“You would think that with all the money you’re making, you’d have landed yourself a trophy wife by now.” Their sister had had enough, and she whipped her napkin onto her unfinished meal as if she had suddenly lost her appetite.
“Chris give it a rest,” Tristan snarled at her brother. “Not everyone makes marriage a sport.” Another round of shocked silence overcame the table as Chris’ face went pale. Elyse was his third wife, and while Jon would have never uttered the words, he wanted to kiss his sister for saying it. Jon glanced furtively at Elyse who simply kept eating, a sardonic smirk on her face. Her expression seemed to read “you deserved that, Chris.”
“How dare you!” The oldest sibling jumped up from the table as if he was going to strike the woman. But he was no match for Tristan who, although was the youngest by ten years and a hundred pounds smaller than the oldest Hewson sibling, had the mouth of a drunken sailor and the brains of a sober astronaut. Just as fast, she was on her feet, staring Chris down, their almost identical hazel eyes clashing furiously.
“What? It isn’t slander if it’s true. Or don’t you remember that from your two-month bout of ‘wanting to become a lawyer?’ Sit the fuck down and leave Jon alone,” she hissed. “I am sick and tired of not being able to enjoy a single goddamn family meal without listening to your bullshit.”
“Tristan Anne Hewson-Miller!” Mary-Anne gasped, horrified at her daughter but Tristan did not waver, and she silently challenged Christopher to speak, her bright eyes flashing with danger.
Chris opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Elyse touched his arm, and as if he was drugged, he immediately sat back on his chair.
“Sorry about that, family,” Tristan said nonchalantly, also sitting but still staring down her brother as if daring him to speak. “Someone had to say it. And by the way, Elyse, I meant no offense to you.”
“None taken,” Elyse replied smoothly. She smiled softly and turned to her brother-in-law.
“Now, what were you saying, Johnny?”
Jonathan Hewson the Third was a wealthy man by society standards. His income crossed into the low seven-figure bracket and while he was self-employed as a web designer, his clientele base grew monthly. He had a small group of underlings whom he never saw as everyone was employed from the safety and comfort of their own homes. Tristan, an accountant by trade, had been pushing him to set up his business properly before the International Revenue Service came knocking on his door but Jon had been putting it off because of his social anxiety. He did not want the stress of hiring secretaries and looking for office space. He also did not want anyone to know this. It was for this reason that he continued to carry on his thriving business from the security of his three-bedroom condo in Connecticut. No one would have guessed Jon was a success judging by the way he lived. A housekeeper came once a week to do the basics such as washing the windows and cleaning behind the toilet, but the consensus around the cleaning agency was that Jon was wasting his money. The apartment was always impeccably kept, and even if it had not been, he had so few belongings, it made the chores a breeze. He was a minimalist by nature, and he loathed clutter. His rooms were functional with reasonably priced furniture but nothing ostentatious. He could not justify spending copious amounts of cash on material things not because he was frugal but because he didn’t feel as though he deserved them. There was nothing appealing about Jon to himself. He was not as attractive, witty, charming or athletic as his brother. He carried too much weight despite his formidable height. And while he had been told he was a gentle soul, he never saw any redeeming qualities in himself. He tried to tell himself that he preferred the company of books to people, but that was not true. He was insufferably lonely, something that even his sister didn’t realize about him. Tristan was the closest person he had to a friend in the world but even she was worlds apart from him, although not as much as he and Christopher. The age difference had much to do with the slight strain in the potential relationship but Tristan was also married with a young family, and while she went out of her way to include Jon in outings and events, Jon always felt like he was the third wheel. He tried to frequent bars or art galleries but he was not much for socializing, and when it came to meeting people, he found himself tongue-tied even though he wanted nothing more than companionship. It was inevitable, then, that Jon found other ways to curb his loneliness.
The first one’s name was Amber and Jon had been sure that she was “the one.” She was slender, blonde and had vivid blue eyes which made his heart skip every time she looked into his eyes. She was a medical student at the University of Connecticut, and while Jon desperately wanted her to move in with him, she had informed him that she needed to be closer to school.
