My Fake Vegas Boyfriend

by Lori Sizemore

  “How is that not a positive thing, Layla?”

  “Because I don’t want someone who drinks so much that being able to hold his liquor is a desirable trait.”

  “How long have you been drinking? Today, I mean. Have you eaten anything?”

  “I had a sandwich, I think.” She leaned her head back for a moment, considering.

  He was close enough to smell the soap, warmed by her skin, and something spicy on top of it all. With conscious effort, he managed not to nibble on her exposed throat.

  She went on, clueless of his internal battle. “I’m not sure when I started because I wasn’t paying much attention to the time.” She lifted the mug and wriggled it to indicate she was answering his other question. “After five? Definitely after three. And I’ve done nothing beyond nursing a healthy state of mildly tipsy.”

  “You should take better care of yourself. You need to eat.” He knew this would end in her wearing pants, but he couldn’t help himself. “Do you want me to take you somewhere?”

  “Mrs. C. will probably bring me something before she goes home. She knows I forget. I’m fine.”

  Fair enough. He suddenly wanted to continue this conversation very much. Perhaps he would do better to learn what she found appealing, after all. “So, tall, dark, and handsome is out. What do you find attractive?”

  A slow smile changed her, lit her so she burned even brighter than when the sun had made her glow, before it disappeared completely. How long ago had that been, since he’d watched her in the sun?

  “I never said I didn’t find you attractive, Mr. Russell. I said it’s unimportant. The perfect man for me could be short, bald, and portly. I simply want to be treated with respect.”

  Jace lifted his mug in a toast. “That’s a positive thing, respect. By the way, short, bald, and portly men all over Vegas just felt a lot luckier. Finally, a ray of hope a beautiful woman might appreciate them.”

  Shaking her head, she put down the mug and scribbled some more.

  “What are you writing now?”

  “Flattery. Another thing I don’t want.”

  “You don’t like when a man tells you you’re beautiful, even if it is in a backhanded way? Was it my delivery? Explain it to me.” He loved a challenge and, if she were nothing else, Layla would be a challenge.

  “Flattery is insincere. I mean, truly, you could’ve read that from a cue card to any woman at all. Sincere compliments are personal.”

  “Layla. I may not be able to tell you that your wit is delightful or your sense of humor is unparalleled because I don’t know enough about you. But I don’t even have to stretch the truth a little to say you’re beautiful. You must know this.”

  “This isn’t a good place. Even compliments can’t stick.” She spoke so softly he wasn’t even sure he’d understood her correctly.

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “Here. This property. In this room.” She lifted her hands at the photos surrounding them. “In my shrine to negativity. With my seventeen pages of negativity.”

  Carelessly, she pulled at the curlers in her hair. The pins clattered to the floor as she slid her hair free of them, one by one. She drew her knees to her chest, like she wanted to take up less space. “I must look frightful to you.”

  “No, actually. A little indecent, but I like it.”

  “This was a stupid idea, a list. I know you want the photo negatives, and I’m sorry I have to make you go through so much to get them, but when there’s nobody around, you don’t have to lie to me. You don’t have to try to make me feel pretty, or interesting, or important, or even okay. I can’t give you the negatives until all of this is over.” She stood, the last of the curlers falling from her lap, and walked behind a screen cluttered with clothes tossed over the top. “Write that down.”

  Once again, Jace found himself in unfamiliar territory during a conversation with her, only this time anger bit at him. “That you think I’m fake? That you’re so sure the only way you can be attractive is to put on lip-gloss and a nice skirt, set your hair, and if I still think you’re a beautiful woman in curlers, I’m a liar? Which part?”

  “Write down trustworthy.” She stepped from behind the screen, and her hand hovered above the zipper to her pencil skirt. “I know you can’t know this, but that film is safe until all this is over. I would never go back on my word.”

