Faking It

by Holly Hart

  Not for the first time today, Miss Casey’s jaw drops open.

  “You –” She stands up. “Penny, come with me: now. We’ll pack your things, and –”

  “No, Ella,” Charlie says, raising his voice. He stops his secretary in her tracks. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Mr. Thorne,” Professor McGonagall – I mean, Miss Casey says. “Could we have a couple of minutes in private?”

  Charlie leans forward, resting his elbows on the leather-lined mahogany desk. He looks older up there: a decade past his twenty-nine years.

  The glass doors at the other end of the office hiss open. Charlie stands up and smiles a tired smile. “Harper,” he says. “I’m glad you could join us.”

  I turn, looking around the red armchair, to see Charlie’s lawyer striding toward us. Just like yesterday, she’s wearing Italian heels, and a suit that probably costs more than my month’s rent. No – definitely costs more.

  “It takes all sorts, I suppose,” Harper grins back. “I’ve got the papers you asked me to prepare.”

  Miss Casey begins to speak. The words come out slow and stifled. She’s beginning to understand what’s happening. “What’s going on here?”

  Charlie grins. “I’m glad you asked, Ella. You’ve known me longer than anyone, haven’t you?”

  Miss Casey nods.

  “I thought you might like to witness my wedding.”

  The ring weighs ten pounds. At least it feels that way as I sit here, in Brookdale Hospital. This place feels a world away from Charlie’s smart office. I twist it, circling and circling until I wonder if the polished gold band will dig a furrow into my skin.

  The nurse doesn’t give me a second glance. She’s harried – crow’s feet spinning webs from the corners of her eyes, her hair tied in messy pigtails. They’re coming loose. I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, watching the busy hospital pass me by.

  She hasn’t had a moment to stop and fix herself in all this time. She barely has time to check up on her patients. The last thing she’s worried about is a young girl minding her own business in the waiting room.

  “Hey, doll – you smoke?”

  The voice startles me. It’s hoarse and rasping. Its owner’s fingers are stained yellow from decades of nicotine consumption.

  I shake my head. My red hair dances left and right at the corner of my vision. I just want to be left alone.

  “I’m fine,” I say. The acrid taste of disinfectant pollutes my tongue.

  The man stands up. He’s wearing denim on denim. It doesn’t look like he’s washed this month. I wonder if I should speak to someone about him. All the disinfectant in the world won’t save the patients in this ward from whatever he’s carrying around with him.

  But then I think better of it. I’ve been where he is – homeless. I should know better than to judge.

  “You don’t smoke,” he asks. “Or you don’t want to smoke with me?”

  He takes a step towards me, dragging and infirm-like behind. I’m not scared. Most other girls would be, in my position. But not me. I’ve lived on the streets. I’ve dealt with men like him before. He’s no threat, not really. Just lonely, I bet – and not all there upstairs.

  “I don’t smoke,” I say, meeting his rheumy eyes.

  The homeless man sits down next to me. He barely controls his fall, and the plastic seat groans underneath his weight. He removes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a frayed breast pocket that long ago lost its popper.

  “Me neither,” he says. He taps a crumpled cigarette out onto his palm. “You sure?”

  I nod. We fall silent. The bum smells, but not in an unbearable way. I can tell he does his best to manage his hygiene – showering in whatever shelter he can. It’s just that sometimes that’s not possible.

  “I don’t really smoke ‘em,” he admits. “Not anymore: gave the sparkies up years ago.”

  “So why do you keep carrying them around?” I ask. This strange little interaction feels safer than confronting the reason I’m really here.

  “A reminder,” he says. “It’s a nasty habit, you know; wouldn’t want to end up in a place like this.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t.”

  The man beside me falls silent again. I wonder if he realizes that he’s made his way onto unsafe ground.

  “I come here every Wednesday,” he says. I guess not.

  He turns to face me. The cigarette dances between his knuckles, tiny shards of tobacco flying out at every turn. “Have done every day this month.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask – even though I have a feeling I already know.

