Fake Halo

by Piper Lennox

  I know she’s joking, but I’m also aware of a singular grain of truth buried in her words. Things have changed a lot for us, these last three years.

  We’re no longer considered YouTubers or vloggers, for one thing. Most articles call us some variation of “beauty bloggers turned entrepreneurs,” or stick to the basic “internet celebrities.” I guess those are more accurate. Our hair care and makeup lines now earn us more than our ad revenue, and require way more of our time. Instead of four to five videos a week, we post one. If that.

  This doesn’t even take into consideration our solo projects. Georgia’s back in school for a degree in cosmetic science, with the ultimate goal of becoming a perfumer, while I’ve been designing printed dresses and sneakers for Lo Origin Apparel as a guest artist.

  (Side note: as satisfying as it is to see people wearing my artwork, nothing will ever top the feeling of sending my mother a pair of Clara Hurley Limited Edition Slip-Ons with a note that said, “Remember when you used to yell at me for doodling on my shoes? Now somebody’s paying me to do it.” The white shoes, littered with small black-and-gray sketches of dogs, quickly became her favorite pair.)

  “We didn’t retire,” I say now, holding still while she fixes my part. It’s placed deep on the opposite side of where I’d usually wear it, to hide a thin spot from a few weeks ago. “We just...moved more attention to other projects.”

  She nods, but I’m not sure she believes me.

  Truthfully, I miss the old days a lot. Back when we were thrilled to get a single comment, and a hundred views felt like winning the lottery.

  Back when we were just two nineteen-year-olds bored out of our minds one rainy afternoon, when I let her point her iPhone at me and film that very first video.

  “Make a channel with me,” she’d whined. “Please?”

  “Another hobby?” I imitated our mother, who sighed this every time we returned from the craft store with new arsenals of yarn, wax, beads, and whatever else the clearance racks could give us.

  “Just for fun,” she promised. “In fact, let’s make a deal: as soon as one of us stops having fun, we stop the whole thing.”

  She held out her pinky. I hooked it with mine.

  When everything started snowballing, we should have reiterated that promise. And again, when Edge Crossers premiered. When we got an agent. When Rue Royale approached us, and our little hobby suddenly became an official brand.

  At the very least, I should have asked myself that question. Maybe then I’d have found the courage to tell Georgia I didn’t need a controlling business partner or overbearing manager. I needed my sister.

  But we ask it right now, silently, when Georgia glances between the bump under my dress and the ring on my finger, most likely trying to imagine how much more everything will change.

  “Still having fun,” I tell her, and hold out my pinky.

  She smiles and folds hers around it. “Me, too.”

  Living with Clara Hurley will guarantee three things.

  First: all your furniture will be covered in glitter. It’s better than dog fur, but harder to explain to people when it sticks to your clothes. Try swapping the classic “Oh, yeah, I have a dog and he sheds” with “My wife has more shimmery makeup and accessories than a Claire’s boutique,” and tell me what kind of looks you get.

  Second: you’ll quickly discover that there’s a right way and a wrong way to tell her she’s pulling out her hair.

  The right way entails slowly taking her hand in yours. Maybe kissing her head, or trailing your fingers over her bare legs during late-night movie marathons, which is when she tends to pull the most. It used to be whenever she was in the bathroom, until her therapist had us install lights that time out after ten minutes. Beside the switch is a Post-It that says, very simply, “Stop.”

  The wrong way to tell her? Literally any verbal cues. For the first two months we lived together, she’d burst into tears whenever I’d say, “You’re pulling,” or even just a soft and gentle, “Stop.” Why a bathroom note can say it and not me, I’ve got no idea—but I don’t question it.

  Her disorder is better now. Not cured; it probably never will be. But it’s manageable.

  “What if it gets bad again?” she asked, the night we got engaged. She didn’t have to specify what, even though we weren’t talking about it: I’d been running my fingers through her hair.

  We were in our hotel room in Tokyo, loving the purple glow of the neon outside as it flooded our room. Loving that diamond on her finger.

  “Then we make it better again.”

  Her jaw tilted upward as my lips traveled along, claiming every inch of her skin for my own. Under the hum of the air conditioner, I heard her sniff. When I brought my head up to look at her, her tears were glowing purple, too.

  “What if the baby has it?” she whispered.

  I lifted the bed sheet and disappeared underneath to kiss her navel. “Then we’ll buy you two matching hats.”

  “Wes,” she laughed, either at my joke or because I was accidentally tickling her. I came up from the blankets and held myself over her.

  “Clara, look at me. This kid will be perfect. Whether it has trich or not—which we won’t even know until they’re a year old, minimum, but probably much older—there’s no point worrying. We won’t love it any less. And it’ll have two things you didn’t.”

  “Yeah?” Now she was the one to push her fingers through my hair. “What’s that?”

  “A mother who knows exactly what they’re going through,” I said, settling into the space behind her as we stared out the window, “and a dad who will never stop reminding them it’s just hair.”

