by Rye Hart
Or maybe she was only agreeing to the fake relationship part, which had simply been a ploy to get into her pants in the first place. Most of the other women I came across didn't pose a challenge. None of them could hold a conversation with me or understand why I loved my career as much as I did.
But Abigail was different. She was someone I felt utterly compelled to have, and knowing she wasn't looking for anything serious was even better.
Hell, this woman went out of her way to fake a relationship with me in order to get out of being set up. That took some balls, if you asked me. That was the sign of a commitment-phobic person if I'd ever seen one. Had somebody pressured me to actually settle down, I might have done something similar.
And for that reason, I respected her much more than I respected the woman who actually ended up coming home with me that night. After I'd watched Abigail go home – much to my chagrin – I'd gone to another bar to find a companion for the night. I did, after all, have needs.
“Nice home,” Nadia said, admiring the fireplace in my sitting room. “You must make a lot of money as a doctor.”
“A surgeon, actually,” I corrected her. “And while I don't like to brag, I do pretty well.”
Nadia's lips curled upward, giving me a salacious little grin. Her big, brown eyes were wide and she fluttered her eyelashes at me suggestively.
“Well, you sound like my kind of guy,” she said.
And even though she gave me her best “come hither” look, I felt nothing for her. Don't get me wrong, Nadia was an extremely sexy woman – she was definitely type I'd bang in a heartbeat. She was five-foot-six, lean with big, fake tits, and platinum blonde hair. She was an aspiring actress, of course. But then, isn't every big-breasted blonde in Los Angeles? Given how many of them I'd banged over the years, it certainly seemed like it.
Nadia leaned in to me, pressing her lips to mine while sliding her hand down my chest and rubbing her hand against my crotch. She squeezed and groped my cock through my pants, purring in my ear.
And I backed up.
I actually pulled away from her.
“What's wrong?” she whispered, biting her lower lip as she slowly sashayed toward me. “Don't you think I'm sexy, Dr. Harry?”
“You're very attractive, Nadia. You're gorgeous, actually,” I said. “But you know what? I'm tired. Exhausted, really. And I have to perform surgery in the morning. Which means, I should probably go to bed.”
I heard the words coming out of my mouth and wanted to kick my own ass. What had gotten into me? Normally, I needed to get laid the night before a surgery. It was something of my pre-surgery ritual to pick up some hot girl at the bar, bring her home, and blow off all my stress and tension by fucking her senseless. Athletes and actors had their own rituals and I had mine. And there was a beautiful woman, standing there right in front of me, more than willing to do her part – and there I was, pushing her away.
What in the hell was wrong with me?
Nadia looked hurt, but still, she persisted. “Well let's go to bed, baby,” she said, her voice a husky whisper. “Let me tuck you in.”
“I mean I need to go to bed. Alone,” I said. “Because I need sleep and you'd be a distraction, I'm afraid. A very pleasant distraction, but a distraction nonetheless”
Dammit, Harry. What are you doing? Fuck the girl already, my inner voice scolded me. She's practically begging you. Throwing herself at your feet – and you're sending her away? What in the hell is wrong with you?
Truth be told, I looked at her, appreciated her beauty but I couldn’t make myself do it. Nadia, as stunning as she was, bored me to tears. And even though I had thought I wanted to screw her, now that she was standing there in front of me, ready to seal the deal, I found that I didn't.
“You're kidding me,” she said, an expression of utter annoyance on her face. “You bring me here and now you're kicking me out? What in the hell is wrong with you?”
I shook my head. “I – I'm not sure,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, okay. That's just great,” Nadia said, looking as if I'd slapped her in the face.
Reaching down for her purse on the end table, she pulled out her phone and started stabbing numbers into it, unable and/or unwilling to hide her disgust.
“I'm sorry, Nadia,” I said again.
“I guess I'll be calling an Uber then since you drove me here.”