  Jace stood abruptly. “Write it yourself. I don’t lie. In fact, of the two of us, you’re the one who is fabricating an untruth. I’m only going along because you’re blackmailing me. Trustworthy?” He carefully put the mug down by hers on the floor. “Maybe you should start a list of things you like about yourself. Until you do, I imagine you’ll see any compliment, from anyone, as insincere.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she exhaled sharply. “That will solve the world’s problems, obviously, including mine and yours and maybe even bring world peace.”

  “Good night, Layla. I’ll have my secretary call and tell you the time for the reservations.”

  Still finger-combing her hair, she froze and tilted her head. “What reservation?”

  “I decided when you didn’t show up today that you were far too temperamental to be depended upon. Obviously, I was correct. I know you can’t know this about me, but I don’t wait for things to happen. I make them happen.”

  The silence spun out while they watched one another. Finally, Layla said, “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry, for what?”

  “The compliment. I’m sorry I mistook your intentions. And I appreciate that you find me beautiful. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Night.” Before he could bite out another angry retort, he stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him. Her parents had clearly backed her so far into a corner she couldn’t see more than a moment into the future. She was so unreliable and contradictory that he’d have to turn this into a success for them both—save her from the funny farm and protect his future.

  5

  Layla woke up with her skirt hiked up to her waist. She stood, unzipped it on the side, and let it fall to the floor. Her blouse, buttons all off by one, was crooked and embarrassing. She’d humiliated herself last night.

  Of course, had she known someone, especially a certain blackmailed man, would be coming by, she wouldn’t have let herself drink the evening away feeling sorry for herself. Wait…papers littered the floor beside her mug and empty bottle.

  So, it really had happened. Seventeen pages. A new tactic for figuring out how Jace should act toward her—to prove their “relationship” was solid—was absolutely in order here.

  From the smell, a person would think she’d spent the night swimming in vodka. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, stuffed it in a shower cap, and showered quickly. Afterward, she pulled on some white pedal pushers and a light sweater, then ran up the lawn and let herself into the house.

  The paper lay open at the dining table, where her father had left it, and she picked it up as she walked through to the kitchen. “Morning, Mrs. C.”

  “I made extra food; you don’t eat enough. I don’t want to see you move until you’ve had at least 3 pieces of bacon and some eggs.”

  “I’m in trouble? What got you so worked up already?”

  “You didn’t leave that little house yesterday. I’d be surprised if you ate the sandwich I sent down for you.”

  Layla held her hands up, then sat down to nibble on the bacon. “I ate it. I’m eating. See?”

  “How did your list work out?”

  Layla groaned. “Don’t ask. It’s too terrible to describe.” She opened the paper and skimmed the advertisements. “Wait a minute… I’ve got it. I’ll just go watch a movie. Men in movies are always perfect!”

  “Nobody’s perfect, gattina.”

  “Yes, but this isn’t for keeps. It’s for this thing. Which movie should I see?”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Mrs. C. came to look down at the paper on the table. “The one with Paul
Newman. Those eyes! If anyone is perfect, it’s Paul Newman.”

  “I thought you said nobody was perfect?”

  “I did.” She returned to the counter, sweeping the crumbs into her hand to dispose of in the trash. “But I meant nobody except Paul Newman.”

  Layla laughed at Mrs. C.’s Cheshire grin. Having a plan made her feel heaps better, so she tore the movie times out of the paper, slipped it in her pocket, and decided to get dressed up. Lipstick and teased hair always made the world seem safer. They were like armor. Who could attack her when she looked ready for anything? First, she’d better finish eating at least a bit, or Mrs. C. would never let her leave.

  Later, once Layla had teased, flipped, and sprayed her hair stiff and lined her eyes and lips, she looked through her new clothes and chose a white dress with a stiff collar and circle skirt. Her mother could barely stand the sight of her, but she expected Layla to hold to a certain standard of appearance. This meant she often went shopping, bought clothing in Layla’s size, and then had someone take the packages down to her. Layla accepted the clothes because her mother’s allowance far exceeded her own.

