"I mean, I thought about what you said. People like my cooking. Maybe that's good enough."
"Damn right," I say. "You don't need a fucking graduate degree to cook some shit at a goddamn restaurant. Especially in Maple Ridge."
"You have a filthy mouth."
"Girl, you don't know how filthy it gets."
She jams her arms down at her sides. "I regret even telling you about this."
"Okay, okay," I say. "Relax. If this is important to you, I'll be there."
"You will?" She seems genuinely surprised.
"Let you be my arm candy? Yeah."
She sneers but I think I detect a faint hint of humor in her expression. "You just have to go and ruin everything. I'm not your 'arm candy.' This is a professional town hall meeting, and you'd be there as my friend and supporter. Nothing more."
"Alright," I say. "I was joking, sourpuss. I'm in."
"Okay," she says, and the sun rises on her face.
She looks good when she smiles, and I grin back at her. "But this means we're ordering Chinese tonight."
The next afternoon, I'm walking on Rock Creek Trail before the town hall meeting. It's a dirt footpath that runs along the base of the ridge where Tess and I spent our last night together eight years ago. Real close to the town's hot springs. The houses along this path are all identical, as if someone stamped them out with the same cookie cutter. But they've got a charm. The government put them up during the war, and walking by them really takes you back to simpler times.
My first stop is the gas station in Maple Ridge's main strip mall, right next to Eddie Valenzuela's Chinese restaurant. Back when I was a stupid kid in high school, I stole a bunch of six-packs from the gas station. Never sat right with me, so today I'm making things right.
I enter the gas station through the front door, and the bells hanging off the door jingle as I walk through. It's a tiny little convenience store attached to a tiny gas station—only 2 pumps for the entire town.
Old man Ricky Marnes stands behind the counter, framed with a diverse palette of chips, cookies, and candy. He looks the exact same age he did the last time I set foot in this gas station eight years ago: old as fuck.
I walk up to the counter and drop a heavy fist on it. "Marnes."
"Thorne," he replies, looking me up and down. He prides himself on his stoicism, but I can tell he's surprised to see how much I've changed.
"You old codger."
"Fucking upstart kid."
"Marnes," I say, grabbing my wallet from my back pocket, "I got a confession for you. I ripped your old ass off dozens of times back in high school. If not hundreds."
He nods. "If you thought you were pulling one over on me, Thorne, you're damn wrong."
"You knew?" I ask, surprised.
"Of fucking course I did. Think you can smuggle a six-pack of Budweiser out from under me practically every fucking week without me noticing?"
"Why didn't you call the cops on me then, you old fuck?"
He shrugs. "You weren't worth the jail cell they'd put you in, shithead." He tries to sound tough, but I can tell his voice goes soft at the end.
"Near as I can figure, I owe you about six-fifty," I say. "Add interest, seven." I take out seven hundred-dollar bills from my wallet, and slap them on the counter. "Don't spend it all at once."
Old man Marnes looks down at the bills, moving nothing but his eyes. Then he scoops them up, pings the register drawer open, and puts them underneath the cash tray. "Right, son. Now get the hell out of here before I kick your ass."
I grin. "See you later, you old fossil."
"Until next time. Bitch."
I exit the store laughing to myself, the bells on the door jingling behind me.
Next stop, Maple Ridge Credit Union.
In the MRCU office, I meet with one of the managers I vaguely remember from when I was a kid. An older guy, who's nowhere near as old as Marnes. His pressed black suit and sharp swept-back salt-and-pepper hair complement the classy dark earth and wood tones of his office.
We sit down opposite one another at his desk. He introduces himself as Clint Roberts and gives me a hard stare. "How can I help you?" he asks.
"I'm here to pay off a delinquent debt."
He sticks out his lower lip and nods slowly. "Fantastic. I think I know the one."
That surprises me. "You do?"
