Incredible You

by Lili Valente

  Seriously, the head of the sleazy politician’s penis looked like a snake. If he were my boyfriend, I would have had to draw eyes on it in magic marker. When I discussed that with Addie, she thought the eyes would make the snake penis creepier looking, but I insisted that drawing on penises almost always has the opposite effect. She then wanted to know how many times I’ve drawn on a man’s junk, but as I’ve stated before, I don’t kiss—or draw—and tell.

  But the GQ article is only on the table for a few days. Opportunity is knocking; Jake and I just have to take advantage of it.

  That is, of course, assuming I can get Bash on board.

  Considering I woke up to the following email, things are not looking good:

  To: ShaneWillYouBe

  From: MagnificentBastard1

  Re: Profile in GQ

  Absolutely not.

  Also no. And hell no.

  MBC Consulting is all about keeping a LOW profile, Willoughby. We try to avoid having our intervention experts tagged on social media, let alone being profiled in one of the biggest magazines in the country. That profile would take your “relationship” with Jake, thrust it into the spotlight, hand every reader a magnifying glass, and invite them to poke holes in your love story while setting Jake’s chances of ditching his stalker on fire.

  You’re very new, and this situation is very delicate.

  Our best bet is to stay as far under the radar as we can. I know Jake is a celebrity, but discretion is still possible.

  Luckily, the photographers last night were more interested in your backside than your front. There aren’t any clear shots of your face. If we’re lucky, no one will be able to pin down your identity, and you can be more careful from here on out.

  Don’t go anywhere without a scarf wrapped around your face, okay? It’s cold enough for scarves, and the world doesn’t need to see your pretty mug to know that Jake’s crazy about you. His inability to keep his hands off your ass should take care of that.

  Great job on looking completely in lust! You two are pulling it off big time! Now we just need to convince Keri that you’re both in it for the long haul and hopefully she will soak back into whatever fungus-infected, crazy sponge she came from.

  Jake texted that you weren’t down with the fake pregnancy, by the way, so we can take that off the list. I don’t think we’ll need it. I have other ideas and have scored a list of Keri’s social functions for the next few weeks so you and Jake can happen to show up and look adorable together.

  Swing by the office tomorrow morning and we can chat next-steps over coffee and giant donuts. I picked up a variety box from Dough on 19th Street last night. It’s not ice cream, but these donuts are coming in a very close second as my favorite food on earth. I ran three extra miles tonight to prepare my digestive system, so come hungry and ready to ride the sugar high.

  Oh, and I’m still looking into Jake’s past. So far no juvie record, but I’ll poke into a few more dark corners to make sure.

  And Penny says not to worry about the post on Hollywood Clam. She says panty line policing is so 1994…whatever that means. But listen to her because she’s smart, and that site was cooler back when it was Hollywood Taco.

  Not that I ever looked at it…

  Good hustle, Mess, sorry the profile thing isn’t going to work out, but you’ve got this! I can feel it!

  Bash

  ***

  As I finish getting dressed, I dwell on the email instead of the man who haunted my XXX-rated dreams, and by the time I’m ready to leave I’m well on my way to being pissed off.

  I don’t enjoy being told what to do, especially by Bash.

  Bash is kind, clever, and an all-around good guy, but he’s also cocky as hell. He thinks he has everything under control, right up until the moment he realizes he’s screwed himself and everyone else. True, he rarely screws up, and when he does he’s man enough to take responsibility for his lapse in judgment, but it doesn’t matter. He still reminds me entirely too much of another charming, arrogant, insufferable yet irresistible man who assumed he knew what was best for me.

  I used to call Wesley “farm boy,” after the hero in The Princess Bride. He called me Buttercup and would whisper “as you wish” whenever I asked for anything—from the remote control, to yet another cat, to province over his heart for the next fifty to sixty years.

  But it was never really as I wished.

  It was always as Wesley wished, right up until the moment he was gone.

  I will never let another man—friend or lover—decide what’s best for me ever again. I know for a fact that ignorance isn’t bliss, and that even people with the best intentions can’t always be trusted.

  The GQ profile could be a huge asset to Jake’s case, and I intend to convince Bash to see things my way. Or at the very least engage him in such vigorous debate that he’ll think twice the next time he’s in the mood to ask me to be his Miraculous Mess.

