Baby for the Brute_A Fake Boyfriend Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  “To push people away. You know, I knew you before all of this. You’d think you would stop the act around me, at least. But it’s like you’re just constantly on duty, making sure nobody gets a chance to see the real you. What are you so afraid of, Chris?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” I say, still scrubbing the same plate in the sink even though it was spotless a few minutes ago. Except those journals. Or getting closer to Lindsey. Or letting anybody in, because it’s easier to let them hate the version of myself I made up than the real one.

  “Bullshit,” she says, slamming a bottle into the bag hard enough that it shatters inside. She sighs in irritation, setting the bag down and going to the pantry behind me to get a new one. “You know it’s not just free. Mom and dad died, so I reached out to you. I knew they’d want us to at least get connected again. And I sure as hell knew you weren't going to reach out. So I came to you. I’m making the effort, and my patience is almost up. So pretty soon you’re going to have to decide if you care enough to try, because I’m getting really sick of this one-sided effort shit, okay?”

  “Yeah?” I ask. “I don’t remember asking for charity. I came out here to get the fuck away from everything. You’re the one who showed up.”

  “You came to mom and dad’s cabin, right next to where they are buried. This place is as much mine as it is yours.”

  “I bought it from the bank, and it’s my name on the papers.”

  She shakes her head, dropping the bag of trash. “Right. Of course. Because you can throw your money around and that means you deserve to be here leaving your trash all over my parent’s house, that you can tell yourself you’re paying them respect when all you’re doing is shitting your life away.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong, that I’ve been doing something meaningful since I came here or finding some kind of peace with their memory. But all I’ve done is make excuses, waste time, and fail to write a book, all while I can’t even bring myself to read mom’s journals.

  She lets out a long breath, softening her features as she walks closer. “Chris,” she says. “You’re all the family I have left. I want that to matter. I really do. So whenever you’re ready to care about it, I’ll be waiting. Okay?”

  She gives me a quick hug, squeezing even as I keep my arms limp by my sides and my fists clenched.

  “You big idiot,” she says with a sad smile before punching my arm and walking out.

  I close my laptop with a frustrated sigh. It’s probably the tenth time this week I’ve tried to work on the manuscript again. Alec said the publisher will extend my deadline by six months if I go on a promo tour across Europe. Two weeks of book signings and a few public appearances for six more months of time. I told him to tell them they’d get their fucking book one way or another, even if I barely believe it myself. Right now a trip to Europe is the last thing I want, and I’m not even going to bother denying a big part of that is because I don’t want Lindsey to find an empty cabin when she finally does come back to see me again.

  I thought about just putting out another T.S. Barnes book to occupy my time, but it feels empty. There’s only one book inside me that’s worth writing. Everything else is just a distraction, a waste of time and energy, or a money grab. Problem is, the book worth writing is the one that makes my brain feel like it’s shutting down. When I first came out here, I was able to do it. Word after word came so effortlessly it was practically writing itself, but then I started to realize what I was doing.

  I wasn’t just writing some book. I was writing something that tried to make sense of all the shit that went wrong: my parents, my sister, the way fame fucked me over, the fact that I could barely tell you more than a handful of things about the women I’ve been with, if that. Once my own motives were clear, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t write a book to make sense of what I didn’t even understand. I put so much effort into closing myself off to my family that I could barely write a blurb about them, let alone an entire book.

  So I tossed it.

  I thought that was the end, but of course my neighbor down the mountain had other ideas.

  Thinking about her hurts, whether I like to admit it or not. I guess telling her to fuck off by my parent’s graves when she offered to help was the final straw for her, because it has been over a week and I haven’t seen her again. It’s probably for the best, but I keep finding myself wishing I had given her offer real consideration. Maybe it’s just my cock confusing my brain, because even though I thought she was nothing more than average, lately I keep thinking about the small details about her in a way that has me fucking obsessing over her.

  I remember the way her ears are a little too big and how she’s constantly adjusting her hair to cover them, or how her smile is just the slightest bit crooked and that when she bites her lip she always bites the left side. I think about how she dresses so modestly but can’t hide the swell of her hips and the perfect shape of her ass, or how she was naked that first night in my bathroom when she came to me covered in scratches and with dead leaves in her hair.

  I’m romanticizing the fucking woman and it has only been a week, yet I can’t stop myself from doing it. I have nothing but dead time. Nothing but quiet and peace and endless moments for her to slip into my thoughts and grow there, like a stubborn weed that just keeps coming back bigger and stronger no matter how many times I cut it down.

  I throw my head back on the couch, running my hands through my hair and staring at the ceiling. I know what I need to do to get her off my mind. I just need to fuck her.

  Forget all the emotional crap. Forget playing nice or doing the right thing. I need to fuck her so I’ll realize she’s nothing special. It’s just another pussy and another mouth like all the rest. One night is all I need to wipe away the magic and the mystery my brain seems intent on surrounding Lindsey with.

  The gloves are coming off, neighbor.