He nods. "It's a small town, Mr. Thorne. People remember things." He gets up from his desk, without shaking the computer mouse to wake his PC. Instead, he opens a tall filing cabinet in the corner. "This debt got archived and sent to collections a while back. Give me a second."
"You didn't think I'd come back to pay it off."
"Good guess," he says over his shoulder, riffling through file folders. Finally he finds what he's looking for and sits back down behind his desk. He puts on a pair of reading glasses and peers down his nose. "An amount of $4,000, for a motorcycle with VIN number ending in 4YW3."
"Sounds right."
"Says here that attempted recovery of the property failed." He looks up at me. "That means a repossessor tried to find it but they couldn't. Do you know where the vehicle is now?"
I clear my throat. "At the bottom of Ridge Lake." Then I add, "Probably."
He looks like he's about to say something, but then he shakes his head. "I'm not even going to ask."
"For the best." The truth is, me and a couple friends were trying to jump the bike over some logs on the shore, and, well… we fucked up. So I sort of stopped making payments on the bike.
What can I say, I was an idiot.
"Right," he says. "Well, with interest and fees, the outstanding balance comes out to $5142.62. But because the debt went into collections, I can accept an amount equal to the original principal to clear the debt. Four thousand even."
I give him my bank account number and he schedules a transfer. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" he asks.
"That's I all got."
We stand up and shake hands. He looks uncomfortable as we do, and he withdraws his hand quickly. "I admire your decision to come back and pay this off," he says, turning around. "Most people wouldn't." He reaches over to his desk and pulls a bottle of hand sanitizer out of a desk drawer. He squirts five or six pumps on his hands and rubs them together.
"No praise needed for doing the right thing," I say, raising an eyebrow. I look down at his hands. "I didn't piss on my hands before our meeting, you know."
He looks down at his hands and looks sheepish. "Sorry. It's not personal."
"Alright then."
He nods and puts the hand sanitizer back in his desk drawer. "You should submit a receipt to the three big credit bureaus, you should be able to get this black mark removed from your credit report."
"Thanks."
He shows me to the door of his office. "Let me know if I can be of further service," he says.
"Thanks," I say, and I extend my hand for another handshake without thinking about it. We both look down at my hand and then I jam it in my pocket. We exchange nods instead.
Interesting guy, that Mr. Roberts.
About four-thirty in the afternoon, my phone buzzes with a text message.
I fish my phone out of my jeans pocket, expecting another pushy message from Tasha, the chick I met back in Berlin when I was shipping back to the States last month. She was good for a fuck, but now she's fixated on the idea I'm coming back, which is total bullshit. And she won't stop blowing up my phone with texts and nude selfies. They look like shit on my old-ass flip phone, so I just delete them anyway.
It's bullshit, because first of all, I'm taking my stressed-out ass to Alaska just as soon as I can. And second of all, because I haven't been able to think of any woman except Tess since I laid eyes on her again.
I think back on my memories of Maple Ridge. Playing cops and robbers in the woods when Eddie and I were little kids. Later, in high school, Friday nights picking up shakes and fries from Po'Folks restaurant, and eating in the
car while watching old horror movies at Hop's drive-in theater. Swimming in Lake Sapphire on hot summer afternoons when school was out. And hanging out with Tess on school nights up on the top of Maple Ridge, our favorite place together. Always knowing that she made me feel something special, with those soft-looking pink lips, that lightly freckled skin that always begged me to touch it.
The girl just drives me crazy. And if nothing happens between us before I leave town, it'll go down as one of my biggest all-time regrets.
When I check my phone, the sun seems to burst through the shade of the tree canopy. It's not that bimbo Tasha, it's Tess.
Hey, do you still want to come to the town hall meeting tonight?
Yes. I'll be there, I text back.
Okay. Church basement at 6:30, comes her reply.
5
Tess
Okay. Church basement at 6:30, I type out on my cell phone. My heart skips a beat at the thought of seeing Hunter in just under an hour. Even though he's barely been here for a week, every minute we're not together seems like an eternity.