  “Security’s light,” he admits with a grin. “And the nurses don’t bother me much. Long as I keep to myself, they don’t seem to care. And it’s warm,” he adds, as if that reason was an afterthought, rather than the main event.

  “It’s a tired place, all right,” I say. I glance up, looking around the tired, yellowed walls of Brookdale Hospital’s Palliative Care Unit, like I’ve done so many times.

  He shrugs. “Running out of money,” he says. “State should shut it down, but long as they don’t, it works for me. So what do they call you, then?” He asks without skipping a beat.

  I don’t know why, but I feel more comfortable talking to him than I do even Robbie. I guess it’s easy enough to open up to someone when you know you’ll never see them again. It’s like talking to a therapist, except without the diploma on the wall, or the two hundred dollar bill for half an hour’s work.

  “Penny,” I reply. I don’t give my surname, mainly because I don’t know which one to give.

  “Nice to meet you, Penny,” he says. He doesn’t stretch out his hand. The cigarette spins, marking the jitters of his addiction. “I’m Joseph. Like from the Bible.”

  I smile. “Hi Joseph, like from the Bible; nice to meet you.”

  “You mind me asking what you’re doing here.” Joseph asks. “Pretty little thing like you don’t need to hang around in hospital waiting rooms for warmth. Sure a girl like you got a nice warm body to cuddle up next to.”

  I bite my lip. Whether by accident or design, Joseph has cut right to the heart of the matter.

  “You don’t need to pay Joseph here no mind,” he adds. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m here to visit someone.”

  The cigarette stops spinning.

  “Are you my social worker?” Joseph asks.

  My eyes narrow. I wonder if I was wrong. Maybe he really is crazy. “No. Why do you say that?”

  Joseph jerks his head at the empty waiting room, and at the big red display that marks the nonexistent waiting time. This is the kind of hospital where the state dumps people who haven’t got a family to kick up a fuss.

  “Seems to me,” he says. “That a girl like you got more important things to do than hang around in shitty hospital waiting rooms chatting up homeless guys…”

  “I’m not –”

  “I’m just messing with you, girl,” Joseph grins. He holds up his hand. An old wedding band stands out on his dirty fingers. “My woman’s been gone five years this Christmas, but she’s still the only one for me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, and nor do I. Those were the best years of my life.”

  “And now?”

  Joseph looks around the dirty waiting room. He winks at me. “Oh, things ain’t so bad. Say, Penny – you gonna answer my question, or are you just going to leave me hanging?”

  “Question?”

  “What are you doing here, Missy? Because you sure didn’t come here to keep me company.”

  I offer up a weak smile. “Maybe I like you, Joe. You mind if I call you that?”

  Joe doesn’t take the bait. He wags his finger at me. “Nah, you ain’t getting off that easy.”

  “I’m here to see someone.”

  “Figured as much. So why you sitting here?”


  “You ask a lot of questions,” I mutter.

  Joe winks at me again. “I’m curious. They call me curious Joe.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “You say you’re here every Wednesday, Joe?”

  He nods. His milky eyes are now bright with interest. “Every week, come rain, come shine. Until they hire more security – and that ain’t looking likely.”

  I smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Maybe you will.”

  I walk through the dilapidated ward.

  I twist the ring on my finger. Behind me, the door quietly hisses shut.

  “Hey, dad.”

  6

  Charlie

  “I get it, Harper.”

  The elevator chimes quietly. The mechanism whirs into action. I take a couple of paces toward the control panel, feet padding across the cream carpet.

  “I’m just looking out for you. You know that, don’t you?” My lawyer says down the phone connection. “We don’t know who this girl is, or where she came from. Call me crazy, but I’m just a little bit suspicious of her motives. Aren’t you?”

  I tap my finger against the touchscreen. Penny comes up on the unit, crystal-clear. She’s resting her forehead against the mirror. Her rich, deep red hair billows out around her like a flaming halo. I guess she doesn’t know she’s on camera.

