Pretend I'm YoursA Single Dad Romance

by Vivian Wood

  In the past few months, though, his books had started to overtake the walls. He’d filled up those second-hand bookshelves instantly, crammed with first editions of China Mieville’s Kraken, a dog-eared Finch, and several editions of H.P. Lovecraft’s work.

  Surrounded by art, visual and literary, it made him feel safe. He fingered the collar work that had slowly started to creep up his neck, an extension of the full sleeves. Even without seeing it, he took comfort in the oil-black raven embedded in oleander. One of the most beautiful and deadly of flowers, he thought.

  He glanced at the phone. Just 10:45, there’s still time. God, I could use a drink. Sean’s thumb, covered almost entirely with a black cross, hovered over his last call. “Sponsor.”

  “Sean,” said the familiar voice, the slightest trace of a Korean accent. “You okay, man?”

  “Hey, Joon-Ki,” Sean said. “Yeah, I’m good. Just …”

  “What is it? You need me to hit up a meeting with you?”

  “Nah, no. Nothing like that,” Sean said. Even after three years of being sober, Joon-Ki was a hardcore AA advocate. At Sean’s first meeting, he’d been the only one who was close to bearable. All those whiny alcoholics, so proud to claim the label. “Just, I don’t know.” Wanted to hear your voice? Fuck, that sounded gay.

  “It’s cool,” said Joon-Ki. “You still working out like a beast? That’s one of the best, and healthiest, lifestyle changes.”

  “Yeah,” Sean said. “I quit the early morning shit, though, it’s not for me. Every night though, right after the shop.”

  “Routines are good,” Joon-Ki said. Sean could almost see him over the phone, that spiked black hair and surprisingly long lashes.

  “Well, then I got that down,” he said. “Work, run, lift, sleep. That’s my life.”

  “That’s a good life.”

  His phone buzzed against his jaw. He could still hear Joon-Ki as he pulled it away to see a text from Connor. And there’s big brother, arm wrapped around some THOT. “Sam says hi,” Connor had added to the MMS. Sam, that was her name. He didn’t want to admit it, but Connor really had scored with that one.

  “Hey, man, I gotta go,” Sean said into the phone. He only felt slightly bad about cutting Joon-Ki off.

  “Yeah, okay, it is about that time for you. Thanks for checking in. Call or text if you need me.” God, it was like having a mom again. Or, at least what a doting, caring mom is probably like.

  Sean filled his thermos, filled it with the cheap coffee timed to be ready at 10:30 daily, and grabbed a pear. As he battled the door to lock behind him, he swore under his breath. He was going to be late. By three minutes, max, but still.

  “You’re late,” his boss said as soon as he stepped through the doors.

  “Yeah, well. Close at midnight, then open the next day, doesn’t really make for sound sleep,” he said as he shrugged off the leather jacket.

  “Leather?” asked one of the apprentices. He seemed like a kid to Sean, looked like a high schooler. It infuriated him that they were at the same level. “You know this is L.A., right?”

  He ignored Daniel, and his boss gave him one of those frustrated, sitcom-level what on earth will I do with you? expressions.

  You won’t do shit, he thought to himself. “My bad, Josh” he said, just in case. “I prefer the morning shifts, you know that.”

  That was an outright lie. He hated the morning shift. Less walk-in money, but better appointment money—when appointments happened and the clients actually showed up. He checked the schedule and sighed. No surprise there. Once again, no appointments lined up.

  “Daniel? You can go on home,” Josh told the other apprentice. “You know the rules. The one on the schedule shows up, you get the boot. Be back in two hours for your usual shift.”

  “Fucker,” Daniel said under his breath to Sean as he walked out the door.

  Josh had just finished up a septum piercing on a girl who had to have lied about her age. “All done,” he said as he handed her a mirror.

  Piercings were easy money. Sean was sure that’s why it’s all Josh did these days. Why labor over some ink for hours when you could stick a pin through some twat and get a hundred bucks?