“I am going to be on-call a lot, Johnny,” Amber had told him in her honey-filled voice. Jon immediately rented her a lavish apartment near the college, fully furnishing it with everything she needed. She had been so grateful to him; she had waived the escort agency’s fee that week. After six months, Jon had set her up with a bank account which he kept healthily replenished. He had offered to pay off her tuition directly, but she insisted on keeping paying some of her own way. Jon adored her independence. He was sure that Amber was happy and would never leave him. She rewarded him with heavy nights of passion, and he spoiled her with shopping trips and jewelry. She was everything he could have ever wanted in a woman. He loved the way people looked at them when they were out together, but Amber much preferred the privacy of being home where they could cuddle and watch movies. He was building up the nerve to ask her to marry him and secretly couldn’t wait to see the look on Christopher’s face when he saw how beautiful was his future wife. One day, however, Jon called Amber, and her phone was out of service. Shocked, as he was the one paying the bill, he called the phone company who informed him that Amber had requested the phone be canceled. As she was also on the account, it was within their right to comply with her demand. With a growing sense of unease, Jon got in his 2003 Ford Escape and drove to her apartment complex. He did not see her 2015 BMW he had bought her in the usual parking spot in the carport. When a kid in his late teens answered the door, Jon felt his bowels turn to water. The boy explained that he had just begun subletting the apartment and the “chick before” had gone to Europe indefinitely. A mix of humiliation and anger flooded Jon when he finally accepted the fact that he had been played by a professional. When those emotions subsided, it was replaced with deep anguish. And more loneliness.
The second one’s name was Simone, and by this time, Jon was well more educated on the way these women worked. While he still paid Simone hourly, he did not allow for her to have free access to accounts and when he set her up in her own apartment, he ensured that he was the only one on the lease. It had taken about three months before Jon recognized that not only was the sultry and sexy Simone a raging alcoholic, she also dabbled in meth and crack. When she finally got carted away to the psychiatric ward at the local hospital following a near-fatal overdose, Jon learned that the quaint three-bedroom house he had rented in his name was trashed to the tune of over ten thousand dollars in damage.
Jon stayed “single” for over a year following Simone. Even in his weakest moments, he somehow managed to avoid the escort agencies and Craigslist. He had almost thought he was willing to try speed dating or Plenty of Fish by the time that Christmas had rolled around but that night, when he stood in the elevator leading up to his seventeenth-floor condo, the familiar feeling of desperation had begun to fill his gut. Why do you let Chris get to you like this? He asked himself for the millionth time. Chris is not perfect either. Tristan is right. He’s been married three times! You should not be comparing your romantic life to his. But it did not matter how he reasoned with himself, his emotions overrode his good sense. By the time he walked into the dark, sparsely decorated living room, Jon was on his cell, looking for a new agency. It was time to find another “one.” Who knows? He thought wryly as he searched online. Maybe three time’s the charm. It was a
fter ten thirty at night, and although Jon was basically a staunch teetotaler, phone in hand, he wandered over to the scarcely used liquor cabinet. Pouring himself a stiff scotch in a cheap, plastic glass, he sat on his worn red futon, carefully studying the working girls on a site which he had discovered. A soft blanket of snow had encased the picturesque town of Burlington, and the Berkshires twinkled under soft lighting but Jon was oblivious to the beauty of the season, his mind focused strictly on finding someone to hold close before another year dawned. Taking another sip of his potent drink, Jon was surprised to find that he had finished it. Shrugging to himself, he rose and poured another, already feeling its effects. Good. You’re going to need all the courage you can get, he told himself, this time filling the glass more than halfway and recklessly taking a swig as if he were challenging the universe to object. Of course, lightning did not strike, and the flakes of crystalline snow continued to swirl around his full-length windows as if taunting him in his misery. Jon ignored the display and stared intently at the women on the screen. No, that one looks too much like Simone. I don’t want to go into a relationship with a bias. Oh, and she claims she’s a medical student. Who does that remind me of? Onward he scrolled, finding flaw after flaw with each of the scantily dressed lovelies in the photos, only pausing to top up his scotch. An hour later, he had moved over to his laptop and was on his fourth site, feeling more and more disheartened. Go to bed, Jon. You’re drunk, he told himself bitterly. Rubbing his eyes, he promised he would if no one caught his eye in the next fifteen minutes. It was at that time when an ad in the bottom left corner of the screen had caught his eye. It simply read “European Babes Want You!” and it was