Single Dad Next Door: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  “I’m George,” says the bald one. “I’ll be your driver.”

  “I’m Rafal,” says the one with the shaved head. He has a thick, almost Russian accent. “I hurt anyone who try to hurt you.”

  I glance at Jesse and don’t like the way he’s still smirking. I’m sure whatever he thinks is so funny isn’t going to amuse me, and I’m not looking forward to figuring out what it is.

  “This way, Mrs. Pierson,” says Rafal. “We take back exit.”

  I look at Jesse, but he only waves me on, falling in behind us. Rafal holds the door for me and I’m followed into the staircase by George. The staircase is bringing back memories of the man in the gold mask, but I push down my fears. I want to get under Jesse’s skin by doing exactly what these men say. I want him to see I was only obstinate with him.

  I hear an abrupt shuffling sound from behind me and the door closes. Jesse straightens the sleeves of his jacket and checks his cuffs as he steps through, pushing a stray hair from his forehead. He’s alone. Where’s Rafal? I frown at Jesse, but he just shrugs, eyes full of laughter. Rafal probably just took the elevator to check downstairs before we get there. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Jesse is up to something.

  Climbing down the thirty flights of stairs has me huffing and puffing by the time we’re done. George looks even worse than I do. His bald head is shining and dripping sweat, cheap suit staining through with sweat. To my annoyance, Jesse isn’t even out of breath. We’re about to step into the building’s lobby when Jesse steps in front of the door. He bumps into me as he pushes past and I can’t help noticing how unbelievably hard his body is. It’s like bumping into a life-sized G.I. Joe.

  “You said you’re the driver, right?” asks Jesse, pulling a set of keys free and twirling them. My keys. How the hell… “Catch,” he says, tossing the keys in a high arc to George.

  George’s eyes follow the keys up, and Jesse takes a quick step in, spinning George around in a complicated maneuver. In a split second, Jesse has George from behind, forearm pressing into George’s neck. Jesse reaches up casually and catches the keys he tossed, and then lowers George to the ground as George’s reddening face goes slack and he loses consciousness.

  “You can’t--” I start.

  “He’s just taking a nap. Thirty minutes or so and he’ll be up and good to go.”

  I fold my arms. “No. I’m not going with you. You can’t just do that and expect me to walk away with you. Where’s the other one?”

  I suck in a breath, ready to call for Rafal, but Jesse steps closer to me, planting a hand on the wall behind me so he has me pinned in, unable to escape. Fear and attraction swirl in my chest, competing.

  “You will come with me. I can carry you out over my shoulder, kicking and screaming, or you can leave with some dignity. Your choice.”

  “You’re a fucking asshole,” I say.

  “You don’t have to like me. You just have to do what I say. Do you understand?”

  I want to fight it, to run, to scream, or to make a scene, if for no other reason than to teach him he can’t talk to me like that. But the only one that would hurt is me. Someone would snap a picture on their phone and it would end up plastered all over the tabloids by tomorrow morning. I’d have to deal with Frank’s disappointment and questions from the paparazzi.

  I follow him through the lobby, feeling pissed off and helpless. He makes me sit in the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel. I fold my arms under my breasts, looking out the window. It annoys me that I can still see the ghost of his reflection as he drives, looking stony and handsome. A wave of nostalgia rips through me, but it only brings sadness, because this isn’t the boy I loved in high school. Jesse is someone else now, something else. Whatever happened to him in the years we’ve been apart changed him.

  He drives us past the road to my apartment, showing no sign of slowing down. “You just passed my--”

  “We’re staying at my place tonight. It’s safer.”

  “No way. All my things are at my apartment. I can’t just stay at your place without notice.” I frown, voice growing hard. “I won’t. Take me to my apartment.”

  “No,” he says simply.

