My Fake Fiance´

by Banks, R. R.

  I nod. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you give me some really good anti-nausea meds.”

  “I think I can do that.”

  An hour later, I'm on the couch back home, tucked under a quilted blanket and TV remote in hand. I've taken the meds Dr. Adric gave me and I'm already starting to feel better. So thankful for modern day science and that we no longer live in the days where they would have bled me to try and make me feel better.

  “Okay, is there anything else you need before I head off to work?” Rosie asks.

  “No, I'm good,” I say. “The meds are already kicking in. Thank you for everything, Rosie.”

  She gives me a smile. “You're my best friend,” she says. “I can't exactly let you die – who'd pay your half of the rent?”

  I laugh as she grabs her keys and heads out to work. I've got to work at the bar later this evening and I'm hoping I'm back to normal by the time my shift rolls around. If not, they'll have to deal with me as I am. I can't really afford to not work – especially with Christmas rapidly approaching. There’s a thought that makes me sick for reasons that have nothing to do with eating off the Taco Truck.

  Not to be a Grinch or anything, but I hate this time of year. For one thing, it's expensive as hell. It also means I'm obligated to spend more time with my mom and sister – and the visit was just so much fun. For whatever reason, Christmas feels like it puts even more pressure on people to be kind and loving to one another, and the way I feel right now, I'm not even going to be able to fake it very convincingly.

  Personally, I'd rather just stay home, make up some junk food, and watch crap TV. Or just write. One of the two would be good with me. Sitting up, I pull my laptop over to me, setting it in my lap. I haven't written a whole lot in the week or so that I've been back, and I feel guilty about that.

  I turn off the TV, dropping the remote beside me on the couch, as my computer boots up. A moment later, I'm pulling up my current work in progress. It's a science fiction piece that includes a lot of contemporary social themes and references. Honestly, it's as much a message to society as it is a story. It's my most ambitious piece to date and I feel really good about it. I'm not one to toot my own horn or heaps praise on myself for my work, but I think this is a really good story with a lot of potential.

  I actually have really high hopes for this piece. I think it's the one that can help put me on the map.

  As I read through the last few chapters, absorbing the words and falling back into the story, I can't keep my mind from wandering – and of course, it heads straight to Miles. Even though I vowed to never call or see him again – if only to protect myself from being hurt – I haven't been able to get him out of my head since I got back from Washington more than ten days ago.

  Maybe, it's because I vowed to never see or call him again that he’s sticking around in my mind. I don't know.

  All I know is that he pops into my head at the most inopportune times. I get snippets of the times we had sex, of course. I mean, he really is the best sex I've ever had, but it's more than that. It's deeper than that.

  What I remember the most is how he stood up for me with Sarah and my mom. The way he defended me to them. No one has ever stood up for me like that before. I can't pretend that's nothing. It means a hell of a lot to me, actually.

  It means almost as much as what he said about my writing. The fact that he believes in me and thinks I'm going to make it – that too, is something new. My family has never been supportive of me and my endeavors. They've always hounded me to be practical and pursue a job that is steady and reliable over what they interpret as a frivolous fantasy.

  And I know that Miles isn't an agent or publisher – he's not someone who can help me get my foot in the door – but, the fact that he sees talent in me brings me an indescribable amount of joy. It gives me a sense of validation unlike I've ever felt before. Maybe I'm not the hack my sister obviously believes me to be.

  Knowing that there's one person out there who believes in me and is in my corner, fires me up and gives me a renewed sense of spirit. It revitalizes me and my energy.

  There is a piece of me that wishes I could call Miles and thank him for giving me that boost when I needed it the most. But I know that some doors, once closed, are better left that way.

  This is the better option. Miles should fade into a pleasant memory instead of being an active participant in my life. Neither one of us need the headaches, the drama, or the potential heartbreak in our lives. We will both be better off not wasting time and moving forward.

  It's better this way. For both of us.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “This really sucks,” I say with a sigh.

  “So, why don't you call her?” Nate asks.

  “I can't.”

  “Why not?” he asks. “Afraid it'll bruise your ego to look like you're chasing her?”

  I pace around my office, stopping at the windows to stare at the view of downtown in the fading sunlight of the late afternoon. It's been a little more than two weeks since I got back to L.A. from Washington and my head has been a mess ever since. I can't stop thinking about her. Every time I close my eyes, I see Sasha's face and remember the sound of her voice and the light floral scent of her skin. And of course, I remember the way her delicious body felt pressed up against mine.

  I've been so distracted that I nearly botched a couple of depositions. If Nate hadn't been there, I probably would have tanked at least a few cases. At that point, he knew it was time to figure out what was going on, so after casually suggesting a few drinks one night – probably a few too many – he got me to pour my heart out and confess my sins. Without even realizing I was doing it – which speaks to my state of mind in and of itself – I told him everything. I told him about meeting her in the airport, to the last time we were together. Thanks to a few too many top-shelf glasses of bourbons, I held absolutely nothing back.

