The Boyfriend Experience

by JA Huss

  “There’s just one more thing,” I say.

  “What now?”

  “He needs help with something.”

  “Who?”

  “Lawton,” I say.

  “No, from who?” she clarifies. “From me?”

  “Yes. See, he’s got this meeting with the Home TV people next week. He’s putting together some pitch for a real-estate show and he needs a partner.”

  She blinks at me. Three times slowly. “What?”

  So I explain. And I expect all kinds of reactions from Oaklee Ryan over this little snag, but she is surprisingly calm. In fact she’s almost thoughtful. Contemplative as I fill her in on his stupid idea. She doesn’t even ask about his long-term expectations—which, if you ask me, are also stupid. She only says, “Will this interview be taped?”

  I shrug. Because I have no clue. But then I say, “Probably,” just to cover my bases.

  She thinks about that. Poker face in place. Then she nods her head and says, “Agreed. I’ll throw in the Girlfriend Experience as a bonus.”

  I smile, cautiously. Because there’s too many ways to interpret that little comment for it to be a comfortable smile.

  But the deal is done, that money is mine, and that’s all I needed. So I just say, “Then let the game begin.”

  CHAPTER TWO - LAWTON

  “Yup,” I say into my phone.

  “It’s on,” Jordan says. “She agreed to be your partner for the interview next week and you’ve agreed to give her a boyfriend experience. She’s expecting you tonight at seven. So just show up at the brewhouse and like… pretend you’re strangers and shit. Like stare at her, and introduce yourself—”

  “I don’t need pointers on how to meet a girl, asshole. I know how to pick up a girl.”

  “Yup,” he says. “Understood. Just… be careful.”

  “Careful? Why?”

  “I gotta go. But if you have any issues, call me, OK?”

  I’m still wondering what careful means when I get the hang-up beeps. “Fucker,” I say, putting my phone down.

  “Who was that?” Zack asks. I can see him through my open office door, leaning against the copy machine looking like a model on the cover of Le Mans magazine. Short dark hair, expensive suit, watch that costs as much as most people pay for a car catching the afternoon sun on his wrist.

  “Jordan,” I say. “He found me a partner for the meeting next week.”

  “Who?” Zack laughs, folding his arms across his chest.

  “A woman,” I say. Which makes Zack snort. “Owns a local business, young, attractive, go-getter. She’s gonna make the perfect girlfriend.”

  “Don’t do it, man. This is a very bad idea.”

  “I want this show.”

  “I get it,” Zack says, walking into my office and dropping into a chair on the other side of my desk. “I do. I mean, I’m looking for something more as well. But lying to get on TV?” He shakes his head. “It’s gonna blow up in your face. You have to know that.”

  “I think I can pull it off. And besides, I’ve got a week to feel this girl out and see if she’s a good fit.”

  “I can see the headlines now,” Zack says, making one of those sweeping headline pantomimes with his hands in front of his face. “‘Lawton Ayers lies to Home TV. Marriage is a sham.’”

  “I’m not gonna marry her, for fuck’s sake. We’re just business partners. And hey, every tabloid wants a good breakup story. We’ll make ours spectacular.”

  Zack laughs. “I can’t wait to see this all come apart. She’s gonna break you. Take you for everything you’ve got. Then stomp on your face with a three-inch heel and—”

  “So dramatic,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ve got a contract all ready for her. Gonna pick her up tonight. In fact,” I say, getting up from my desk, “I’m taking off early so I can go home and shower. Gotta make a good impression.”

  Zack gets up and walks back to the copy machine, gathering up his papers as I grab my briefcase. “This is gonna be fun,” he says. “Your stupid plan is the highlight of my life right now.” Then he disappears into his office and closes the door.

  “Yup,” I say. “My life is looking pretty damn good compared to yours, you sorry fuck.”

  Zack plays everything safe. He’s one of those people who buys a Porsche and then drives the speed limit. He’s one of those guys who never fouls another player in basketball. His motto is: Character is who you are in the dark.