likely clickbait which Jon had seen and disregarded dozens of times in the past. But that night, a combination of the alcohol and the sadness led his mouse over the icon which he hit. Immediately he was redirected to the world of mail order brides, thinly veiled as an international matchmaking service. A mixture of disgust and intrigue overcame Jon as he found himself setting up an account through hazy eyes. Within minutes, he was staring at stunningly beautiful women, mostly Eastern European and East Asian, boasting their domestic talents while coyly dropping sexual innuendo. Jon was fascinated, mostly because he had never delved into this avenue prior, but an inner voice was deeply ashamed that he was entertaining the thought at all. His eyes growing heavy, Jon began to slip into that place between dreaming and full consciousness. A stunningly sensuous blonde was standing by his coffee table, wearing nothing but an apron. Her supple, natural breasts were covered by the cotton and lace but spilled dangerously out the side while the bottom of the thin cloth just barely hid the runway between her creamy, white thighs. She was holding a silver tray in her hands, her long, white-blonde hair spilling silkily down her shoulder.
“Honey? Do you want your breakfast here?” she asked in a thick Russian accent. Jon licked his lips and nodded eagerly.
“Yes, Helga,” he replied. “Leave it here and come join me.”
Suddenly her sweet, clear blue eyes clouded over and she hurled the food filled tray at his head.
“My name is Olga! OLGA not Helga!” she screamed. Her face contorted into demonic proportions and she rushed toward him, screaming like a banshee.
Jon startled, and the mouse slipped from his hand. As he began to realize he had fallen asleep at his laptop, he shook his head ruefully blinking. Even the women in your dreams don’t want you. He abruptly slammed the computer closed and headed to his bedroom, painfully aware that he had an erection.
Chapter Two
When Jon woke the following morning, he could not fathom why there were balls of cotton in his mouth. It took him two full minutes to recall the half bottle of scotch he had consumed. When he finally managed to bring himself to an upward position, he glanced at the time, it read nine-thirty. Dammit! I have to have that project outline submitted by eleven! Hurriedly, he threw his legs over the side of his twin bed and rushed to splash some cold water on his face before making a cup of instant coffee and setting up in front of his computer. The snow had finally stopped outside, and the sun was shining through, casting a surreal halo-like glow on the city below, but as usual, Jon was enveloped in his own thoughts. The assignment he was working on was already proving to be daunting. The client, although a repeat, was insufferably meticulous and she was known to nitpick the most minuscule details. Under normal circumstances, Jon would have been up for the challenge but that morning, the last-minute edit was proving to be painful, and the caffeine was not nearly effective enough to put him in high gear. Sighing, he tried his best to address all the aspects, but he had a feeling he was going to be receiving a discontented email from her later in the afternoon. It did not help that his email notifications were dinging every two minutes in between. I know it’s Christmas day but come on! Leave a man in peace! He moaned silently to himself. Finally deciding he could not stare at the outline for another moment, he quickly sent it off before he could change his mind. Another notification alarm sounded, and Jon sighed. He switched to his email screen, inwardly cringing. Being the introvert that he was, Jon had a hard time with the holidays. Christmas especially, he found it unnecessary and highly commercial. People came out of the woodwork, folks he hadn’t seen or heard from since the previous year and nine times out of ten, they asked for something. It was time to dole out donations or offer his presence at a soup kitchen. It wasn’t that Jon was particularly opposed to doing any of those things; it was simply that he did not understand why Christmas time seemed to be the only time when people felt the urge to help their fellow man. Jon constantly donated money anonymously to various charities, particularly ones who helped children. Another lesser known fact about Jon was that he very much wanted a son, but as he fast approached forty without any love prospects, he had long since come to terms that his brother’s offspring would be the only ones keeping the Hewson name alive. I am digressing in my own head, Jon thought, half amused, half bitterly as he logged into his webmail. Instantly, his mouth dropped open. There were over seventy emails in his inbox. Oh my God! I’ve been hacked! But as he began to look them over, he realized from where the majority had come. Shame tinted his face as he saw the subject lines. There were dozens of messages from women who wanted to come to America and be his wife. Jon had almost forgotten about his profile from the previous night or, more accurately, had tried to block it out. But as he scrolled through the pictures, he saw that he had, in fact, reached out to several Eastern European ladies and all of them had written back. His mind now sober, he began to click off the boxes to delete them in their entirety, unread. At that moment, his cell phone rang. It was Tristan on a Facetime call. Jon smiled and accepted the call.