  11

  Lindsey

  I’ve finally started to get Chris out of my head. I caught up on my blog and even pre-wrote a review for next week to make sure I don’t get off track again. I managed to find someone at the bank to at least talk to me about a loan for Amelia’s beauty school, and I’ve barely thought about the fact that Ryan and Claire’s wedding is just a few months away. All in all, it has been a pretty successful week.

  But when I hear a loud knocking at my door, I’m gripped by a sudden certainty that things are about to get complicated again. Amelia’s out working and Brooke is sleeping in, so I can’t just ignore it and hope someone else will answer. Besides, part of me is worried it’s Alec again. I’m only holding on to my resolve to stay away from Chris by a thread, and the hundred thousand dollars that might hang on that decision isn’t helping. Besides, if it were Alec at the door, and he decided to tell Brooke about the offer he made me, I’m not sure I could look her in the eye and tell her I was letting a chance at enough money to fix all our problems slip by.

  I pull the door open and have to tilt my head up, because Chris Savage is standing on my porch. He’s actually wearing a crisp dress shirt and pants with a tie. He smells faintly of something manly that makes me think of forests on cool mornings and freshly cut wood. It’s intoxicating. I’ve seen this version of him on magazine covers and in tabloids, and it’s actually more impressive in person. That’s not to say his less put together mountain man look doesn’t have its own appeal.

  All I can do is frown up at him as I try to piece together what he’s doing at my house and why he looks like he actually tried this morning.

  “Your offer,” he says. “Does it still stand?”

  I cross my arms because I don’t trust myself not to slam the door in his face. Only a man who looks and carries himself like Chris could just walk up here after a week of pretending I don’t exist and act like it was no big deal. I can feel the urge to nod my head so strongly it hurts. I can’t help thinking that I’m a glutton for punishment.

  “It depends,” I manage.

  He le
ans against the railing with an amused grin. “On?”

  “On whether you’re going to behave.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I thought part of the deal was I could still be an ass. You’re telling me I’d have to be nice to you?”

  “Civil. At least.”

  He makes a show of thinking it over, tapping his perfect chin with his finger before finally shrugging. “Fair enough. After all, civility is always up for interpretation.” He extends a hand for me to shake.

  I stare down at it. I could close the door and forget any of this happened. I could leave him as a strange, bizarre part of my past and keep living the life I've been living. Or…

  I could forget my pride and all the logical bones in my body that are urging me to teach him a lesson. I could accept that he’s not perfect and probably never will be, but that maybe, just maybe if I take his hand and try this thing with him, things might get better. Not just for me, either. He might finish his book. I might find something worth remembering. My family might even end up a hundred thousand dollars richer; I don’t want to fixate on that particular outcome because it makes me feel sleazy, but I can’t completely forget it, either.

  I grab it his massive hand, letting it swallow mine up. He yanks me in for a hug, squeezing me too tight and grunting like we’re old friends. He doesn’t let go immediately though, and when I try to pull away he keeps me squeezed to his body, bending his neck to whisper in my ear. “I just need to make one thing clear before we start all this.”

  “Okay,” I say, throat tight. He smells so good it’s not even fair, and the power of his body practically pulses through me, driving me into a dark place in my mind where I can’t help thinking how easy it would be for him to hold me with those powerful hands and keep me where he wanted me while he—

  I squeeze my eyes closed. Stop it, Lindsey.

  He chuckles softly, an almost taunting sound, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s about to say but he’s going to do it anyway. “If you follow through with this,” he says. “I’m going to end up fucking you. You realize that, don’t you?”

  It’s like an invisible hand is gripping my neck, squeezing my vocal cords so tight that the only sound I can make is a whimpering kind of grunt of disagreement. I want to think this is part of his act, just another line to try to drive a wedge between us and keep me from liking him, but I have no real way of knowing.

  He pulls back so I’m forced to look in his eyes; there’s a new light in them I haven’t seen yet, like this whole time he has been in some sort of hibernation but now the furnace inside is blazing and he’s completely and terrifyingly awake. “Fight it if you want,” he says. “Deny it if you want, too. But I’m going to prove you’re no different than the rest of them. I’ll fuck you like a wannabe groupie and I may even let you have a signed copy of my book for your trouble. Make no mistake though. If you let me, I’ll use you. That’s what I do. You wanted the real me? Take a long fucking look,” he says, the amusement suddenly draining from his face. His lips twist as he looks down at himself, arms splayed.

  He watches me, eyes still blazing and chest heaving, waiting. He doesn’t rush the moment, in fact, Chris never seems to rush. Even now when his anger is flaring and he’s clearly at the edge of control, he’s content to wait. He lets his anger stew and the moment hang between us, granting weight to his words with every second that passes until I feel like they press down on me, squashing any argument or complaint I might voice.

  I can feel myself standing at a sort of crossroads. This is where I really decide. I shook his hand but I can still turn away. If I take one more step though…

  The hunter just showed me his trap and dared me to walk into it. No, he practically taunted me and said he knew I would. But he’s forgetting there are more options. This isn’t some game with only two outcomes. If I know where the trap is, I can skirt the edges, avoid it entirely. Because I don’t believe him. Maybe he thinks he’s finally pulling away the mask and showing me who he really is, but it doesn’t match up with the words I’ve seen him write and the emotion he’s poured into those pages. It’s not the good guy I’ve seen glimpses of.