  He knew the reason, though. When you were a tattoo artist, it wasn’t a choice. You drew because you had to, and skin was the ultimate canvas. Sean tucked into his sketchbook and let his vision carry him away. When the door chimed, it seemed hours later. He glanced up and saw a group of exceptionally tight girls walk in. They chattered and laughed in that clique-ish way he hated, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  “Oh, God, I don’t know. Something feminine, for sure,” the blonde said. “Harper? What do you think?” she asked as she pointed to one of the cheapest tattoos on the wall.

  “A butterfly? Seriously?” The redhead replied. “Isn’t that, like, the epitome of a tramp stamp?”

  “Only if it’s on your lower back,” the blonde said, as though she’d just dropped some serious wisdom.

  “Ladies!” Josh said. He rubbed his hands together as he approached. “How can we help you?”

  “We’re all getting tattoos!” the blonde said.

  “Matching?” Josh asked.

  “God, no! We’ll all choose our own—”

  “Small,” the redhead emphasized.

  “Whatever,” the blonde rolled her eyes.

  “Take a look at these books, here,” Josh said. “And—Daniel! Right on time. Our two artists here, Sean and Daniel, will take good care of you ladies.”

  “I don’t know how you ladies could get any finer,” Daniel said with that practiced smile and swagger he had. “But when I get my hands on you, I’ll definitely give it my best shot.”

  The group giggled and flocked towards him. All except the redhead, who examined the book of drawings like her life depended on it.

  “Look at this one!” the one with the long black braid squealed. “Wouldn’t this look so hot at the party Saturday? You know, if I wear that little white crochete top I just got, the one that looks like Kylie Jenners’—”

  “A party, huh?” Daniel asked. “And you didn’t even invite me?”

  “Oh, my God, you should totally come,” said the Kylie Jenner wannabe.

  “Jesus,” said the redhead lowly. Sean caught her eye and she bit her lip as she smiled at him. He’d been the only one who heard.

  Damn, she was one hell of a knockout. Built like an hourglass with porcelain skin. Her thick, wavy red hair fell over one eye, but she didn’t push it back. And she didn’t break his gaze. “I’m ready if you are,” she said to him.

  “What you got?” he asked as she strutted towards him. Little black ankle boots gave her an added twitch that made it almost impossible to not ogle her openly.

  “This,” she said, and dropped the open book on his chair.

  “A snake,” he said. “You don’t strike me as the snake type.”

  “I like snakes,” she said with a shrug. “And you don’t know me.”

  “Where do you want it?”

  “Here,” she said, and turned her back to him to trace a long finger with blood-red nails across the small of her back.

  “Good choice,” he said.

  “It’s not a tramp stamp?” she asked with a grin as she perched on the chair.

  He tried to stay professional as he tucked a paper towel into her jeans and caught a look at her turquoise thong. “That whole tramp stamp thing is bullshit,” he said. “The best tats follow the natural lines of the body, and the lower back is an organic canvas for it.”

  “I like how you talk,” she said. With her faced away from him, he couldn’t tell if she was giving him shit.

  “So, you don’t seem as hyped about the party as your friends,” he said. He let her check the imprint on her skin before he readied the needle. She nodded, wordless, at the coiled cobra on her back.

  “Not really my thing,” she said. She jumped slightly as he started to work.

  “Oh? Not the ty
pical SoCal party girl,” he said. Normally he didn’t like shooting the shit with customers. But normally, customers weren’t this hot.

  She laughed. “Hardly. But my friends party hard. Normally I’d just fake sick, but since it’s at my place …”

  “I can go with you,” he said. The words were out before he could stop himself. What the hell?

  “Really?” she asked, though she didn’t sound surprised.

  “Sure,” he said. “I can keep you company. I, uh … I’m sober. So, you know.”

  It was the first time he’d said it to a total stranger. Something about her, or maybe it was that he could only see half her face in the mirror, just let it slip out.

  He saw her bite her lip in the mirror. “I mean, I’m happy to have you there, if you don’t mind being around a bunch of drunk idiots.”

  “I can handle it,” he said.

