all. He keeps staring at me, that lazy, wolfish smile on his face.

  And dammit. It’s that smile I think of, all night long, while I’m writhing in bed, as wide awake as can be.

  Chapter 7

  I’m lulled out of bed early in the morning by Brandon, who has always gotten up at the crack of dawn. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, thinking of my last conversation with Justin. Of his huge cock, and You’re looking like everything I could want right now.

  Ugh. What is wrong with me?

  Afraid that the rest of the house is still uninhabitable by adults, much less a small child, I keep him in his room, watching Disney Junior on the flat screen. Last thing I need is him stumbling upon lines of coke or walking on a floor covered in broken glass.

  A short time later, I peek downstairs to see a crew of cleaning people sweeping over the house. It’s almost back to normal. June is supervising. She waves to me and tells me that Minnie is here and ready to take on her first day of work.

  “Oh, great.” I get Brandon dressed in his clothes for the day and bring him downstairs, where I go over with Minnie his schedule, likes and dislikes, and so on. I tell her that I’ll be around, so if he needs me, it shouldn’t be a problem. Then I go upstairs to get ready for the meeting with Joel and the image consultants.

  After showering and changing into a t-shirt and cut-offs, I go downstairs to see Brandon happily playing one of Justin’s full-size Star Wars pinball machines with Minnie. He’s grinning ear-to-ear and having a ball.

  “Mommy, this is so fun!” he says to me, jumping up and down on a milk crate as Darth Vader’s voice comes on, saying “Impressive.”

  I smile, just as the sliding doors from the back open and Justin walks in, his body filling the entire doorway. He’s wearing a black tech shirt, shorts, and sneakers, and his skin is deliciously glistening from sweat.

  I find myself blushing, warming toward him, thinking of our conversation from last night, and um, that monster thing between his legs.

  Popping earbuds out of his ears, he glances from me, to the pinball machine, and says, “Stop. That’s not a toy.”

  And then I go completely cold. Whatever spell he had over me? Whatever he did to have me thinking of him, squirming in my sheets all last night? Broken.

  Poor little Brandon freezes with his hands on the controls, and looks at me like he’s in trouble.

  I glare at Justin. Is he serious? “Actually, it is a toy.”

  “Actually, it’s a collector’s item,” he says to me with a snooty air, striding over to it and pulling the plug. Brandon looks like he’s about to cry, but Justin ignores him. “You know who gave this to me? George Lucas. The George Lucas. When I was twelve. There are only three remaining in the whole world.”

  I scowl at him. “And yet I’m pretty sure I saw people snorting coke off of it and doing naked body shots near it last night,” I mutter, going over and giving Brandon a hug. “My son was just playing with it. Like you’re supposed to.”

  He waves me away like he doesn’t want to hear it.

  June walks in and tsks at him. “Justin, honey. He was taking care of it.”

  Justin gnashes his teeth at her. “Don’t.”

  Hmm. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bad last night. Maybe it was actually going to bed at a reasonable time? Or the lack of sex?

  He stalks into the room, opens the fridge, and pulls out a coconut water. “What the fuck happened to the Swedish girl? Elsa?”

  “Ebba wasn’t a good fit,” I tell him, pointing to the new nanny. “This is Minnie. She’s very experienced. And Brandon loves her.”

  Slamming the fridge door, he inspects the older woman, his lip curled up in distaste. She starts to walk over to shake his hand, but he stalks toward the foyer, head down. “Well, thank fuck for that. Just keep the kid away from it.”

  “Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “And other things off-limits that we should know about?”

  He stops, waves his arms around the place, and growls, “Yeah. All of it.”

  I press my lips together. “Now, that—and your language-- is not very suitable for a four-year-old,” I say to him, calling to mind our conversation of last night. “I’m sure if you insist on that, we can find another place to—“

  He waves at me again like I’m a pesky insect. “Fine. Whatever. Just . . . don’t break anything. And keep him out of my sight. I’m not into kids.”

  I snort, smiling at June as I hear him barreling up the steps, two at a time. “You don’t say.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me as Minnie takes Brandon out onto the patio for a walk around the grounds. “Maybe the big baby is maturing. I think that might be the first time that I’ve ever seen Justin give up without getting his way.”

  I grin at her. “Well. Prepare to see it a lot more.”

  She laughs.