  I felt her relax as I slipped my arms around her. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. What you should be far more worried about is getting a baby like me. Rude, arrogant—”

  “Cute,” she laughed sleepily, the sound unfolding across me like another blanket. “Charming. With a gorgeous singing voice.”

  The third thing you’re guaranteed, living with Clara?

  You’ll never want to live without her again.

  “Tucker?”

  “Pass. Knew one in elementary school. He used to bite anyone who pissed him off.”

  Clara looks up from the notepad in mild horror. “I’m sorry…bite?”

  “Yep. Like this.” I dive into bed and snap at her neck; she laughs and shoves me into the headboard.

  “Ew, you spit on me.” She wipes it away with fistfuls of the sheets. “You’re so gross.”

  “You didn’t seem to find it gross,” I whisper, “when I got a little spit on you last night.” I tug the sleeve of her shirt—my shirt, a faded and impossibly soft Circa Survive tee—so that she falls back against my chest. “Though, to your credit, it was a few feet lower than your neck.”

  I can’t see her face, but I feel the heat of her blush. God, I love how easy it is to make her horny. Even when we’ve spent half the day doing nothing but fucking and going down on each other, one crude line or carefully placed hand can get her soaked and writhing against me like her last orgasm was ten years ago, instead of ten minutes.

  “We need to do something productive today,” she protests, while my hands roam under the waistband of her sweatpants, which also belong to me. I don’t mind. Everything looks a hundred times better on her.

  “We have.” My teeth claim her ear. “We agreed on a girl’s name.”

  “Uh, no: we tentatively decided the name Journey was ‘not all that bad’ with Durham, and honestly, I’m still not convinced. Plus, we have zero boy names. I’m the only one pitching, you haven’t thought of one.”

  “Let’s take a study break. Post-coital clarity produces my best work.”

  I pull her between my legs, her head in the center of my chest and my erection jabbing her in the back. My hand reaches farther into her pants and grazes her.

  “Wes, come on.”

  “Come on...what?” While she laughs, I sink my te
eth into her neck again. “Your back? Tits?”

  “Tell you what: pitch just one boy’s name that I like?” She flips over and folds her arms on my stomach, trailing her finger through the hair under my navel. “And I’ll let you finish wherever you want.”

  Okay: so she’s not the only one who’s easy to rile up.

  Wes rattles off at least twenty boy names so fast, you’d think he was going into a rap battle.

  “Wait,” I laugh, flopping off him so I can reach the notepad. “Archer,” I repeat, writing it down, “Simon...what was that other one you said?”

  “Gideon?”

  “No, before that.”

  He thinks, adjusting himself through the covers. “Maddox?”

  “That’s it.”

  He watches while I add it to the list. “You don’t think it’s a little…pretentious?”

  “Just a tad. But he will be your son, so.”

  “God, you’re so mean to me.” One arm wraps around my body and drags me closer; the other throws the list and pen onto the nightstand. “I hope it is a boy, just so I won’t have you and my daughter ganging up on me every chance you get.”

  I laugh, but the second his mouth touches me, it dissolves into a moan.

  Wes likes to act like our “any time, anywhere” sex life is new. It’s not. Sure, hormones get me in the mood faster and allow for multiple rounds, but our inability to keep our hands off each other isn’t a recent development, by any stretch. Since we moved in together almost two years ago, trading our old apartments for this brownstone in Park Slope, unbridled enjoyment of each other’s bodies has been pretty standard.

  And, on rare occasions we both have the entire day off—like today—this is where you’ll find us, rain or shine, hormones or not. Wrapped up in bed sheets.

  His erection paints my inner thighs with pre-ejaculate after we remove our pants and I position myself overtop him. The chill of it on my skin has me close already.

  I sink onto him, taking every inch and moaning like I haven’t done exactly this all day. That’s one point I’ll give to hormones: I’m pretty sure it’s impossible for him to make me sore.

  After a beautifully sinful moment of nothing but Wes groaning, he pulls me into a kiss and asks, “You nervous?”

  “About...?”

  “The baby.”

  I shake my head, my hair brushing his face. “We can handle it. Now stop talking about pregnancy stuff.” My finger presses his lips shut. “It takes me out of the mood.”

  “You sure about that?” he chuckles, and grabs my hips to hold me in place while he thrusts, the movements rapid-fire and deep. My chest heaves with a cry of pleasure. “Because from my perspective, this pregnancy is putting you in the mood. All. The damn. Time.”

  I come sharply. This is another change in my body I guess he’s right about; multiple orgasms are basically guaranteed, with the first one always happening too suddenly, a shallow and crackling pleasure that makes my second one unbelievably intense.

  Wes kisses me when I moan his name, so he can feel the delicious hiss of that “S” between my teeth.

  “I put a baby in you, Clara. I came inside you, and your body was so in need of mine, we made a life together.”

  “Shit,” I whimper, because I hate how much his new brand of dirty talk turns me on. It’s so romantically filthy I can’t decide if I want to kiss him or bite him.

  Most of the time, I do both.