  Which I totally appreciate as a business partner, but no one follows that straight and narrow to perfection. Everyone wobbles as they walk the line. And I’m not lying to the Home TV people. I’m just… exaggerating my relationship with this woman, that’s all. Besides, by this time next week when I take that meeting, I’m sure we’ll be on the same page. We’ll be halfway through the game and we’ll know everything there is to know about each other.

  Yup. In the bag, man. In. The. Bag.

  I’m pretty sure this whole boyfriend experience is about sex. I mean, why else would she be doing this? She wants something weird—and that fits into Jordan’s whole game thing, right? Yeah, she wants something weird, something she can’t just get from any guy, and she wants a man to offer that to her so she doesn’t have to ask.

  That’s pretty much how these games go.

  At least I think that’s how they go. Jordan never talks much about them, but it’s all standard, I’m sure.

  So the way I see it… I get free sex, a pretend girlfriend, the perfect interview with the Home TV people, and all I gotta do is bring her flowers and open her car door for two weeks.

  My drive home is short because my loft is only a few blocks north in Lower Downtown, commonly called LoDo in these parts. Right now I’m living in an investment property I bought last fall when it was in foreclosure. I spent the whole winter fixing it up so I could sell it in the spring, but this is feeling a little more like fate than luck. I mean, that Oaklee chick’s brewhouse is practically right next door to me. I can fucking walk over there tonight.

  By the time this whole boyfriend thing is over I’ll probably have a buyer and the TV show and… yeah. Rocky Mountain Millionaires living, here I come. I have a place in mind up in the foothills. Gonna sell all my properties down here in the city, buy that sprawling acreage, and start a whole new life as the Home TV go-to guy for mountain real estate. I’ll be just like that guy who sells the private islands on their channel.

  I cannot fuckin’ wait.

  I take a quick shower, finger-comb my hair, and stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if I should shave. I shaved this morning but there’s a shadow there. Kind of a sexy shadow if I do say so myself.

  So I leave it. This girl runs a brewery. She probably likes a rough jaw.

  At six forty-five I leave the loft, hop down the six flights of stairs to street level, and walk up the alley to her front entrance.

  Even though my street address says Wynkoop Street, I’m kinda situated behind her building a little. I have a great view of that water tower. It’s like eye level with my penthouse when I’m on my rooftop terrace. And there’s a whole wall of windows just below it.

  I wonder if that’s her apartment?

  Her building is old. Like over a hundred years old. But now that I’m paying attention to it, I do remember there was a renovation going on last year. I was waiting for listings to come up, since I figured she was turning that place into apartments, but… that never happened.

  The front side of her building faces Wynkoop Street. Which is kinda famous for the brewhouses. Hell, our former governor used to have a brewhouse down here on Wynkoop. And over the past decade or so, they’ve popped up everywhere.

  The new competition didn’t seem to hurt Bronco Brews any. I see her labels and taps all over the LoDo bars. And that renovation must’ve cost her millions. So she can’t be doing too bad.

  God, where has this girl been all my life? She’s so… perfect.

  The front of the building has a street-level ent
rance, but I stop and look up before I go inside. There’s scaffolding up there and I wonder if she’s gonna do work on the façade?

  But then the sound of people draws my attention back to the night’s goal and I go inside. The lobby is huge, two stories tall, and is flanked on both sides by elevators. Directly in back, just past the grand staircase winding up to the second floor, is a wall of windows that showcase several rows of giant copper brew tanks and staff bustling back and forth.

  On my left is a small bar—presumably for people who are waiting for a table in the restaurant on the right.

  Which is packed. I’m talking packed with people. I hit up one of the hostesses as she’s grabbing menus to seat a party. “I’m looking for Oaklee?” I say over the noise of the crowd. “I have an appointment with her.”

  “Are you Lawton? She’s upstairs in her office. Take the elevators to the top floor. You’ll find her.”

  “Thanks,” I say. But she’s already gone.