“I’ll pay for it,” I said, knowing it made her sound like a hooker, but not knowing what else to say.
“Fine. Sure thing,” she said, walking toward the door, swishing her hips as she walked away in her ridiculously tall heels. Under her breath, I heard her mutter, “Asshole.”
Wouldn't be the first time a woman called me a name as she left my place – and probably wouldn't be the last. But it had to be the first time they did it because I kicked them out without even screwing them.
What in the hell was wrong with me?
ooo000ooo
“What's going on with you, Harry?”
My best friend and regular wingman, Tom, and I were out enjoying a drink the next night. And as was our usual practice, he kept pointing out potential dates for me, but each one I turned down with a simple shake of my head and a muttered “no.”
“Nothing,” I said, taking a long swallow from my craft beer, “the quality of women here has gone downhill, that's all.”
Tom and I had gone to medical school together, and while most of our classmates had already gotten married and settled down, we clung to our bachelorhood like it was a goddamn life preserver. It was a lifestyle that certainly offered a lot of perks, which we both enjoyed to the utmost.
Tom was an attractive man, I suppose, but he mainly relied on his brain to pick up women. It was effective given that he never went home alone, especially once they saw his Porsche outside. Women in LA ate that shit up with a spoon.
“You're telling me,” Tom said, pointing at an exotic model-type with extra-large tits near the bar, “that she isn't your type? Come on, man. I work in plastic surgery and her tits are the best money can buy. I'm almost jealous of her surgeon's skills.”
Shrugging, I looked over at her, and saw that he was right. She had nice tits. And a nice ass. Both qualities that I used to admire in women. But this time, as I looked at her, I should have been appalled that she did nothing for me. It only concerned me that I couldn't figure out why that was exactly.
“Her fake tan. She looks orange,” I said. “And hell, maybe I'm getting tired of blondes. Everyone is blonde these days, it's overdone.”
“Alright,” Tom said, scanning the bar. “No blondes – got it. So, what’s the flavor of the month now?”
“Redheads,” I answered.
“Oh yes,” Tom said, nodding in agreement. “Now you're talking. Rare, but oh so fucking sexy – like that stunning redheaded beauty over there.”
I followed to where Tom was looking, and saw a woman with long, red hair and alabaster skin standing with a group over by the bar. But it was that fake red, Manic Panic red or some shit out of a box. More punk rock than I cared for.
“Nah, I mean a real redhead,” I said.
“Where the curtains match the drapes, you mean?” Tom joked, finishing off the last of his beer. “Now that would be a rare treat indeed. If you find one, let me know because I'd love to go dip my pole into that fishing hole.”
Truthfully, I had found one, and maybe that was it. I couldn't stop thinking about Abigail and how badly I wanted to fuck her. The challenge, knowing she wouldn't give it up all that easily, had me in knots. All these other women who were milling around the bar just looking for somebody to take them home and fuck their brains out, were seriously turning me off. I needed to Abigail into my bed and out of my system, fast.
Tom motioned for the bartender to grab us another round, but I stopped him. “I think I'm going to head home,” I said.
“But it's early, man,” Tom said, glancing at his watch. “And you don't have yourself a date.”
>
“I have a date tomorrow actually,” I said, smirking as I paid my tab.
“One set up in advance?” he asked with genuine shock in his voice. “Someone you've been with before, I take it?”
“Nah, not like that at least,” I said. “She's playing hard to get. But she's coming over tomorrow night, and if all goes well –”
“No need to say anymore, Harry, my friend,” Tom said, slapping me hard on the back. “Hope you get it done tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, I guess we'll see,” I said. “I guess we'll see.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ABIGAIL
“Hey, you,” Kirby said, coming into my office and plopping down in the chair across from me. “I've been meaning to ask you what happened the other night? With John? He said you were a no show, so I assumed you changed your mind about that whole ridiculous plan?”
“No, I was there,” I said. “We just happened to miss each other, I guess. I'm not sure what happened exactly.”
