The Boyfriend Experience

by JA Huss

  Which makes me chuckle. Because sexual innuendo and all that.

  Except she made it very clear there’s no sex involved in this boyfriend experience.

  And then there’s that flashing red sign again.

  Why? She makes no sense at all.

  The test, the contract, the game… none of it adds up.

  What is her angle?

  I slap my laptop closed, exhausted, then place it on my bedside table and turn over so I can see the lights from her window down the alley. A few seconds later, they go out, and I picture her getting into bed. Thinking about me. Thinking about what we might do tomorrow. I wonder if she thinks I’m as interesting as I think she is.

  Probably not. This is business to her. As it is to me. So it doesn’t even matter if she likes me.

  I close my eyes, shut out the view of her apartment, and drift off thinking about how my life will change next week.

  How I can sell off all my city real estate, buy that place up in the foothills, and start a whole new life far, far away from the city. I envision a life of traipsing through the mountains, looking for homes, and empty lots with the perfect building sites next to rivers, and finding other people their perfect piece of the Wild West.

  City life will be a thing of the past. The rat race over.

  And all of this is now in reach. This plan is perfect and Oaklee Ryan is my ticket to freedom.

  The next morning I find myself standing on my terrace, coffee cup in hand, looking over at Oaklee’s penthouse. I can’t see the street because my building is set back and my penthouse is on the far side of that, but I get glimpses of people rushing past the entrance to the alley. It’s Saturday, so families are out early to eat breakfast at one of the many restaurants on this block. The sun is shining, the temperature mild—gonna hit high sixties today—and there’s no sign of rain coming in over the mountains.

  And I have a girlfriend to share it with.

  That makes me laugh.

  I mean, for all intents and purposes she is my girlfriend. We will be spending the next two weeks doing pretty much everything couples do.

  What do couples do?

  I take a sip of coffee and ponder this. And at the same moment I see Oaklee emerge from her apartment through a sliding door, phone to her ear, as she paces back and forth and waves her hands around in exaggerated gestures.

  Hmmm.

  She looks pissed.

  I take another sip of coffee and consider yelling to see if I can get her attention. Then decide to just watch her instead. She’s wearing a long white button-down shirt. Like a man’s shirt, I guess. Which elicits an unreasonable feeling of jealousy in me that I quickly swallow down.

  We’re not that kind of couple.

  Underneath the shirt she’s wearing shorts and a tank top. It’s a little chilly this morning for that, but she’s so busy talking on the phone, I doubt she notices the cold.

  She certainly doesn’t look over here—which causes a stab of disappointment. Because it feels like I’ve thought about nothing but her since we met last night and she clearly has other things on her mind.

  I glance over my shoulder, find the wall clock in my living room, and figure I’d better get ready for our first date.

  So I leave her to her business, go back inside, and set my coffee cup in the sink and consider her instructions.

  Wear jeans and a t-shirt, she said.

  Hmmm… I’m not a jeans guy. I mean, I don’t always wear suits on the weekends, but I do often enough that my wardrobe starts to worry me.

  So I go to my closet, ponder what I have, and decide on a pair of Joe’s Jeans I got from Neiman Marcus last summer when Zack invited me to go boating up at Grand Lake with him.

  He laughed at them, but these jeans are the shit. Dark denim, straight-legged, not skinny, and they make my junk look good.

  I think Oaklee will appreciate them.

  I grab a white Balmain t-shirt with the logo splashed across the front from the drawer, steam it real quick because it’s got a crease down the side, and slip it over my head.

  Shoes… hmmm… sneakers, I guess. I have a pair of Burberry in house-check style, so I slip those on and take a look at myself.

  Yup. I totally got this look.

  Oh… a belt. I need a belt. I have a thing for belts so I spend a lot of time on this choice, eventually deciding on Burberry (in house check) because it matches the shoes.

  I leave my place at ten minutes to noon because I’m punctual that way, and hop down the stairs with a spring in my step that it hasn’t had in a long time.