  In a moment of desperation, I reach to grab the door handle, even though we both know I wouldn’t actually jump out of the car, but he casually flicks the child-protection locks and prevents me from even unlocking my own door. How fucking appropriate. He is controlling me as easily as you might control a child. Well fuck him. I’ll wait until he lets his guard down and get him back for this. Somehow.

  I resume looking out the window and say nothing for the rest of the drive. His apartment building is modern and obviously expensive. He parks in a valet spot and tries to help me from the car, but I stand on my own, ignoring the hand he extends to me. I hate the way he just smirks at my rudeness, like he doesn’t think it’s real, like he thinks this is a game. It just makes me want to get him back even more, to get him back harder.

  God, he’s turning me into a spiteful child. I know he is, but I can’t help it. I’ve spent so long rebuilding my life after him. As stupid as it was, by the time we had been dating a year, I was already planning my life around him. I only applied to the colleges I knew he’d want to play football for. I spent all my free time studying so I would have the grades to get into those schools. I thought we would get married and have kids. I let my social life fall to pieces around us because I knew he was the one. I knew it so absolutely that at some point, the idea of us breaking up stopped being a possibility.

  Then it happened. He showed me I never really knew him at all, and he broke my heart. At first I was just devastatingly sad. I thought maybe I had done something to deserve it, or I could have been a better girlfriend. After that, I thought maybe I had just misunderstood, that he really was planning to come back to me after he finished his overseas tour. Eventually though, all I felt was anger. It wasn’t the kind of anger that makes me want to throw things or yell. It was a slow-burning, smoldering anger that settled in my stomach and never quite left, touching every emotion I felt since with just the smallest hint of bitter heat. He marked me, and I hated him for it.

  I look at him now and wish he had let himself go in the years since we were together. It would be easier to forget the past if he was a shell of his former self, unsure, remorseful, and broken. Instead, he looks more put together than he ever was. He’s frustratingly competent, unbelievably fit, and even more gorgeous than I remember. My traitorous body can attest to the last. Just being near him makes my heart pound, even if I want to hurt him as much as I want to kiss him. The only flaw is the glint of pain in his eyes that surfaces at random, in the moments when he’s quiet and doesn’t think I’m looking.

  He jogs up the stairs to the building, glancing behind to make sure I’m following. I try really, really hard not to look at the way his slacks pull against his tight ass and hugs those long, lean legs of his. I mostly succeed, and I’m grateful when I’m no longer slightly beneath him so that his jacket covers most of his ass again.

  I raise my eyebrows at the luxurious lobby of his apartment building. It’s all sleek, polished wood and dark reds, luxurious and sexy. Just the kind of place I would imagine a man like Jesse living. There are several large rooms set off from the main lobby. I can see workout equipment beyond one door, elegant cursive lettering labeling a spa in another area, and a strange windowed area with what must be artificial grass and even hills. A small swarm of dogs runs by my view and I smile a little. Really? He lives in an apartment with an indoor dog park?

  To my surprise, he heads straight for the dog area. When he opens the door, a young blonde girl gives me an appraising look and doesn’t bother hiding her jealousy. She must think I’m with him. I don’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. She can have him for all I care. He’d probably love to fuck some young pretty thing like her. He probably already has…

  I’m annoyed when the thought makes my stomach turn a little. It’s not jealousy, it
’s just… disappointment. The Jesse I knew wouldn’t do things like that, but this new man might. I don’t know what he’s capable of anymore, and that scares me.

  The girl turns her head, not letting her eyes move far from Jesse. “Makayla! Come here, sweetie!” she calls.

  I feel a jolt of confusion. It’s only when I look to Jesse and see the way his cheeks are actually flushing with red that I realize. He named his fucking dog after me.

  I give him an incredulous look, but he only shrugs. “She came with the name,” he says with uncharacteristic quickness. “Got her from a shelter.”

  “Right,” I say, starting to grin.

  He turns to leave and the girl takes two quick steps after him. “Have a good day, Mr. Slade!”

  He ignores her, pushing back through the doors and heading for the elevator.