  “Sounds like you’re going to be disappointed,” I say finally, but my voice lacks conviction.

  He ignores me, eyes still blazing.

  God. I thought I understood how he roped girls into his bed even while he probably degraded them and promised to toss them aside the next morning. I thought I had felt all the powers of attraction he had.

  Now though?

  I realize he wasn’t even trying yet.

  I remember reading stories online once about a phenomena known as the "call of the void", or the unconscious fixation we sometimes get with how easy it would be to swerve into oncoming traffic or walk over the edge of a cliff. I sat in front of my computer trying to make sense of it, because I had felt it too. Eventually, I decided it's just a natural curiosity, an almost unavoidable need to explore how easy it would be to throw everything we've built away in the blink of an eye, if we only wanted to.

  Chris Savage is that void.

  It’s impossible not to look into the molten brown of his eyes and not see how easily I could lose myself, how effortlessly I could take just one step into his trap and watch my life burst into a thousand unrecognizable pieces.

  The scariest part is that sometimes I don’t want to recognize my life anymore. I don’t want to be the girl who is always doing the rational thing or making the responsible choices. I don’t want to be the smart one. I just want to be. For once I want to do something totally stupid and reckless, whether it makes financial sense or even logical sense.

  “We start tonight,” he says. It feels like hours have passed since he pulled me into his arms but it has only been moments, a minute at most.

  “Start what?”

  “You’re going to help me write the manuscript.”

  “How am I going to do that, exactly?” I ask.

  He grins. “Remember when you said you’d do anything?”

  12

  Chris

  I look out the small, oval-shaped window to my right and see nothing but an endless expanse of inky black ocean flecked with bits of moonlight. To my left, Lindsey is sitting with the same expression she has been wearing for the past few hours. Her eyes are wide, fingers are gripping her knees so tightly her nail beds are white, and her lips are parted.

  It amused me at first to see her in a state of shock, but I’m actually starting to worry that she’s still not seeming to comprehend what’s happening. I meant what I told her this morning. I’m going to fuck her, but I want it to happen the way I want. She’s going to know full-well what she’s walking into. She’s going to have a clear head and all the time in the world to feel the inevitability of it. When I bend her over once and for all, I want her to have fought and clawed with herself to resist me and to have failed.

  It will be a surrender like nothing she’s ever felt.

  A defeat, but a defeat so sweet she’ll spend the rest of her life having dirty dreams about it, pinching her legs together in public places when the shadow of the memory skids across her consciousness. She’ll touch herself when she thinks about it in the shower or at night when she lays next to whatever guy she ends up settling on and marrying years from now.

  In a lifetime full of dull, half-bright moments and missed opportunities, it will be like her sun, a memory so fucking blinding and intense that nothing else before or after will ever seem worthwhile. It will ruin her, and she’ll never forgive me for it, but she’s going to love it so much that she’d never change it.

  So the least I can do is show her a little mercy on the flight to Germany. Yeah. I decided the whole European promo tour thing wouldn’t be so bad after all, as long as I could bring Lindsey. It’d give me something to keep me occupied during all the travel. I even went as far as inviting my sister, but she couldn’t come until tomorrow, so once my plane drops Lindsey and I off outside Prague, it’s going to loop back to g
rab Lydia.

  I haven’t exactly filled Lindsey in on all the details yet. I decided to test her devotion to the whole ‘do anything’ idea and told her she had four hours to pack enough luggage for two weeks and to bring her passport. Thankfully she had one, or I would’ve lost a bit of the dramatic effect.

  I fidget in my seat, glancing over at her for what feels like the hundredth time. She feels off-limits to me. It’s not a feeling I’m used to, and it’s going a long way toward making her develop into the only thing in the world I want. Call it simple-minded, but when you can have everything in the world for the right price or the right smile, there’s nothing more desirable than the one person who is still willing to say no. Even if their willpower is faltering by the minute.

  A few days ago, I was starting to think what I was feeling for her was emotional, that maybe I was getting soft with the mountain man act. It’s not that, though. I was starved of stimulation out there. She came along and was the only thing to occupy my attention. That’s it. No emotional baggage. I’ll prove exactly that to myself when I decide to seal the deal.

  For now, I think I’ll keep toying with her, because it’ll be that much sweeter to take her the way I want if I don’t have to resort to the big guns to prove she’s no different than the other girls.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She gives me a strange look. “Why? Worried you may not have traumatized me enough for one day?”

  “You look tense,” I say. “I’m not trying to traumatize you, you know.”

  “Really?” she asks, voice dripping with disbelief.

  I shrug, grinning a little. “Okay. I’ve tried a few times.”

  She surprises me with a half-smile. “You know you’re not that bad when you let your guard down.”

  “No? I’d better keep it up then. I don’t want you turning groupie on me again.”