  After he’d finished up the little serpent, he handed her the mirror so she could inspect it. “I love it,” she said with a grin.

  “I gotta wrap it up,” he said. “Turn around.”

  “Okay. Here,” she said, and twisted around. “Put your number in my phone and I’ll text you later about the party.”

  “Hey!” the girl with the black braid said. “I didn’t get to see it!”

  “You’ll see it Saturday,” the bombshell said.

  He finished with the gauze and put his number in her phone. “Sean Cavanaugh,” she said as she put her phone away. “I’m Harper Brex.”

  “Yeah, and you better Brexit outta here so I can get mine,” her friend said. “A dragonfly,” she told Sean as she took Harper’s place. “That’s not too slutty, right?”

  “Didn’t know there was such a thing,” Sean said.

  He busied himself with the girl’s tattoo, but stole glances at Harper when he could. He couldn’t get over that body. Nobody was built like that, but he could tell it was all natural.

  As the group left, Harper gave him a wave. Sean smiled halfway. He couldn’t help himself. He felt lighter. And he hadn’t wanted a drink the whole afternoon.

  “Hey, that might be the first time I’ve seen you smile!” Josh called. “Not that I can blame you. You see the asses on those girls?”

  2

  Harper

  “A little bloated,” Harper mimicked under her breath as soon as the door closed. “Who does he think he is?”

  One of the hottest up and coming designers in L.A., she told herself. Harper sighed. Tired was, obviously, code for fat. Her feet hurt, even though she’d balled up her Furoshiki shoes to strap on between the go-sees. Since when did wearing stilettos for a block or two hurt?

  She chewed her lip as she checked the ETA on her phone. Twenty-eight minutes to walk. And how much for a Lyft? She didn’t even bother waiting for the app to tell her. It would be spending money she didn’t have.

  Shit. All morning had been go-sees and there were clearly no nibbles. Even the polite designers with their canned, “I’ll get in touch with your agent if we go in that direction” were clearly on the hunt for someone else. Someone younger.

  Harper shoved her standard black stilettos into the Goode Kids knapsack she’d picked up at some folk concert Molly had dragged her to. By the time she reached her last go-see, she could feel a sheen of sweat on her skin. Well that’s just perfect, she thought. Harper wobbled on one foot while she slipped on the stilettos outside the small brick building.

  “Harper!” Molly said as soon as she walked in. “I didn’t know you were coming to this one.” Her roommate scooted over and patted the stick pleather seat beside her.

  “Might as well give it a shot,” she said. “What time are you?”

  “Eleven thirty.” Molly ran a bronze hand across her perfectly buzzed head.

  “I’m eleven forty.”

  “Awesome! I’ll wait for you.”

  “Molly Horst?”

  “Wish me luck,” Molly said, and she shot Harper a dazzling smile.

  Harper pulled out her little mirror and examined her face before she was called. The eyelash extensions definitely helped to open up her eyes—and draw attention away from the little wrinkles that didn’t fade as quickly as they used to when she stopped smiling. And the microbladed brows certainly made her look younger. She re-applied white liner to her water rim and willed her eyes to look even bigger.

  “Harper Brex?” the brusque voice cut through her examination. Molly squeezed her arm as they passed one another.

  “You got this,” Molly whispered.

  “Harper Brex,” the designer said as his assistant handed him her comp card. “Five foot ten, twenty-five years old—twenty-five?” The designer pushed his obnoxious Jackie O. glasses up his nose and squinted at her. “Yeah. I can see that. I wasn’t—you look a bit tired, dear.”

  “Sorry,” she said. She wanted to slap herself for apologizing. “It’s my last go-see of the day.”

  “Hmm, yes, well, I imagine that with your maturity in this industry, you understand pre-show prep lasts much longer than morning go-sees.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. Put this on.” One of the assistants tossed a sheer dress to her that would barely skim her ass. “I haven’t got all day. Just to the mirror there and back.”

  She pulled off her go-to wrap dress that didn’t mess up her hair and stood briefly in nothing but a beige thong while she pulled on the dress. “Thick,” she thought she heard someone say.