  “Do you make her call you Mr. Slade, or was that her idea?”

  He half-turns to look down at me, quirking an eyebrow in an irritatingly sexy way. “You’re jealous? Of her?”

  I laugh a little too loud. “Yeah. Totally. Look. You can fuck whoever you want. You made that perfectly clear ten years ago.”

  He says nothing, but tries to guide me into the elevator by the small of my back. I quickly step in, avoiding his touch, though I don’t know how much of that is because I’m furious with him and how much is because I don’t want my bastard emotions to cloud my judgment. Why is it so hard to completely hate him? Even if he wants to play tough guy and act like I have no choice in this, I know I could just walk. He’s not going to throw me over his shoulder and drag me back into his apartment in front of all these people. He’s not going to punish me for disobeying him.

  I shift on my feet, pressing my thighs together a little tighter. Thinking about him punishing me is doing all the wrong things to me. I just need to leave. But I can’t. As immature as it is, I know if I leave it will be like admitting defeat, like he won. If I leave, it shows him that I never got over him. It shows that I didn’t take control of my life after he left and I never moved on. Well, screw that.

  I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  The dog pants happily, but she’s so overfed she might as well be a zeppelin with four furry legs. “I see the dog doesn’t take fitness as seriously as you do?”

  Jesse glares at me with unexpected hurt in his face. “A lot of it is muscle. There’s a ton of protein in the treats I give her.”

  “How long does this elevator take?” I snap suddenly.

  “A minute and fifteen seconds.”

  I roll my eyes. “You would know exactly how long.”

  “Paying attention to details is part of what makes me the best. For example, you’re wearing a thong.”

  The doors open and he walks down a long hallway covered in matte-finish gray tiles, leaving me standing there, mouthing hanging open while his bulldog stands dutifully beside me. How did he…

  I follow him down the hallway, self-consciously pulling at the back of my dress and feeling to see if it’s really so tight that he could see. I know I should feel mortified or violated that he was staring at my ass enough to notice, but I can’t quite push down the thrill of excitement in the flirtation of his words.

  The doors to the apartments on his floor are silver and modern, giving the whole hallway an expensive, clean atmosphere. He unlocks his door, using three different keys to open three different locks.

  “Three locks?” I ask.

  “Like I said. My place is safer.”

  He opens the door and I can’t help raising my eyebrows in appreciation when I see his apartment. It’s airy with high ceilings, and the far wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that give a spectacular view of the city and the sparkling ocean behind it. The furniture is modern and sleek, reeking of money and cleanliness. The place is so spotless I’m sure he must have a cleaner, and so tasteful there’s no way he put it all together himself. He strips off his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, breath catching in my throat. I can see the smooth crease between his chest muscles.

  “Taking a shower. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Make yourself at home. Just don’t leave.”

  “What, am I your prisoner now?”

  He strips his shirt all the way off and I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. There isn’t an ounce of fat on his body, just slabs of perfectly sculpted muscle. I can’t help letting my eyes wander from his broad shoulders to the perfect line of division between his abs and then to the diagonal cuts of his obliques. I’m fascinated by the way his muscles cord and relax as he slips the shirt off. I would think he was stripping in front of me to show off, but there’s no hint of it in his face, as if he’s completely unaware how mind-numbingly perfect his body is and what seeing it would do to me.

  “No,” he says, turning to walk to the shower. “You’re just my guest who can’t leave.”

  I watch his chiseled back until he rounds the corner. I finally suck in a breath once he’s gone, only now able to fill my lungs completely. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath with less conviction than I would like.

  I hear the shower start and I realize I’m alone in his place and it would be incredibly easy to snoop around a bit. For what I’m paying him, I deserve to know a little more. At least that’s the shaky line of reasoning that gets my feet moving.

  I wander through his kitchen and I’m surprised to see a professional-grade kitchen with gas ranges and a temperature controlled glass case filled with dozens of potted herbs. I purse my lips. He either takes his cooking seriously, or he has someone he pays to do it for him. Probably the latter.