  Oaklee Ryan. I might like her. This will, at least, be fun, I think.

  And hey, if we get that show we’ll be partners. I might feel this way for years if that happens.

  When I get to the lobby I’m pleasantly surprised to see Oaklee waiting. She’s talking to one of her hostesses, so she doesn’t notice me right away. I ease my way through the brunch crowd waiting for a table in the lobby and wait for her to turn.

  Which she does. And immediately frowns.

  “What?”

  “What the fuck are you wearing?”

  I look down at my outfit. “What do ya mean? You said jeans and t-shirt.”

  She’s wearing her usual. Short ruffly skirt that flutters against her bare thighs, cowboy boots, a tan tank top, and a cropped army jacket with embroidered patches of her beer bottle labels.

  “What the hell? Balmain Paris?” She scowls.

  “What? This shirt is fuckin’ cool.”

  “That shirt is stupid.” And then she sees my shoes. “And what the fuck are you wearing on your feet?”

  “Burberry,” I say, starting to get pissed off.

  “Oh, my God.” She presses her fingertips into her temples and looks down at the floor.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s the problem?”

  She lifts her head, looking me straight in the eyes. “You said you live close by?”

  “Yeah, in the next building over. Why?”

  “Take me to your closet.”

  CHAPTER FIVE - OAKLEE

  “It’s not personal,” I say. For like the hundredth time. “I just need a specific look, ya know?”

  “I get it,” he says. But it’s more of a growl. His teeth are clenched, which I take as a bad sign. And his knuckles are white as he twists the handle on his door and opens it up to wave me in. “After you.”

  “Oh, this is nice,” I say, looking around at his place. “Very homey.”

  “It’s stage furniture,” he replies. “I’m getting ready to sell the place and all this is included in the asking price. So don’t waste your time complimenting me on the design. I didn’t pick it and I didn’t—”

  “Jesus,” I say, interrupting him. “I get it. Not your style.”

  It’s a loft, like my place, and it’s a penthouse. But nothing like my penthouse. It’s small, for one. I mean, even comparatively speaking. I get it. I own my building and I have the entire top floor. Plus I use it as an office. There’s no other four-thousand-square-feet apartments in this neighborhood.

  But this place is small. “How many bedrooms?” I ask.

  “Just the one. Most people can’t afford more than one bedroom in LoDo. I want it to sell fast and this one will.”

  “OK.” He’s touchy about the square footage disparity between us. I get it. “Let’s see your closet.”

  “Right this way,” he says, once again waving me forward. Which is nice manners. Not necessary for this boyfriend job, but a good perk. Lawton Ayers obviously had a good mother.

  I walk into his bedroom and the first thing I see is the view. Which almost makes me laugh because I roll my eyes every time someone comes up to my place and remarks on the view.

  It’s not like he has a great view, though. This apartment is in the back of the building and faces the alley. There’s only a peekaboo view of the mountains because my building—specifically my penthouse—is really what he’s looking at.

  “H
uh,” I say.

  “What?” he asks, flipping on the light in his closet.

  “You can see my place from your bedroom.”

  “I told you that last night.”

  “Yeah, but it never occurred to me that someone could actually see into my place, ya know?”

  “Privacy in the city is a myth. Which is why I’m getting the fuck out of here. No space. Can’t stand it.”

  “Oh,” I say, turning away from the window to face him. He’s standing in the doorway of the closet, kinda backlit so a shadow falls across his face and blurs his features. “Where are you moving to?”

  “Indian Hills. You know where that is?”

  “Kinda,” I say. “Somewhere up there.” I wave in the general direction of the mountains. “Why so far?”

  He tilts his head at me. “That’s right. We haven’t talked about my end of the deal in all this. Well, I guess now’s as good a time as any. The TV show I’m pitching is called Rocky Mountain Millionaires. You know those shows on Home TV that feature million-dollar log homes and shit?”