  Nate is slick like that. It's one of the things that makes him such a good lawyer – he knows exactly which buttons to push to get somebody to admit something they don't want to. He’s such a manipulative bastard. It makes him a formidable lawyer, though.

  Every day since then, he spends a large portion of each day trying to convince me to pick up the phone and call Sasha. He's as relentless and idealistic as Chris has become in that regard.

  “It has nothing to do with my ego,” I explain.

  “That would be a first as far as you're concerned,” he laughs.

  “Eat shit,” I retort.

  “Okay, if it's not about ego, what is it?”

  “She was pretty clear that we were a one-time thing,” I say. “She doesn't want to see me again.”

  He settles back in the chair, adjusting the file he's carrying in his lap, watching me pace around my office for what feels like the millionth time this week, my hands in my pockets, my head – well – somewhere. It's clearly not focused on the job I'm supposed to be doing. I have a big case coming up – against Ray Monsol, again – and I need to get my head on straight. Both parties hoped to have this matter resolved before the courts break for Christmas, but the way I feel right now, I'm on the verge of asking for a continuance until after the holidays. I just cannot focus.

  “I see,” he says. “And did she say this before or after she slept with you for the second time?”

  “Before and after,” I reply. “I tried to get in touch with her before we left Seattle, but she didn't return any of my calls or texts.”

  “And you're going to let something like that deter you?” he asks. “Where did the old Miles Churchill go?”

  I roll my eyes. “You sound just like Chris.”

  “The Miles Churchill I’ve known for over ten years has never accepted no for an answer.”

  “That version of Miles had also never been turned down before,” I say.

  “And you say it's not about ego,” he chuckles and glances at his watch.

  “If you need to go, don't let me keep you,” I say. “I'm
sure you have better things to be doing with your time other than beating your head against the wall in here.”

  He shakes his head. “Actually, I'm kind of in the mood for wings and a beer,” he says. “Why don't we go grab some.”

  “Shouldn't you be getting home to Mercy?”

  “She knows I need some time out with my boy every now and then,” he says.

  I look at him for a long moment. “She's working late, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Probably until ten or so.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I'll go, but on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “No more talking about Sasha,” I say. “Don’t even bring her up.”

  “Done,” he says.

  “Great, let me just return a couple of emails and we'll go.”

  * * *

  “I've never been to this place before,” I say.

  “Me either,” Nate replies. “I've heard they have great wings though.”

  We walk into what looks like a hole in the wall sports bar called Tucker's. It's off the beaten path, down one of the side streets in downtown L.A., but it's not all that far from the office. I have no idea how Nate found out about this place.

  The front of the bar is decked out with Christmas decorations. Giant stockings, a blow-up Santa, and fake snow on the windows, garland and tinsel lining the door and eaves of the place. It's a bit garish and gaudy, but then again, everything about Tucker's seems to be. It seems to cater more to the typical sports bar patron than the type of people who frequent the Wheldon. There’s not anything wrong with that.

  I enjoy sports, but I can't say I'm a big fan of sports bars. The Wheldon, on the other hand, has a viewing room where you can watch all the sports you want in comfort. The chairs are big and padded, the waitresses are always prompt with your drinks, and it's a lot less chaotic. Nobody screams and yells, and the fare is a lot more upscale than just wings – although those are available as well.

  Yeah okay, I might be a bit of an elitist prick in that regard. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised Nate that knows about this place. He is much more a man of the people than I am – I admit that freely.

  While I was in Seattle with Sasha, I was almost feeling slightly more optimistic in my approach to things. I admit that I was feeling more idealistic – to almost Nate-like levels.

  Being with her helped me shed the elitist skin that I usually wear – comfortably, I might add. Maybe, I do have it in me to be a better person. On some level, I think I might actually believe some of the rhetoric I use in that client speech I've been honing for years now.

  It's the one part of the story I've held back from Nate. Sasha inspired me in a lot of different ways. She encouraged me to actually care about people – or, at least, find that capacity within me. I didn't think it existed before. My sole focus has always been on bettering myself – not in a personal sense, but in a professional sense. Accomplishment was everything to me. All that mattered was reaching the pinnacle of success.

  So, it came as quite the shock to me to find out that being around somebody like Sasha, a truly good person at heart, caused a reaction in me – a desire to be a better person, rather than someone who only takes joy in conquering others, not really caring about the people I have to step on to get there.

  I can't say I'm perfect, or that I don't hold some opinions and positions people might find elitist, but one thing I learned about myself – that Sasha showed me about myself – is that I'm not actually as elitist or classist as I always allowed myself to be.

  This might be her greatest gift to me because it will improve my game as a lawyer. Being able to relate to my clients more will transform me into a better attorney and an even better person.

  When we walk into the place, it's only half-full and the atmosphere is a bit quiet and subdued. It's not Monday night, so there aren’t any football game on. A mixture of hockey and basketball games play on the various TVs mounted around the walls, giving the guys nursing their beers something to pay attention to.