  I’m so busy composing arguments in my head and buttoning up the four thousand buttons on my new pea coat—it got chillier overnight and the nose-tingling scent of impending winter is in the air—that I don’t notice the woman lurking at the base of my building’s steps until I almost run her over.

  “Oh my God, excuse me,” I say, dancing back just in time to avoid stepping on her clearly expensive heels.

  I’m not a clothes whore like so many of my trust fund friends, but I recognize a pair of Christian Louboutins when I see them.

  “I can’t excuse you.” The woman’s raspy voice reminds me of my high school choir teacher, the one who blew out her vocal chords from overuse. “Even though you seem nice enough.”

  My gaze travels to her face, and the area at the base of my skull tingles as my lizard brain insists that something is wrong here.

  Very, very wrong…

  Even before I connect the delicate features, olive skin, and melted-chocolate brown eyes to the pictures I’ve seen, bad vibes are zapping across the surface of my skin, alerting me to the fact that this person is dangerous.

  It looks like someone figured out who I was from those blurry shots after all. And her name is Keri Warner.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Shane

  Keri looks even more delicate in person than she did in the pictures I’ve seen. She can’t be more than five-two, and a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. As she steps closer, I have to tuck my chin to my chest to maintain eye contact, and I’m pretty sure her waist has a smaller circumference than my right calf muscle.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel…large.

  I’ve come to the point in life where I don’t worry about my size much anymore. I eat healthy, exercise daily, and feel good in my skin, but I will never be thin. The company I order swimsuits from assures me I’m plus-sized, but they also cater to women who could medal in the starvation Olympics. I don’t enjoy starvation, personally. I would rather be a healthy, happy twelve than waste my time trying to fit into a sample size.

  Besides, I know for a fact those skinny person motivational posters lie—almonds, fresh bread, bacon sautéed Brussels sprouts, steak, donuts, all forms of cheese, and anything sugary and alcoholic garnished with pineapple slices all taste better than skinny feels.

  Still, there’s something about fragile, beautiful Keri that makes me feel positively beastly in comparison.

  Maybe it’s the evil voice in my head whispering that if this is the kind of woman who lights Jake’s fire then I’m clearly not his type—even though the evil voice has no right to be thinking that way about a client.

  Or maybe it’s the other voice in my head, the one warning that this could get ugly and that I should be prepared to defend myself in case the manic pixie dream girl decides to go for my throat. I’ve tussled a time or two, but not since I was young enough to wear shorts under my catholic schoolgirl uniform, and never with anyone half my size.

  I’m a “sticking up for the underdog against girls who could crush my head under their armpi
t” kind of girl. I feel terrible for even considering shoving Keri to the ground and sitting on her until the authorities arrive, but when she lifts a sharp finger and points it uncomfortably close to my face, my muscles tense and my nervous system goes on high alert.

  “I’ve read about your charity work,” she continues in her rough, cat’s tongue voice. “You help sick people and children, and I’m sure you mean well. But you should end whatever’s going on with Jake now. Before it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?” My pulse races as I imagine being on the receiving end of my first death threat.

  “To keep your heart from getting broken.”

  My shoulders slump and my heartbeat slows. I’m starting to feel pretty silly for assuming this woman is going to go full-on Fatal Attraction on me, when she adds in a whisper—

  “Or something else gets broken. You’ve seen what Jake did to me, haven’t you?” She tugs the silky scarf around her chin down to her chest, revealing greenish-yellow marks on her neck. The bruises are fading, but they’re still ugly and likely painful. And they are about the right size to have been made by Jake’s hand, though something looks off about them.

  Before I can figure out what it is, Keri pulls her scarf up and says, “He gets violent sometimes. I can handle it, but you’re not from that kind of world.”

  “You know nothing about me,” I say politely. “But I know that you assaulted Jake with a knife and I had to patch up his arm. I, for one, think he should have reported it to the police. I’m hoping he still will.”

  She smiles serenely, and when she speaks again, her voice is as calm as any other crazy person who believes their crazy is the one and only truth. “Jake won’t call the police. He loves me. He will do whatever it takes to protect me and our future together.”

  “You stabbed him, Keri,” I say gently. “He’s not going to forgive you for that. You could have seriously hurt him, even killed him. I understand getting angry with the guy—he can be as frustrating as anyone else with a penis—but it’s never okay to stab people. Especially someone you claim to love.”