  “Kinda,” I say again. Because I’m not really a Home TV watcher.

  “Well, that’s what I’m doing. They have other shows that feature high-end real-estate agents. So my show is something in between. We only deal in mountain homes and only high-end buyers. It’s a fantasy show. For people who want to get the fuck out of the city and live a different kind of life.”

  “People like you,” I say.

  He nods. “People like me.”

  “Interesting,” I say.

  “How so?” he asks.

  “Well.” I chuckle a little. “You’re the kind of guy who shows up in a Balmain Paris t-shirt and Burberry sneakers when I say to come dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.”

  “Just because I’m a professional doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the outdoors. This is Colorado, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Look, I don’t know why you’re being combative with me over clothes. I told you a hundred times. It’s—”

  “Not personal,” he says, interrupting me. “Yeah, I get it. So what should I wear, boss?”

  I smile. Tightly. “I’m going to ignore your attitude and get back to the job at hand, OK? Let’s see what you have.”

  He stands aside and does a little bow as he waves his hand to the closet.

  Which is… a very. Nice. Closet.

  “Wow,” I say, easing past him. Our bodies touch, my stomach brushing across his as I maneuver my way inside, and for a second I get a whiff of his aftershave. It’s a manly scent. Like sandalwood or something.

  I stop, our bodies still touching, and glance up at him. When our eyes meet he squints at me.

  I know we’re thinking about it. Sex, that is. Because he’s attractive and I’m looking pretty sexy right now in my boots and skirt. But neither of us says anything.

  So I inhale deeply, push past him to break contact, and take in the closet.

  Two whole separate spaces. All custom high-end dark-wood cabinetry in one room and a dressing room with mirrors and a low bench in the middle of the next.

  There’s racks of suit coats. Like two dozen button-down shirts that are starched to perfection, slacks hanging, and a whole wall of shoes lined up along the shelves. I’m pretty sure if I had a ruler with me, everything in here would be spaced two inches apart.

  “Hey, what’s this?” I say. My eyes are immediately drawn to a black leather jacket hanging up towards the back of a row of coats.

  Law laughs. “Leftover from my teen years.”

  “You should wear this today,” I say, grabbing the hanger and taking it down.

  “Shit. I was fifteen when I last wore that jacket. Won’t fit. I doubt I could even get my arms in the sleeves.”

  It’s a biker jacket. The old kind with zippers and shit. Heavy, and worn, and there’s two patches on the front. One is a black skull flanked on either side by ravens on a white background. The other is of a white motorcycle on a black background. Both of them say Shrike Bikes. When I turn it around to see the back, there’s a large anarchy symbol centerpiece patch and nothing else.

  “Were you in a…”

  “Gang?” he says, finishing my sentence once again. “You could say that.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, trying to picture him in that light, find it impossible and take off my little army jacket so I can slip the jacket on, because there’s no way I can’t. “Fits me,” I say, smiling over at him.

  He shrugs. “Take it with you if you want. I’ve got no use for it.”

  “Really?” I say, walking into the dressing room so I can see myself in the full-length mirror.

  “Sure. That’s what boyfriends do, right? Give their girl their jacket to wear.”

  I look at him and we both laugh.

  Law isn’t so bad, I decide. And this is a new light to see him in. Bad-boy teenager. “So what kind of gang were you in?”

  “Fight club. MMA style though, not bare knuckles like the movie.”

  “Bad boy, huh? I might’ve gotten you all wrong, Law.”

  “People usually do.” He sighs.

  “You know,” I say, “there’s a Shrike Bikes showroom just down the road over in Five Points. I know a few of the guys over there. The owner has a little bar attached and he has all my beers on his taps. We made a little deal a few years ago. We could go over there and get you a new jacket.”

  “So we can match,” he says, winking at me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We could match. How perfect would that be?”

  “Is that the kind of boyfriend you’re looking for, Oaklee? Outlaw partners?”