  She wore one of them now, not to please her mother—never that—but because they made her armor complete.

  Once she was downtown, Layla decided to take Mrs. C.’s advice and see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. She had slid a pencil and a few slips of paper into her pocketbook. She didn’t want to allow herself to get all mired down in this like yesterday. Now, she settled into her seat and took them out.

  At first, her stomach roiled with queasiness. She looked around to gauge the other few matinee-goers reactions. Other people watched raptly or smiled at the beautiful people on screen. Paul Newman was so hard and mean to Liz Taylor. And Liz Taylor was hard and mean to everyone else. She’d nearly married someone as disinterested in her as Newman was with Taylor, and it made her hot and cold at the same time. Layla stood, unsure what to do, ready to admit defeat. Then someone called out for her to sit, so she did.

  Then, after what seemed only a few minutes, she couldn’t stop watching as the family reconvened at the home of a dying patriarch to war over inheritance. There was this pull, this amazing interplay between all of these people. Their family might be as volatile as her own. That was when she started seeing things. Like, how living in the past made the couple so miserable. She jotted her first note, determined to keep it positive: focus on the present.

  When Newman swung his crutch at Liz, he told his nephew he’d tried to kill his Aunt Maggie and fallen. Liz and Newman laughed together, their eyes meeting in a connection Layla didn’t know if she’d ever experienced.

  That. She wanted someone she could laugh with. No more feeling like home was a minefield full of missteps and bloody encounters. Without the crutches.

  Absorbed in the movie, she only managed to make it out with a list of six things. But she had a list, and they were true for her. At least she had something.

  She stepped into a lunch counter next to the theater and ate well for the first time in days, feasting on a burger with double ketchup and lettuce and a platter of fries. She had a plan, and now she had a list. She knew what she wanted from life, even if only just a little bit.

  Because she was sure Jace would make fun of her (mainly since he enjoyed teasing her), and he might anyway after last night, she took out another slip of paper and reworded the list, removing any reference she had made to the movie. Well, except one. He couldn’t possibly remember one line. Even if he had seen it, she felt safe in assuming he hadn’t taken notes like she had. Plus, she identified so much with the line.

  Layla slowed near her car. A toddler, maybe two years old—or three, what did she know of kids?—stood on the sidewalk, blowing bubbles at passersby. Grown adults going about their business stopped to laugh or smile at the boy as he deluged them with bubbles.

  She pulled her camera bag from the trunk, nabbed her favorite camera, and stepped back. As the groups of people enjoyed the bubbles, Layla snapped pictures. One gentleman, dressed in a suit and hat, leaned down on one knee as the boy blew bubbles right into his face. She snapped a picture as the boy gave a huge belly laugh when the bubbles popped on the man’s nose. She smiled. Never in her life had she taken shots of people having fun.

  After a bit, Layla drove herself through the late afternoon traffic to the casino where this had all started. Inside, she asked the first porter she encountered where she could find Jace. He spoke to a gentleman in a dark suit, who asked her name, then led her through a series of doors, quickly leaving the glitz of the casino behind. They stopped at a bank of offices. “Mr. Russell is the big office at the end, ma’am.”

  She nodded her thanks, pulled on her confidence like a coat she could wear, and walked straight in. Except the effect was lost because he had a secretary. Well, of course he did. Hadn’t he said as much? She gave her name and sat down to wait.

  Nearly ten minutes later, the phone rang, and the woman let the receiver slip back into the cradle softly. “Mr. Russell asks that you come right in, Ms. Rosas.”

  Pushing back her shoulders, her throat clicked when she swallowed. She tried to make an entrance again. Rows and rows of screen that looked like small televisions covered the wall beside his desk. “You saw me coming.”

  Jace stood and pointed at the seat in front of his desk. “I might’ve.”

  “Then why did you make me wait?”

  “Maybe I was working. On the phone. Signing papers. Busy.” He pointed to the chair again. “Sit.”