“Bummer, I'm sorry,” Kirby said. “What did your parents say?”
I leaned back in my seat and sighed. How was I going to explain this?
“Well, even though I missed John,” I said slowly, “I did end up running into a guy named Harry who made me think he was John.. And because I thought he was John, I had him sit down with us and have dinner. I had no idea it wasn't John because he played along with it all. I only found out after dinner that he wasn't . And worst of all, my parents loved him.”
The look on my best friend's face was priceless. Her jaw was on the floor, her eyes wide and she looked completely and utterly confused. She looked much like I felt, to be honest.
“This is a joke, right?” she asked. “A guy you met at the bar played along and made you think he was John? But why?”
“Because apparently, he thinks I'm hot, he was bored, and thought it would be fun,” I said. I felt a twinge of a smile on my lips as I remembered the way Harry looked at me. “Oh yeah, and he had so much fun that he invited us all – me and my parents – over to his place on Wednesday for dinner. He's going to cook..”
“No freaking way!” she said, laughing hysterically and shaking her head.
“Yep. So now I have a second date with my pretend boyfriend and my parents,” I said. “Fun, huh?”
“It's awesome. And a little bit of karma coming back on you,” she giggled. “How long do you intend to keep up the charade?”
“As long as I can, I guess,” I said. “The longer I can keep my mom off my back, the better. Without her calling me every five minutes to see if I've met the man of my dreams yet, maybe I can actually start getting some work done.”
Kirby looked lost in thought, and then finally turned her eyes to me and asked, “Is he good-looking?”
“Very much so,” I said. “Like movie star handsome even. Which is why my mom couldn't stop fawning over him.”
“And what's he do for a living?”
“He's a cardiac surgeon over at Cedars Sinai,” I said. “Another little factoid that nearly made my mother faint. I'm half sure she's thinking about divorcing my dad and trying to hook up with him herself.”
She shrugged. “That would really get her off your back.”
“Dare to dream.”
The more Kirby asked, the more excited she became. I knew what she was thinking and wanted to nip it in the bud before her line of thinking went too far.
“But before you get too excited, no – I am not dating him for real. He's a total player,” I muttered. “He just wants to sleep with me, nothing more.”
“Then why not sleep with him?”
I looked at the open door to my office, and even though it was usually just Kirby and myself there, a couple of our volunteers were flitting around. I pitched my voice low because I really didn't want or need my personal life – or lack thereof – becoming the latest juicy office gossip.
“Because that makes things complicated,” I said. “I'm not one of those girls who can have that kind of relationship and not have it get messy.”
She shrugged again. “It doesn't have to go that way.”
“I haven't ever had it go any other way.”
“Because you set unrealistic expectations on people. Mostly, you set them on yourself,” she said. “You don't know how to just let go and have a little fun, Abigail. Sometimes, you just need to cut loose and have a good time with no strings or emotional commitments attached. There's nothing wrong with it. And you deserve a little fun in your life. More than most anybody I know, you not only deserve, but you need some fun – not to mention a ton of mind-blowing sex.”
“Wow,” I said. “And how long have you been waiting to deliver that little sermon?”
A small grin touched her mouth. “A little while, I suppose.”
“Practice it in front of the mirror and everything?”
The grin on her face grew larger. “Maybe a time or two.”
“Well, flawless delivery,” I said.
“Look, Abigail,” she said. “Nobody is saying you have to marry this guy – Harry, was it?”
I nod. “Yeah, Harry.”
“Nobody is saying you have to marry Harry, the gorgeous cardiac surgeon,” she said. “But why not just indulge in a little fun and pleasure with Harry, the gorgeous cardiac surgeon?”
I sighed and twirled a piece of my hair around my fingers. I hadn't had the best luck with men in my life, but I'd never been the type to have a casual fling. It had never really been my style. But maybe Kirby had a point. Maybe I did need to lighten up a bit. Maybe I did deserve a little fun.