I shouldn't be thinking about him at all, but here I am, getting butterflies in my stomach just because I haven't seen him since this morning. Something must be really wrong with me. Literally everything else in my life should be a higher priority right now.
My best friend Meg sits at her kitchen table, tapping away on a shiny new MacBook Pro laptop. I stand barefoot at her counter, the wide, cool marble tile feeling luxurious under my feet. The high, white ceilings, tall windows, and modern stainless steel appliances make me feel like I'm on vacation from my regular life. Her home is one of the newest and most beautiful in this town.
Sometimes I get jealous of everything Meg has. A beautiful house, knockout looks, and a rich, smart husband who would never, ever cheat on her.
I dump ingredients into the plastic tumbler of her NutriBullet blender one by one. Bananas, ice, soy milk, cinnamon powder. A dash of nutmeg. It's my famous banana nut smoothie that Meg always asks me to make when I come over. We usually split it, but today it's all for her because the town hall meeting is a potluck, and I don't want to ruin my appetite. I'm bringing a big batch of hot wings that I fried up.
"Oh shit," I mutter. "I forgot to tell Hunter about the potluck." I text him again.
Forgot to tell you, it's a potluck. Try to bring something if you can.
His reply comes just a minute later.
Thanks, great advance notice.
I reply.
You're a SEAL, right? Improvise.
Meg finally stops typing. "Sorry, babe," she says, her voice perky as always. "Had to put out that dumpster fire." Meg works as an assistant to her husband, helping to wrangle clients and do the people work. She's a people person. Her husband, on the other hand… he's a watchmaker. And he's about as interested in managing customers as he is being shot in the face. He's the kind of guy who'd always rather be in his workshop, tinkering with machines. And that's where he probably is right now, down in the basement.
I laugh. "I didn't know there were emergencies in the watch business. I don't know what Trevor would do without you."
Meg rolls her eyes. "These rich customers, a lot of them have nothing better to do than sit and refresh their package tracking all day. I think they go a little stir-crazy."
"Oh my god," I say. "I am so totally guilty of that." I have to admit, there's nothing better than the feeling of a package delivery. Especially those Amazon Prime deliveries on Sundays. Of course, I wouldn't know anything about waiting for a ten-thousand-dollar watch.
I flip the plastic NutriBullet cup over, press it down onto the base, and the motor kicks in. It purees the ingredients, and I pour the creamy banana smoothie into a crystal milkshake-style glass with a blue and yellow striped straw. If there's one thing I've learned over the years about cooking, it's that the presentation matters just as much as the taste.
The truth is, I like food dates at Meg's. Not just because I get to use her brand new, beautiful kitchen, but because it's nice to feel domestic again once in a while. Roger might not have been the right man for me, and my dream might be to open a restaurant, but in some ways I miss everything that comes with being a housewife.
I sit down across from her at the table and she closes her laptop. "So, enough about me. Tell me how you are." She wraps her ruby lips around her straw, and the contrast of her lipstick against her curled blonde hair could be a picture-perfect scene of domestic bliss out of the 1950s. She reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. Me, on the other hand… blah.
"Well, I'm about to make a pitch at this town hall meeting tonight."
Meg gulps down a mouthful of smoothie. "Exciting. You mentioned that. For a permit to operate?"
"That comes later. I don't have the cash. I need an investor first."
"Honey," says Meg, pushing her smoothie away and leaning in toward me, "You know all you have to do is ask."
I feel my face turn pink. "Thanks, but I couldn't."
"It's really not a problem. You wouldn't be putting us out at all."
I shake my head no. "I don't want to take handouts or favors. I want to do this the legit way, sink or swim on my own."
Meg nods. "I get it. But let me know if you change your mind."
"Thanks."
She leans in again and gets a devious smile on her face. She stabs at the remainder of her smoothie nervously, like it's a pincushion. "Also," she says, "What's this about a man that I hear?"