  We take a seat in a booth near the back of the restaurant and slide in. I look at the TV screen mounted to the wall behind Nate, watching a bit of the Boston and Tampa Bay hockey game. I look down and find Nate smiling at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Nothing.”

  “Then stop staring at me,” I laugh.

  He's not looking at me though, I notice. He's looking behind me. Turning in the booth, I take a look and feel my breath catch in my throat. Moving between a couple of tables is Sasha herself. She's carrying a tray loaded with a couple of empty mugs, as well as a few full ones while she laughs and jokes with her customers.

  Even in her work uniform – short dark shorts, and a tight black t-shirt – she's ethereal. She's got a transcendent beauty that really stirs something inside of me. But it's who she is that stimulates me up even more.

  I turn back to Nate and eye him evenly. “Yeah, I'm guessing this isn't a coincidence.”

  He shrugs. “What is a coincidence, exactly?” he asks, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is it merely the confluence of timing and preparation?”

  “Yeah, that's deep and philosophical. You're like the goddamn Dalai Lama,” I say. “How did you find out where she works?”

  “You know that I’m a man with many different talents and skills,” he replies.

  I sit back in the booth, fighting off the urge to get up and leave. I have no idea why, but the thought of seeing Sasha again – especially after she basically told me to get lost – has my stomach churning and roiling. The idea of her rejecting me again – in front of Nate this time – has opened a yawning pit in my stomach, threatening to swallow me whole. Which is kind of what I hope happens right now.

  As I look at him, the answer dawns on me. “Mark,” I say and chuckle. “You had Mark dig up the dirt on her.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations at this time,” Nate says.

  “Smartass.”

  Mark Golden is one of our in-house investigators. He's our best investigator and can find anything about anyone at any time. He's smooth, subtle, and misses nothing. The man is an absolute genius at doing what he does – ninety-nine percent of which I have zero understanding of.

  “Hey guys, how are we toni –”

  Sasha’s greeting cuts short when she sees me sitting there. She looks at Nate, who's grinning like an idiot – then back to me again. I see the nervousness in her face plain as day. I wish I could slap the hell out of Nate for bringing me in here. I'm pretty sure I'm the last person she wanted to see, and she looks downright miserable.

  “Miles,” she says, a small tremor affecting her voice. “H – how are you?”

  “I'm good,” I say. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

  She gives me an incredulous look and I silently curse myself for asking such a stupid question. I know her Thanksgiving sucked. I know what she had to deal with at home.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Stupid question.”

  “You think?”

  “Whatever you have on tap and a basket of your nuclear wings for me,” Nate says. “I'm going to use the restroom. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

  Nate slips out of the booth and heads off to the bathroom – no doubt, part of his premediated and choreographed dance. Sasha watches him go, then turns those vivid blue eyes back onto me.

  “What are you doing?” she asks. “How did you find me?”

  “I didn't,” I reply honestly. “Nate wanted wings. Here we are.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” she says.

  I shrug. “In a place as small as L.A., it was only a matter of time before we ran into each other.”

  She gives me a hard stare but can't manage to keep the corners of her mouth from curling up into a smile. God, she's a gorgeous woman. I notice though, that she looks a tired. Her eyes are a bit pinched and her skin is a paler than normal.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She
nods. “Yeah, I’ve just been under the weather the last couple of days,” she says. “Probably food poisoning. I think I'm through the worst of it, though.”

  I laugh softly. “You're not pregnant, are you?”

  She gives me an even look, even the hint of a smile dropping from her face. “Not funny,” she says. “Why do you and Rosie think that's funny? It's not funny. Like, at all.”

  “Okay, okay. I apologize,” I say, putting my hands up in surrender. “Rosie is your – roommate?”

  “And best friend,” she says and then her expression grows colder. “So seriously, what the heck are you doing here?”

  I shrug. “Nate wanted wings and a beer,” I say. “I'm along for the ride.”

  “Seems a little stalkerish, if you ask me.”

  “I am totally innocent here,” I say. “Our office isn't far from here, he suggested we go out and grab a bite, and here we are.”

  “I told you that things weren't going to work out between us.”

  “Technically, that's not what you said,” I say. “Technically, all you said was it was a one-time thing.”

  “And I meant it.”

  “Before or after the second time?”

  She chuffs loudly and rolls her eyes. “Miles, this isn't going to work,” she says. “You and I – it'll never work.”

  She's doing her best to sound tough and resolved to her position, but behind her words, I can hear something else. A sense of longing, maybe. It's like she's hoping that repeating the mantra, “it's not going to work,” will make it suddenly true.

  Yeah, well, I'm not so easily swayed by mantras or trying to force myself to believe something I don't.

  “Tell me why,” I demand. “Why wouldn't we work together?”

  She seems taken aback by the question.

  “It just wouldn't,” she says simply, as if that answers everything.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That wasn’t good enough. I'm a lawyer and we deal with facts and evidence in our profession. Try again.”

  Her eyes narrow and her jaw clenches as she looks at me. “I don't need a reason not to date you, Miles,” she hisses. “Just no should be good enough for you.”