“Honestly, I don't even know if I'd know how to do that,” I admitted.
She gave me a sympathetic grin as her cell phone rang. She looked at the display and she looked up at me.
“I have to take this,” she said.
I nodded as she got to her feet. She stopped in the doorway to my office, looked at me and smiled.
“It's never too late to learn something new.”
I laughed and waved her away. She walked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts . Very, very dirty thoughts.
CHAPTER NINE
ABIGAIL
I walked around the living room of his apartment, glass of wine in hand, taking in all of the fine art and a bookcase full of books I was sure he'd never read. Oh, the spines were cracked and they looked well worn, but in LA – the land of everything artificial – you could purchase things that looked weathered, like books, to create the illusion of being well-read and cultured.
Everything about his place screamed “show piece” to me. It was as if he'd put together this posh, gorgeous apartment, filled with beautiful pieces of art and other conversation pieces simply to impress what was probably a revolving door of women to his bedroom.
Harry's place was more loft-like, with exposed beams, a lot of red brick, and an open floor plan that allowed me to see him in the kitchen from where I was in the living room. The place was gorgeous and very tastefully decorated – I had to give him that.
Harry was busy in the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon around like he was conducting an invisible orchestra as he listened to classical music while he cooked.
“Tell me something,” I said as I walked back and leaned against a thick, brick column.
He turned to me, giving me a smile. “Anything.”
“This place,” I said, waving my hand around. “It's beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“But I have to wonder, is it all for show? Is it all just to impress the women you bring home?” I asked. “Like all of those books on your shelves – you have some classic pieces of literature. Ever read them?”
He gave me an even look and a wry little grin. “Every single one of them,” he said. “Some of them more than once.”
“Is that so?”
He nodded. “Absolutely,” he says. “Would you like me to give you a book report on my favorite?”
I shrugged. “Not necessary.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, that smug grin on his face again. “Because I can tell what you're thinking.”
“Oh? And what am I thinking?”
“That all of this,” he said, waving his hands around, “is nothing more than a prop, bait I use to reel the women in and get them hooked.”
“Oh, is that what I'm thinking?”
He picked up his glass of wine and leaned against the column, close to me. “It is,” he said. “And what's more, you seem to be thinking that I couldn't possibly be this well-rounded and cultured, that I don't spend time admiring beautiful pieces of art or reading a good book because I'm too busy admiring a beautiful ass or a good pair of tits.”
I looked at him and couldn't suppress the smile on my face or hold back the laughter that bubbled up within my throat.
“Is it that obvious?”
He shrugged and took a drink of his wine before speaking. “More than obvious,” he said. “But I would ask you this – can't I be all of the above? And if I am, what's wrong with it? I'm still relatively young. Should I not be allowed to enjoy my life? To indulge in all of those things that I'm passionate about, be they art, books, music – or even women?”
He flashed me a million-dollar smile that made my breath catch in my throat as he turned away and moved back to the stove, stirring the sauce in the pan. It was a good question. Maybe I was being a little too harsh, a little too judgmental. Of course, a person had a right to do all those things they enjoyed and were passionate about. I guessed my problem was that other than the non-profit, I didn't know what inspired me. I no longer had any ideas about my own passions.
The fact that I was nothing without my job – that I enjoyed nothing other than my job – was really underscored with that little speech. It was like a kick to the gut.
The doorbell rang, saving me from slipping further down the rabbit hole of my thoughts. “I'll get that,” I called over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “It's probably my folks.”
“Thank you – darling,” he called back to me, chuckling to himself.
Harry was obviously a man-whore and had a long line of women, but at least he knew himself and was honest about it. At least that much, I could respect about him. I got to the door and opened it to find not my parents standing there, but a young woman instead. She was blonde, had a tight little body, and small, perky tits. She wore a tight top, a short little skirt, and ridiculously high heels – in other words, she was exactly what I took to be Harry's type.