  “Of course,” I finally reply. “You think I made it this far without knowing how to look after myself?”

  Harper’s laughter tinkles down the line. “Call yourself a self-made man if you want, Charlie, but we both know you wouldn’t have made it this far without me by your side.”

  “Big claim,” I grunt. “Got any evidence for it?”

  Another peal of laughter, then she’s all business.

  “Listen, Charlie, I’ve got guys digging into Penny as we speak. Nothing concrete yet, but these guys are the best. If there’s dirt to find, they’ll find it. The prenup I had you guys sign is ironclad. You can call it off for any reason within a year, and she gets nothing. That’ll buy us time to figure out this situation with CPS.”

  “This situation,” I reply acidly, “is my daughter’s life, Harper. You know that, don’t you?”

  The light above the elevator flashes twice, indicating it’s nearly at the top of its journey. Penny takes a step back, breathes deeply and stands tall. She runs her fingers through her hair, as if she’s getting her game face on. I wonder what that means.

  “Of course I do, Charlie. I love that little girl like she’s my own, you know that. I know you’re hurting, but trust me – I’m not going to let anything happen to her. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I mutter. “I do trust you, Harps. You’re the best.”

  “I know,” she says.

  The elevator dings.

  “I gotta go,” I say. I kill the call.

  The elevator doors slide open. Penny flinches when she sees me waiting for her. “You don’t need to do that, you know,” she says. She speaks quietly as though she knows – or at least feels – she’s on uncertain ground.

  “Do what?”

  “Wait for me.” Penny spreads her arms and spins. I can’t resist getting a good view of her ass in those tight jeans. “This place is big, but even I’m not going to get lost.”

  I agree, guiltily jerking my eyes back up to Penny’s face. The eleven year age gap makes me feel creepy, but Penny’s one hell of a looker. And after all, she is my wife. Still – I’m breaking that rule. The one that says half your age plus seven’s okay.

  But I don’t care.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Penny says. She bites her lip – just a fraction – just enough that my eyes dart to that in turn.

  I feel like the gears in my brain have stopped turning. They are stuck, not working. I know that I need to be smarter than this – I’m no fool. Like Harper says, a hundred women have tried to fuck me for my money, and a hundred have failed. But then, none of them ever looked like Penny. Don’t get me wrong, they were all drop dead gorgeous – bombshells in their own right.

  But Penny’s different. There’s something about her – the hesitation, the innocence. She’s winding me up. She’s making me ache. I need her like I’ve never needed a woman before. The worst bit is that I know I can’t have her.

  If she’s after my money, the dumbest thing I could do would be put a baby in her belly.

  “It’s nothing,” I croak. “Just…”

  I take a step forward. It’s like I’m being yanked toward Penny by a rope attached to my cock. Her eyes narrow. I think she’d take a step back if she could, but there are only the closed elevator doors behind her.

  I reach up, and brush an imaginary piece of fluff of Penny’s chin. “There,” I say, “it’s gone.”

  I let out a deep breath, trying to disguise it. It’s hard; and that’s not the only thing that is. Penny’s getting me worked up, and I don’t think she knows it. Either that, or she’s one hell of an actress.

  “I could have done it myself,” she says. Her jaw clenches with determination.

  My mind’s still swimming, still drunk. I wonder what Penny would do if I kissed her right now? Kiss me back, or turn away?

  “We’ve got somewhere to be tonight,” I say.

  I take a step back, then another. I need to be away from Penny, and those pouting red lips, and her perfect red hair. I can’t be anywhere near her perfume. It’s exciting, electric, and drawing me in.

  “What do you mean?” She says. “Like a date?”

  I shake my head. Would you like that?

  “No: a charity ball.”

  “I thought we were supposed to be lying low,” Penny says. Her cheeks redden slightly. “You know; keeping out of the public eye?”

  “I wish,” I say. “No – if we’re going to pretend to be married, it’s got to be right out there in public. There’s no point in doing this if we hide it.”

  Penny bites her lip. God, it’s sexy when she does that. “I guess.”