  I find his bedroom, which is far enough away from the running shower that I decide to intrude. I’m not sure what I expect to find… panties? Maybe even some floosie he forgot was still sleeping at his place? I try not to imagine how many women he’s had in the luxurious bed that fills the center of his room. I rifle through a dresser at the far end of the room and find socks, underwear, and then a drawer with some bottles of lube and a few sex toys. I blush when I look at them, feeling a mixture of disgust and curiosity.

  I lift something heavy that looks vaguely like the top half of an egg, careful to touch as little of it as I can. I turn my head slightly and notice a small button at the base. I press the button and jump back as the thing vibrates like a rocket getting ready to leave orbit. It falls to the ground, buzzing so loud I’m sure he must hear it even inside the shower. I fall to my knees and manage to grab the thing even as it jumps and jolts around from the strong vibration.

  What kind of man keeps fucking sex toys in his bedroom drawer? One who knows how to please a woman, whispers a small, lust-filled voice in the back of my mind.

  I turn it off and am about to stand when I notice a seam beneath the lowest drawer. There’s a small, almost imperceptible ridge where I can fit my finger. I put the toy back in the drawer above, closing it and focusing on the ridge. I hook my finger in and tug, pulling out a thin drawer. There’s just a single composition book inside. It’s leather-bound and a little battered. I lift it carefully, noticing one of the corners is torn.

  I know it’s a complete invasion of privacy, but I’ve already crossed that line, and I only feel twinge of guilt about it before I open the book and read the first page.

  October 27th, 2004

  Apparently I have to actually write in this thing. I tried blowing it off and they threatened to drydock me for the next mission if I didn’t start playing along with the therapist. I’m supposed to talk about my feelings in here. What the fuck is there to talk about? I’m pissed off and it doesn’t seem to matter how many of them I kill. I’m still pissed. They took my parents from me, they took my girl…

  I clutch the journal a little tighter. 2004… that was three years after he left me. He must be talking about some other girl, probably the one who made him tell me not to wait up for him. I take a deep breath and read more.

  The doc wants me to speak
my mind, well, fuck it. I put my fucking knife in a kid’s heart back in Tajikistan. It was a night mission. A simple grab and go for some journalist that command considered an asset. We almost got out clean and then I saw someone trying to get to the landline to call for help. A few seconds and he could’ve brought dozens of insurgents down on us. So I grabbed him by the mouth and stuck my fucking knife in his chest.

  It was only after he stopped twitching that I dropped him and saw how young he was. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, and I killed him. The worst part was how they all patted me on the back for saving the mission and told me what a big fucking hero I was.

  Is that enough fucking emotion for one day? I don’t feel any better, so I hope I can stop this bullshit journal soon.

  My heart aches for Jesse. I realize suddenly how selfish I’ve been. While I thought I was living a hard life because I had to face rejection after rejection auditioning for parts and playing in small, shitty roles to work my way up, he was dealing with all this? It doesn’t completely excuse what he did, but it helps, and I’m already regretting how I’ve treated him so far. At least a little bit. I hear the shower stop running and hurriedly put the journal back in place, wishing I had time to read more.

  I rush back to the living room and try to adopt something like a casual position on his couch, anything to imply that I wasn’t just helping myself to his deepest, darkest secrets like a complete jerk. He steps into the living room, black towel around his waist, bending his neck slightly to ruffle his still wet hair. He squints over at me, looking sinfully touchable with his smooth, muscled body fresh out of the shower. I know there’s no way he could know, but I shift under his focus, like he knows I’ve just been reading the journal in his room.

  “You look a little breathless,” he says, stepping even closer and making my heart thrum in my chest. “Is it from the view, or have you been sneaking around while I was in the shower?”

  “The… view?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. He’s taking away all my self-control, all my poise and power. “You’re not exactly hiding it,” I say, averting my eyes and gesturing toward him.