  I walk over to the elevators, press the call buttons and then step inside. When the doors close the cacophony of conversation fades, then disappears completely as I ascend.

  I used to be a party guy but the last ten years or so have mostly been about work. So this relative silence is a welcome relief.

  A ding signals the opening of doors, and I step out into… an apartment? Jesus Christ, does this elevator lead directly to her apartment?

  There’s a wide living room surrounded by windows on all sides and I catch a glimpse of my terrace.

  “Is that Lawton Ayers?” a woman’s voice calls from… somewhere. The space is a wide-open floor plan and the few walls I can see don’t reach all the way up to the tall two-story ceilings.

  When I look up at the beamed ceiling I notice a loft space and my eyes follow the perimeter catwalk railing made of stainless-steel cables until I spy bedrooms. Three, I decide. Her decor is simple and homey. A large u-shaped overstuffed brown leather couch facing a stacked stone fireplace takes up one corner, while a long wooden dining table takes up another. There’s a large room-sized rug surrounding the couch—brown and white cow pattern. Not real hide, but that one accent is enough to pull the room together. Give it a feel. Western. Very Colorado. Almost cowboy, but missing all those cowboy things you find in ranch homes. Like a buffalo over the fireplace and pictures of hunting dogs on the wall.

  Instead the walls along the catwalk are decorated with framed posters of her beer labels. Original artwork, probably. They are all very graphic in their design. An orange bucking horse on a brown background with lots of black swirly typography. A pink punk rocker on a black background with pink typography. And more. Every brew I’ve ever seen in the local bars—and many I’ve never heard of—all displayed along the walls.

  Her history, as art.

  The kitchen is in the center of the floor space. Black soapstone countertops with painted taupe-gray cabinets. Stainless-steel appliances and one of those industrial stainless-steel farm sinks that matches the stainless-steel finishes on the cabinet pulls, light switch plates, and backsplash tiles.

  It’s totally custom from top to bottom. She put a lot of thought into her design. And it’s nice, I decide. Something I’d pick. If I were renovating a house for myself and not for some future generic buyer. Something that merges with the view outside.

  And speaking of the view—Jesus Christ, she can see all of Colorado. Which makes me laugh. The entire front range is laid out in front of me, including the imposing Mt. Evans on the west side, Pikes Peak to the south, Long’s Peak to the north, and in the east… sprawling Denver suburbia.

  This apartment has to be worth millions. It’s so unusual, so big, so… perfect. I’d list this place for two million, easy. Maybe more.

  “Holy shit,” I finally say. “This place is incredible.”

  “You are Lawton, right? Because if not, you need to leave.”

  “Sorry,” I say, walking towards her with my hand outstretched. She’s average height. Her hair is long, dark blonde, and unruly. Like she’s been at the beach and the wind has tousled it.

  Or like she just rolled out of bed.

  Or like someone just fucked her hard.

  I snap out of it. “I just got lost for a moment. Your view…” And then I get lost in her eyes. An unusual caramel color, with hazy patches of green that catch the light. And she has thick, pouty lips—with a slight dent in the middle of her lower one that, for some reason, is inexplicably sexy. Her face is soft, but not round and her body is slight, but not skinny. Athletic, I decide.

  She smiles tightly as she shakes my hand. “The view. I know. It’s the only thing anyone sees when they come up here.”

  That’s not true at all. Not if she’s around. The view is definitely beautiful, but Oaklee Ryan is downright breathtaking. “But… do you live here?”

  “Both live and work.” She shrugs. “It’s been my home my whole life. But I did this last year.”

  “But that elevator just comes right to the top like that? No key?”

  “I keep it open during business hours and I was expecting you. It locks when I need it to.”

  “Oh, well, good. I was worried about your safety for a second.”

  “Sweet,” she says. Then nothing.

  “So,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “I’m your boyfriend.”

  She looks me up and down like she’s not sure if that’s accurate. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just thinking…”

  “About?”

  “If you’re right for the job.”