  “I don’t like these things either,” I say. “But beggars can’t be choosers. It’ll be fine. We can hang out at the back of the room. Together,” I add. Why did I say that?

  Penny nods. “Okay. But I’ll need –”

  “– an outfit?” I smile. “No need. I’ve already sorted that out.”

  “How do you know my –”

  “– measurements?” I finish again. Girl, I’ve been eyeballing your measurements all day.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say instead. “I had someone go out shopping for you.”

  That seems to steal the breath from Penny’s lungs. “Oh.”

  I glance down at my wrist. “Everything’s in your room. Shall we meet here in – say – two hours? Is that enough time?”

  “I guess so,” Penny says again. She seems strangely restrained – she has been like this ever since she stepped out of the elevator. I wonder where she’s been. She doesn’t seem like the same feisty girl she was when we first met. The girl who lied about being my wife before she even met me.

  “Perfect,” I reply. “And Penny – smile. It’ll be fun.”

  I step out of the shower. Steam billows around me like smoke from a burning house. Condensation soups the mirrors. I’m lost in another world. My skin is flushed from the heat of the jets of water.

  I walk, naked, not bothering to towel myself off. As I move, a cool breeze runs down my spine. Goosebumps stand tall on my skin.

  If I thought the shower might have cleared my head, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The heat has fired me up. As I rest my head against the cool tile, I see Penny’s face written on the inside of my eyelids. I see her lips kissing me, wandering down my skin, leaving a trail of red lipstick all the way down.

  My cock throbs.

  It’s hard to describe the sensation. I’ve slept with women since Tilly’s mom left: beautiful women; women who turned heads when they walked into a room; but not one made me feel like Penny does.

  Maybe i
t’s because Penny is a contradiction.

  She’s the only woman I’ve ever lusted for, who I simply cannot have.

  Penny’s a forbidden love. She’s the apple that Eve eats in the Garden of Eden. The second I taste those lips, I’ll be lost. I already know it.

  I need to do something to stop myself. Penny has invaded my mind like a disease. I need the cure. I’m sure I know what it is.

  I walk into my bedroom in a daze. The room is sparse. One wall is glass, and looks down on Central Park hundreds of feet below. My bed is set low, sinking to the floor. The sheets are light, gray and silk. I topple onto them.

  The wispy material tickles my skin. If I close my eyes, I can mistake it for Penny’s touch. I feel her fingernails whispering across my chest, and her fingers running through my hair. My cock grows. I feel it stiffen.

  The very tip kisses the soft mattress below. I twitch. The breath is stolen from my lungs. In the world I’m lost in, the touch might as well be Penny’s lips meeting my skin. My hands dances lower. I drag it across my naked chest. The heat from the shower mixes with the heat of my blood and the heat from my loins and builds to a burning crescendo.

  I picture Penny.

  Naked.

  Pressed up against the glass wall like she was yesterday – except this time she’s naked as the day she was born. Her perfect, pert tits rise and fall with her breath. It happens quickly – she’s panting. Her cheeks are flushed, her pussy glistens with wetness.

  “You want me, don’t you?” This imaginary Penny asks.

  The words are stuck in my mouth. Of course I want her. I want to stride towards her, press her up against the glass. I want to fuck her right there and then: with all of New York looking at us from down below. I want helicopters taking pictures of Penny’s perfect ass; I want pictures of my rigid cock printed in the Post and the Times, and whatever other rags want to report on it.

  My cock twitches. I can’t take it anymore. My fingers close around it, making a fist. Even the slightest touch is enough to make my manhood stiffen in my fingers.

  I pause.

  I don’t do this – masturbate – I mean. I’ve never needed to. A man’s sex drive is like a car’s engine. Some people have old, beaten up jalopies. They can’t get it up without popping pills. Some have rally cars – strong and dependable, they’ll keep chugging, but it’s uninspiring – the kind of men who will keep pumping into you, even if it hurts. Then topple over and start snoring the second they are done.