  Sighing at the barked command, Layla sat. “Maybe. But I think you watched me come down the hall and through the door. I think you made me wait because I’m making you wait for the negatives, and you wanted me to recognize you were important, and I shouldn’t tangle with you.”

  “Did it work?” He scratched his head.

  “Not at all.” Layla pulled the rewritten list from her pocketbook, then closed it with a loud pop. “I figured it out. I know what I would want from a man if I were actually in a relationship with him. With you. Well, you get my meaning. So if you follow this, we’ll be completely believable.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course.” She slid it across the desk, then clasped her bag tightly.

  For a moment, the furrow in his brow deepened while he studied it. “You hate the ‘odor of mendacity’?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you go to the show to make this list or did you have a date recently?” He bit his bottom lip, fighting the grin that threatened to spread across his face.

  “You’ve seen it.” Now she felt more ridiculous than she had last night. Her chest tightened.

  “A lady I asked to take out wanted to see it.”

  “You took a date. That makes more sense. Do you have a steady girl? I know I should’ve asked before the kiss, but I just assumed, since you agreed. Do you?”

  Jace leveled a stern look at her. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I did.”

  “I should hope not. I really need this, but I wouldn’t do it if you were seeing someone special.” She stood, and he did the same. “Well, you have the list. Should I ask out front about the reservations?”

  “Just be waiting for me at eight. And Layla?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re not really dating, so my opinion isn’t all that important, but… I’m not sure I should say this, now that I think about it. I’ve been accused of being too blunt in the past.” He put a hand on the back of his neck.

  “Blunt can be either a tool to make yourself clearly understood or a weapon. It all depends on how you use it. So, which is it?”

  He stepped from behind the desk and touched the sprayed and teased curls around her face. “Go home, wash your face and this glop out of your hair. If I’m going to do this, my ideal woman is the one I saw last night, who didn’t need to paint on war colors. Well?”

  Looking up into his eyes, Layla considered his words. “Not a weapon. Not sure it’s useful. I felt very vulnerabl
e when you came around last night. You may know a thing or two about this, but it’s been my experience that allowing people to see your weakness is a quick way to get wounded. Sometimes war paint is a necessary part of life.”

  “I am familiar with this particular notion, yes. However, I think I showed my soft underbelly first—or you couldn’t have blackmailed me.” He reached out and took her by the shoulders, but didn’t close the distance between them. “I also believe I’m not the person who made you feel threatened. All true?”

  “All true. What do you know?” She spoke softly. If he weren’t so close, he wouldn’t have been able to hear her. “You don’t lie. All right then, what should I wear once I remove the ‘glop,’ since I don’t know where we’re going?”

  “Cocktail dress. One of the formfitting ones, not like this.”

  “Why on Earth does that matter?”

  “I’m rather fond of your figure, and those dresses make it easier to enjoy.” He released her and stepped back.

  A zing shot through her. Right from her head, where her cheeks flamed, through her chest and stomach to pool in her most private area, where it spread into an extremely pleasant tingle. Anyone would find him attractive. But this? This was the result of chemistry, a mutual desire. She mumbled, “Noted,” and turned to go.

  He opened the office door and followed her out into the reception area. She turned to face him, closer than she might have ordinarily stood to someone. “I’ll take your opinion under advisement.”

  Layla had never claimed to possess a great deal of common sense or self-denial. Also, she wanted him to feel a little discomfort as well. Maybe that was all just an excuse to feel his lips, to prolong that delicious tingle. She stood on her tiptoes and finally had to slip a hand behind his neck and tug his surprised face to her own. She kissed him with a resounding smack on the lips. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock, darling.”

  She scrammed through the bank of offices and out through the casino. In the car, she tied a scarf over her hair, laughing at the shocked expression on his face, and decided she’d get ready for tonight with a lighter hand. That look when she’d kissed him had at least given her back some of her own confidence. True, by knocking some of the wind from him, but she imagined he needed that every now and again.