  I squint at her. “I’m totally boyfriend material. I can play your game. I mean, I guess I could’ve come up here and played like I got lost looking for the bathroom and found you instead. The woman of my dreams.” I wink at her. “Made it a little more mysterious like Jordan told me to… but the view,” I say. “This place… it caught me off guard.”

  She cups her chin with her hand. Thinking. Wondering. “Well, I have doubts. So tonight is an interview.”

  “An interview?” Which makes me laugh.

  “Yes.” She waves a hand over at the kitchen where I now notice there’s a row of beer bottles lined up on the countertop. Sitting in front of each is a short glass. Like the kind they probably give you downstairs when you order one of those flight display sampler trays. “To see if you’re what I need.”

  “What do you need?” I ask, waggling my eyebrows. “I mean you don’t need to get me drunk, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She sighs, rubbing her forehead with her index finger and thumb. “This probably isn’t going to work. I mean, you’re handsome and all, but I need more than handsome. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait,” I say, putting up a hand. “We had a deal. I need a girl—”

  “I know all about your needs, Mr. Ayers. That’s the only reason I said yes. It was… intriguing. But I just don’t know if you’re up to this.”

  I laugh. “Up to what? Treating you nice, bringing you flowers, opening the door and pulling out your chair? I can handle it, I assure you. And I can handle the beer too. What do you need? Should I taste each one and tell you which one I like best?”

  I walk over to the beers, pick up the bottle opener, pop the first cap off, and pour it into the glass using proper beer-pouring technique. It’s a dark beer. Like fuckin’ mud. Not really what I go for. And now that I read the label I see it’s called Mountain Mud. Which should’ve been my first clue. But… fuck it. In for a penny, right?

  I take a sip, the foam collecting on my upper lip, then swallow it down and think for a moment.

  Oaklee has her arms crossed in front of her very nice breasts, her mouth not quite smirking, but definitely not smiling, either. “Well?” she says.

  “Nutty,” I say, wiping the froth off my lip. “And thick. Maybe a hint of vanilla too. It’s a brown ale? Or a stout?”

  “Brown,” she says. And maybe… just maybe, she smiles. “So you’re a craft beer
guy?”

  “Not really. But this is Colorado. There’s a craft brewhouse on every corner these days.”

  “Yes.” She sighs. “Which is part of my problem.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t need to. Yet.”

  “OK, wait a minute. Let’s back up. Jordan told me you bought the Boyfriend Experience. What’s that got to do with beer?”

  “Everything,” she says. “But I’m not going to waste my time explaining if you’re not the right man for the job.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “Boyfriend Experience,” she snaps.

  “I feel like we’re talking in circles. So again, what’s that got to do with beer?”

  “Just taste the next one.”

  “Fuck it,” I mumble, popping the top off the next in line. This one’s called Anarchy Orange IPA and the label is the pink punk rocker on the artwork I noticed earlier. IPA is more my style, so I pour and take a long sip. “Hell, yeah. This is great. Citrus with a lot of hop. Dig it.”

  Now that was a smile.

  “See,” I say. “I’m the right guy.”

  “Next.”

  “You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you? So you can take advantage of me later. I’m on to you, Oaklee Ryan.” I shoot my finger at her and wink.

  “Just taste. Your flirty jokes are wasted on me. I’m all business.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble. I’m trying to be friendly and she’s just… not. Like I’m not good enough for her. Like she’s not interested in me at all.

  She’s lucky I need her or I’d walk out.

  I pop the top off the next beer—which is called Assassin Sour Saison and has a red ninja on a black label. I pour the light brew into the glass. It’s very bubbly. I take a sip as she watches. “Nah,” I say, setting the glass down. “Maybe some people like that, but I’m not one of them.”

  She shrugs. “To be expected. Not everyone likes a sour, and this saison has so much carbonation it’s more like champagne than beer. It’s my favorite.”

  “Figures,” I say. Because I get the feeling that’s how this is gonna go. Regardless of how much I like her kitchen design, her view, and her faux cowgirl-esque décor, we are opposites. “So did I pass, or what?”