  I nod. “It is. That’s the kind I need for this game, anyway.”

  So he shrugs. “Whatever you want, then.”

  “You could get a t-shirt too.”

  He makes a face. “You want me to be a walking billboard for Shrike Bikes?”

  I wince. “Yeah, can’t do that.” I take another look at his closet. Desperate to find something suitable. “Do you have any concert shirts?”

  There’s a wall of dresser drawers in the small hallway between the two closet rooms. He turns to them, opens a drawer and starts looking.

  “How about this?”

  It’s an old, old Johnny Cash shirt. Like so old, it’s gray when it so clearly started out black. And there’s little holes in the front near the collar. Like it’s been washed so many times the fabric is falling apart. “Is that a leftover too?”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “I think I wore this every day for a month once when I was sixteen.” And then he laughs. Like he’s thinking back on those days and finds them better now that they were in the past.

  “It’s perfect. Do you have your leftover boots and some ripped jeans?”

  “Nah,” he says. “I mean, I got some Chucks I could wear. I never wore boots back then.”

  “Ripped jeans? Preferably faded?”

  “Nope again. I’m a different guy now, Oaklee. I wear suits.”

  “Hmm,” I say, disappointed. “Well, throw on the t-shirt, change the shoes, and we’ll call it good.”

  “Where we going?” he asks, tossing the shirt to me—which I catch out of instinct—and then grabs the back of his shirt behind his neck and lifts it over his head.

  I wasn’t ready for that. In fact, the entire process—from the moment his fingertips find the shirt and lift up—my eyes track down to his stomach as he reveals it in what feels like slow motion, but clearly isn’t because this is reality and not some movie.

  He. Is. Cut.

  Cut, bitches.

  The lines… oh, the lines of his muscles. They are something to behold. Rolling hills and valleys of taut muscles. And the way they move as he pulls the shirt over his head is… is like a ballet. Something choreographed. Something beautiful.

  “Oaklee?”

  “Huh?” I say, forcing my eyes to meet his. Finding myself reluctant to do so.

  “The shirt?” he says, hand outstretched.

  I expect him
to be smirking. Ya know, because he caught me looking. But he’s not. He’s just… unaware, I think. Unaware of the fact that the sight of his bare chest just made me breathless. Completely oblivious to my obvious ogling. Because he says, “So where are we going?” as he slips the Johnny Cash shirt over his head.

  “A party,” I say. “And not the garden kind you probably go to over in the Country Club neighborhood. The beer kind. Which is why I need you to look a certain way.”

  “Got it,” he says once the shirt is on. And then he toes the stupid Burberry sneakers off his feet and turns to the wall of shoes to hunt down his Chucks.

  They are old, and torn—like the shirt—and the laces are already tied just the way he likes them so they slip on easily. He smiles after that and walks into the dressing room, where I’m still standing wearing his aged leather jacket, to look at himself in the mirror. Like this shirt and these shoes are old friends he’s happy to meet up with again.

  “God, I feel so different.”

  “You look different too.”

  “Better?” he asks, reaching for a pair of sunglasses on a nearby counter and slipping them on.

  I nod, unable to reconcile the two versions of this man. The preppy millionaire he was five minutes ago and the hot bad boy he just turned into before my eyes.

  “So you don’t have a boyfriend? Why?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you hired me to be your boyfriend, so clearly you don’t have one. But you need one for this party?”

  “Ye… sorta. I guess you could say that.”

  “Trying to make a guy jealous?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Liar,” he says. And now he is smirking. “You like the bad boys, admit it. And for whatever reason this bad boy you’ve got your eye on isn’t interested. So you need me to be his stand-in so he understands what he’s missing.”

  “No,” I say, more forcefully this time. “That’s not it.”

  “Whatever,” he says, walking out of the dressing room and then leaving me alone in the closet as he disappears into his apartment. “I’m gonna find out what you’re up to sooner rather than later, ya know. There’s no use lying to me.”