I flush pink again, and I pull out my phone to check the time. "I should probably get going," I tell her.
"Uh-uh. It's at the church, right? Such a short walk. You don't have to leave for at least another fifteen minutes." She grins. "Spill the beans."
"I don't know what you mean." I feign ignorance, doing my best to look innocent. But I'm sure my face is as red as a tomato.
"Fine. Then let me be clear," she says. "I heard Hunter Thorne went back to your place." She grins her pearly-white pin-up smile at me.
Dammit. There's no use in denials. Not in a small town like this where gossip spreads like a virus on a cruise ship. By the time I manage to convince Meg it's not true, a dozen more people would have heard about it.
I sigh. "It really wasn't like that."
She gives me a sly smile. "I didn't say it was like anything."
"You implied it."
Meg rolls her eyes. "Just tell me what happened already. Everybody always thought you two would end up together. This is exciting."
I can't help cracking a small smile, but I'm annoyed at myself for it. I should be mad at Hunter for randomly showing up after all these years and having the balls to openly hit on me, in public of all places. But all the women in this town know how hot Hunter is—even the married ones like Meg.
"He's in town for a while, and he needed a place to stay. That's it. He's not here for me. We met by complete accident."
She giggles. "Sure. So what actually happened?"
"Nothing!" I blush. "I told you, he's not here for me. We didn't get together eight years ago, we're not together now, and look what happened to my life. Divorced, and now I form solid blocks of shit out of fluids to sell online."
"You're a liar." She leans back in her chair and throws me another grin. For a minute, I feel like we're both back in college at Springville Tech, before she was married and before I got married to Roger. "You're selling yourself way short, too, but I can only tell you that so many times."
"I wouldn't lie to you. Nothing happened."
"Well," she says, raising an eyebrow, "that's unfortunate."
"You're silly."
"Remind me, Tess, how long has it been since you've gotten laid?"
I know the answer to that all too well. The last time I got laid was by Roger, and when we had sex, it was so clinical, so predictable. Nothing like when Hunter and I used to fuck back in high school. And Hunter looks about ten times better now than he ever did before. And I can't really stop thinking about him. And Meg's interrogation of m
e isn't helping that situation either.
"Meg, I'm not looking for—"
She cuts me off. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think it would be good for you to get some."
I can't help laughing. "From him?"
Tess frowns. "What do you mean, 'from him?' That man is the hottest thing to come out of Maple Ridge since the Dust Bowl, and you know that. And I'm sure he still has it bad for you."
"I need to focus on myself right now," I say. The last thing I need right now is more heartbreak. That's all he gave me last time.
"You know what I think? I think you should try to let go of the past and just see what happens."
"But with Roger—"
"None of that," says Meg, waving her hand in the air. "Look where you're going, not where you've already been."
"Are you telling me to..."
"Do him?" Meg responds. "Yes. Yes I am."
I blush, and the thought of Hunter Thorne fucking me again makes me get wet between my legs.
"I think he wants to. But I don't know."
Meg cocks an eyebrow. "Come on, Tess. It's been eight years, and you're single now. Live in the moment for once."
"But he's only in town for a couple more weeks, max."
"That's perfect, then," says Meg. "A fling. That's exactly what you need." She adds, "Keep it simple. Keep your expectations in line. That Hunter Thorne is one bad boy."
Yes. Yes he is. And that's exactly what I'm worried about. If I let Hunter Thorne put his hands on me, I don't think I'll be able to keep my expectations in line.
I think I'll want everything. Again.
6
Hunter
The church basement is old but well-kept. Coming down here feels like being transported straight to the 1960s. It's big and it smells musty, just like it did when I was a little kid. Just like old churches do. Back in the day, it felt like a fucking football field, and even now that my head extends closer to the ceiling, it still feels huge. The room buzzes with activity and it feels like damn near the entire town is here.
Fake Bride With Benefits Page 5