  June excuses herself to make lunch. I want to give Minnie and Brandon some time to bond, so I go around the house, inspecting the place. The cleaners definitely did a good job—the home is spotless, now, without a trace of last night’s party. I have to feel badly for anyone who comes under Justin’s employ, until I remember that includes me. I walk through the living room, into another room, and then another, thinking I’ll need a trail of breadcrumbs to find my way back, when I enter a massive office, with hundreds of framed photographs on the walls.

  I inch up to them, recognizing face after face. They’re all of Justin, beside a legendary film actor. Justin with Jennifer Lawrence. Justin with Steve Martin. Justin with Marlon Brando. With each of them, he looks just as comfortable as if he was posing with his own family. Maybe some of these people are his own family.

  I walk toward the desk, where I see a photograph I hadn’t seen, in all my googling. A young kid, maybe four or five, posing between the arms of the most handsome of couples: one beautiful Cherry Woods and the ruggedly handsome, older Lucas Avignon. They’re standing in front of an old, antique car that must be from the 1910’s. The little boy is smiling so brightly, like nothing bad in this world would ever touch him. He reminds me of Brandon.

  “That’s the only picture I have of my parents and me.”

  I look up.

  Justin is standing in the doorway, freshly showered, wearing a blazer and a crisp white shirt, open at the throat. His dark hair is still wet and slicked back. He’s . . . breathtaking, damn him. It really isn’t fair that such an immature child can have such exquisite packaging. I swallow, but my throat is as dry as sandpaper. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t want me in here.”

  He shrugs and comes inside. “You? You can go anywhere in the house you like. Wifey.” There is sarcasm in his tone.

  He walks over and touches the picture, staring hard at it. “That car was my dad’s favorite thing on earth. He loved old cars. Sometimes I’d go in the garage and he’d be smoking his cigars, sitting in it. Two things I remember about my dad: One: he smoked like a fucking chimney. And two, he loved his toys, almost as much as he loved me and mom.”

  That’s so sweet, it takes me aback. He sounds almost . . . normal.

  I titter a little. That’s when I notice he’s holding an amber bottle. Beer? Seriously? Well, there goes normal.

  He catches the question on my face and holds three fingers out, like a boy scout. “Root beer. Promise.”

  I smile. “You got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

  “You could say that.” He hitches a shoulder, his gaze darkening as he looks down at me. “Sorry about that. But what can I say? I’m horny as hell. Thanks to you.”

  I find the heat returning to my cheeks. I realize that when June said he’s used to getting what he wants, that means sex, too. “So you’re telling me that last night was the first time you’ve gone to bed without g
etting laid?”

  He nods seriously. “Well, yeah.”

  And then he seems surprised that I’m surprised. Like it’s just ordinary for a person to have that much sex, on demand, whenever he wants it.

  If he’s looking for sympathy, he’s definitely talking to the wrong person.

  “Well. Don’t get any ideas,” I say quickly, hastening to change the subject. I point at the photos on the wall. “What was it like, growing up with all those fabulously famous people?”

  He looks up at the photos, stroking his chin, taking a moment to formulate his answer.

  “Don’t know how to answer that. Famous people are just ordinary people, in my book. I assume that you’d think my ordinary is pretty fucked up. But that’s all I’ve ever known.” He leans against the desk and looks over all the walls. “June insisted I hang all these photos up. Does it mean that I’m someone because I know these people? Hell no. I don’t know what makes a person worthwhile, but it isn’t who you know. It may get you places, but that’s about it. I don’t give a shit about any of them.”

  I point at the picture of him and his parents. “What about—“

  “Except that one.” He smiles fondly at it. Then he looks up at me. “Look at my face, in this picture. I think this may have been the last time someone like you could’ve related to someone like me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that this was the last time I was just thinking about myself, what I wanted. You think I’m all about myself? Hell no. I’m all about what I think other people want me to be. In this town, it’s what you look like that matters. We’re all peacocks. Strutting our stuff, trying to look better and own more than everyone else. But it’s fucking exhausting. And in the end, we all look the same. Like a bunch of ostentatious assholes.” He takes a swig of his root beer. “Am I right?”

  I can’t help but smile. For someone so zeroed in on himself, that’s remarkably perceptive. “Yes. I guess.”

  “I spent my entire life cultivating one image, and now I have to switch tracks and create a new one,” he says. “Maintaining an image—living a lie—is like living your entire life on a leash. And every day I have to wonder who I would be if I just said fuck it, pulled off the leash, and went my own way.”