  The walk to the mirror and back was all autopilot. She’d walked too many runways to keep count and knew her saunter was perfect. But that wouldn’t make up for her age. Or that goddamned stomach.

  “Yes, well, thank you, Hannah. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Harper,” she said, but the designer shooed her away.

  “Well? How’d it go?” Molly asked. She stood up as soon as Harper walked into the hallway.

  “It didn’t.”

  “Oh, babe, you don’t know that yet.”

  “Yeah. I do. I’m—I’m getting too old for this, Mol.”

  “Oh, please! You are not.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “What? ‘Cause black don’t crack?”

  “Because you’re twenty-one!”

  Molly walked back to the house at her side, in companionable silence.

  Lately, it seemed like all the designers and casting directors don’t think she’s right for any campaign or show. At first, she’d thought it had just been a fluke. Maybe she really had overdone it on that weekend trip to Tijuana and just needed a week or two to rejuvenate. But she hadn’t bounced back.

  Ever since she was seventeen, she’d slayed more go-sees than other girls. Harper had been kept so busy she’d hardly slept. Yeah, maybe that was part of the problem, she thought.

  As they approached the little storybook house, she saw all five cars littered in the driveway and street. “Oh, God, that’s just what I need right now. A full house.”

  Molly shrugged. “I heard in New York, they shove, like, ten models into an apartment.”

  “Yeah, well, seven in a tiny house isn’t much better.” Still, she was relieved that she saw Helena’s car out front. The house mother didn’t keep a regular schedule of dropping in, and right now Harper could really use some doting.

  Harper started looking for the Yugoslovian former model as soon as she pulled her shoes off in the entryway. “Where’s Helena?” she asked Britney, whose blonde hair was knotted on top of her head while she binge watched The Bachelorette.

  “Where do you think?” Britney asked, and pointed to the back patio.

  “Helena?” Harper asked. The screen door gave a painful squeak as it opened onto a tiny piece of land flush with orange trees.

  “Harper,” she said as she exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Where you been? Go-sees?” Harper loved how Helena’s “wh’s” sounded so much like a “v.”

  “Unsuccessful ones,” she said as she slumped into the white
cast iron chair next to Helena. “I just don’t get it,” she said. “I mean, I’m not that old! These days, the whole, rigid idea of what models are supposed to look like is changing.”

  Helena raised a brow and held out the cigarette to Harper. Helena’s arms were bone-thin, and looked even slimmer and more toned thanks to her dark coloring. Harper shook her head.

  “It helps,” Helena said. “With the fat.” She was nothing if not blunt. “You need to take off a few pounds. Then you go back, same designers, they’ll love you. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah,” Harper said quietly. “You’re right.” It stung, just like it always did. She knew Helena didn’t mean to sound harsh and that she should have a thick skin by now, but she didn’t.

  “Smoking, it kills the appetite,” Helena said. “You lose the fat, and they still don’t book you? Then you have a problem.”

  “Thanks, Helena,” Harper repeated. “I’m going to go change for the gym.”

  “Good girl,” Helena said. “Gym is good, but smoking, it’s easier.”

  The last thing she wanted to do was trek to the gym in the middle of a hot California afternoon, but she knew it was good for her. As soon as she stepped into the gym, she was hyper aware of all the girls around her—taller girls, younger girls, girls with bigger thigh gaps. She put her feet together in front of the mirror and stood up straight so she couldn’t cheat. There was maybe one-quarter inch of thigh gap left. She remembered when it had been at least one inch.

  Harper sighed and climbed onto the elliptical in her Lulu Wunder Unders. She plugged in an hour of hill intervals and shoved the earbuds in. Bored after just one Lil’ Wayne song, she started to scroll through her phone. When Sean’s name went by in her recent activity, she smiled.

  That tattoo artist was hot as hell. She smiled and opened a text box. “Hey, remember me,” she started to type, but deleted it. How fucking desperate are you. “This is Harper, still up for the party?” She knew it wasn’t perfect, but she pressed send anyway.