“Merry Christmas Uncle Jon!” Jordan, Tristan, and Addison yelled in unison.
“Merry Christmas guys!” he replied, his headache suddenly disappearing. “Did Santa come last night, Addy?”
“Yeah! I gotta iPad!” Addison screeched, and Tristan rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, Santa apparently had a huge budget this year even though Mrs. Clause told him to be careful. But who needs food, right Santa?”
Jordan scowled at his wife, but three-year-old Addy continued to rhyme off the list of goodies she had received under the tree and Jon tried to ignore the tension between his sister and brother in law.
“Oh yeah, and I gotta baby!” Addison proclaimed.
“A baby? Can I see?” Jon asked, waiting for Addison to find her new doll but the flame-haired child shook her head. There was a brief silence as the adults exchanged a look.
“No,” Addison answered.
“Why not? I want to see your new baby!” Jon insisted, smiling affectionately.
“I can’t show it to you yet. It’s in mommy’s tummy.”
Jon felt a jolt of surprise course through him, and he stared at Tristan through the phone.
“What? You’re pregnant?” he asked, his voice rising a pitch. Immediately he heard the accusing tone in his voice and smiled to take the
sting from his words. She nodded slowly.
“We were going to wait until the new year to tell everyone. Don’t tell mom or Chris yet.” Jon nodded slowly, maintaining the forced smile.
“Congratulations, guys,” he choked. He knew he should be thrilled for her, but he could not help the feelings of resentment building from within. Are you jealous of your sister? That is weird. Oedipus would be proud. Tristan seemed to sense his unease and quickly ended the conversation with a promise to call him later.
“Hey!” Jordan called before Tristan had a chance to disconnect.
“Yeah, Jordy?”
“Don’t worry, bud. You’ll find someone too!”
Jon’s face went crimson as Tristan glared daggers at her husband.
“Shut your face, Jordy. No one asked for your opinion. We love you, Jon. Talk to you soon.” Jon was left alone, in silence staring at the blank phone screen. For a second he considered reopening the decanter, but as he thought it, the headache came flooding back. Instead, he rose from the couch and returned to his computer desk. Slowly, he began to remove the checkmarks beside the emails. I guess I’m not sending these to the recycle box, he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat. It seemed like he was going to need them after all.
There were three women who captured him immediately but even as he exchanged emails with them in poor English, Jon found himself questioning his own motives again. You’re settling out of loneliness, he told himself. Jordan is right. I will find someone. Everyone finds someone. Even those unattractive deadbeats on “Maury” find love. There is hope for me. Two of the women were Russian, tall, brunette and blue-eyed. To their credit, neither one beat around the bush and directly asked him how much money he made and if he felt that he was able to support her and her champagne tastes. While Jon assured them both that he was well capable in providing the luxuries they desired, he couldn’t help but wonder if they had ever seen the likes of expensive clothing or jewelry given their shoddy clothing from their profile pictures. It did not bother him; he was glad that the women would find him useful for a time but in the back of his mind, he wondered how long the novelty would last. As soon as they were convinced her could maintain them properly, their tones changed, and a sexy sweetness appeared.
The Campus Jock: A College Bad Boy Romance Page 45