  “You love that, don’t you?” he asks, after I’ve kissed him, bitten his lip, then released it after drawing back. “The idea that my hot, thick cum filled your quaking little cunt—”

  “Ew,” I spit. “You know I hate that word.”

  “Oh, I know Clara hates it.” He rocks upward again, grip tightening on my ass until he completely controls our pace. “But Pregnant Clara? It’s impossible to offend you. I piss you off and turn you on.”

  “What else is new?”

  His grin sends a shiver up my spine.

  My heart pounds in my ears. My sex pulses hard around his. All around us is the sound of our skin making contact, and the scent of desire so dirty and sweet it should replace whatever example of “paradox” currently occupies the dictionary.

  “Tainted by lust; pure in love.” It’s a line from “Clara Rose,” still my favorite song out of the many Wes has written for me over the years.

  We finish at the same time, so hard it should hurt. So beautiful it should make me cry.

  Instead, even with tears streaming down my face as I press it into his neck, I laugh at how good it feels to fall apart.

  “I love you,” he pants, swallowing as he clings to me. I find my voice and say it back.

  He falls asleep quickly. I don’t move until I feel him soften inside me.

  Bowie’s ecstatic when I emerge from the bedroom, showered and dressed in real clothes, and follow him downstairs to the foyer. I grab his leash and click my tongue to get him off the bench, where he likes to perch himself in times of excitement.

  My rain boots grip the wet pavement of our front steps with audible squeaks. Bowie charges ahead, practically choking himself against his collar, when the dog park appears. It’s much larger than the one he used to frequent, and was the ultimate selling point for Wes when we toured our home.

  “Easy,” I tell him, when he thuds his muddy paws on my legs. I unclip him and watch from underneath my umbrella as he darts through the rain, droplets flying off the ground around him.

  My phone pings from the pocket of my jean jacket.

  Wes: Did you steal my dog?

  I smile and snap a blurry photo of Bowie in the distance, then hit Send.

  Clara: He’s my dog, today.

  Wes: Hope you remember that when he wants to go out at one in the morning.

  I send some emojis, then ready to slip my phone back into my pocket.

  Wes: Colton. Cooper. Zeke. Miles. Jason.

  Wes: If those don’t inspire you, I can dig through the Durham family tree for some truly bizarre shit.

  Wes: Gulliver. Livingston. Halston. Seeman, but that’s just cruel.

  He keeps it up the entire time I’m out here, one name at a time every minute or so. He doesn’t stop until Bowie and I are back in front of the house.

  “Clara Rose” is my favorite Wes Durham song, no question. But there is a very close second—one that you’ll never hear on the radio, or YouTube, or anywhere. An actual recording doesn’t even exist. It’s only in his head, and mine.

  Found Halo

  Like a halo, dug out of the sand

  Brushed against my torn jeans and placed in her hand

  She puts it on me, saying it’s mine we found

  I shake it loose, put it on her

  Tell her she dropped her crown....

  “I actually like Halston,” I text him.

  I look up, tilting my head into the fading rain and growing darkness. He’s standing in the bedroom window. Watching me.

  I see him check his phone, the blue glow playing too perfectly across his features.

  “Hal it is,” he texts, smiling down at me with a wink. “Now get back in this bed, Durham.”

  The End

  Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed Wes and Clara’s story.

  To be notified when Van and Juniper’s novel is available, you can sign up for my newsletter. You’ll also get a free copy of my novel, Think I Wanna Marry You, a full-length, standalone romance only available to subscribers.

  Thank you again,

  Piper

  Also by Piper Lennox

  Durham Boys

  Fake Halo

  (Books 2 and 3 coming soon)

  Now Entering Hillford

  The Midwife’s Playlist

  The Carpenter’s Wedding

  The Poet’s Cookbook

  The Bartender’s Countdown

  The Hawthorne’s Girl

  The Fairfields

  Darling, All at Once

  Honey, When It Ends

&nbs
p; Baby, Be My Last

  Love in Kona

  Pull Me Under

  Crash Around Me

  When We Break

  Standalones

  All Mine

  Teach Me

  The Road to You

  Think I Wanna Marry You (Subscriber Exclusive)

  For More Info

  Clara’s condition (referenced in this novel as “trich”) is trichotillomania, a body-focused repetitive disorder resulting in compulsive hair-pulling.

  As many as 1 in 25 people have trich, the majority being women. Despite its prevalence, it is still widely misunderstood.

  While a great deal of research was put into making sure Clara’s experience was realistic, the disorder manifests differently for everyone who has it.

  If you’d like more information regarding trich and other body-focused repetitive behaviors, please visit the TLC Foundation website at bfrb.org.

  About the Author

  Piper Lennox is the author of Darling, All at Once and the Fairfields series, the Now Entering Hillford series, All Mine, and more. Her favorite heroes are sexy and broken; her favorite heroines are feisty (and, usually, also a little broken). Fake Halo is her sixteenth novel.

  Piper lives in Virginia with her husband, their children, and a Siberian Husky too smart for his own good. Before she spent her days writing about life and love, she wrote copy for insurance companies. She will never, ever go back.

  www.piperlennox.com