  “I don’t claim to love him,” she says, eyes growing feverish. “I love him more than anything, more than someone who grew up rich and privileged can even begin to understand.” She tilts her head back, voice dropping to a whisper. “I know what it’s like to have nothing and no one, and for the entire world to be fighting to hold you down. So does Jake. We have a connection you will never break. You need to end it with him. Now. I’m the only one who can give him what he needs.”

  I sigh heavily, realizing I might as well be trying to reason with a brick wall, but I can’t keep myself from threading my fingers together and begging, “Please, Keri. Just get help okay? Take care of yourself and get healthy again. That’s what you should be focusing on right now—your health and well-being. Jake told me you stopped taking medication that you need to be okay. I’m not a human doctor, but I know that you should never—”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself, you condescending bitch,” she snaps.

  My jaw drops, but before I can recover from the abrupt change in tone and confrontation level, she shoves a hand into my shoulder, knocking me backward. I regain my balance and brace myself for another attack, but she’s already moving away.

  “You’re the one who’s going to be crying in the end.” She nods smugly, as if she can see it now: me crying as she and Jake walk away into the sunset. “I promise you that. Jake is just trying to make me jealous. Once he realizes that seeing my lover fuck a brainless Barbie doll doesn’t affect me, he’ll dump you so fast your ass will be bruised for weeks.” She holds up a finger. “I give you one more date, maybe two, before he gets so bored he comes crawling back to me, begging for a second chance.”

  I force a smile. “You should go, Keri. Clearly we aren’t going to come to a meeting of the minds, and I’ve discovered I don’t like you very much.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.” She grins, a dimple popping in her cheek. “Take care, Shane. And remember, you don’t want to make an enemy of me. I’m a bad person to have playing for the other team.”

  I lift a hand, fingers fluttering. “Got it. Threat and all-signs-point-to-seriously-deluded signal received.”

  Her jaw tightens, but her smile doesn’t slip as she nods. “We’ll see who’s crazy, sweetheart.”

  And then she’s gone, leaving me feeling like I just surfaced from too much time spent underwater.

  Holy. Shit.

  Jake’s stories haven’t done that woman justice. She is truly, one-hundred percent, whack-a-doodle bananas—deluded and violent and paranoid and a mixture of who knows what else, and all of it adds up to big trouble.

  As I stand on the sidewalk watching a possibly murderous and definitely unhinged pint-sized psycho cross the street and raise her arm to catch a cab, I decide it’s time to quit playing around.

  I slip my phone from my coat pocket and pull up Denise’s contact info. The moment she answers, I say, “We’re in, lady. Jake’s down with doing a profile piece on his career and our relationship. We’re ready whenever you are. The sooner, the better.”

  “Amazing!” Denise whoops, a surprisingly enthusiastic, girlish sound from a woman I’ve never seen wearing anything but couture. “I am so ready for this, Shane. You have no idea. After all the perverts and politicians I’ve been interviewing lately, a few days with a down-to-earth hockey player and my favorite society darling is going to be such a treat.”

  “Awesome,” I say, the tension in my chest beginning to fade. Bash is wrong. A spotlight is exactly what we need. My relationship with Jake is going to need to seem so epic it’s written in the stars for us to have a shot at getting through to Keri. “This will be great, Denise. Thank you so much.”

  “No, thank you,” she says. “I’m thrilled that you and Jake are a thing, though I can’t believe you’ve kept it a secret from me until now. I demand all the details, especially the sexy, flirty, dirty ones I can’t put in print but need to know really, really badly.”

  “We haven’t been together that long. And you know I don’t kiss and tell.” I laugh, the sound breezy and effortless, proving I can pull off fooling a friend, especially a friend like Denise who couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it, for a good cause. “But anything Jake and I say while under the influence of good food and better wine is fair game. You still up for dinner this week?”

  “How about tonight?”

  My pulse stutters and my confidence slips. Can Jake and I be armed and ready for an interview tonight?

  I’m about to beg off—another night spent working on our backstory is probably a good idea—when Denise adds, “My friend Jorge rented out the Rainbow Room to celebrate the release of his new jazz album. He told me I could bring a plus one, but I’m sure I can talk him into plus two.”

  “Jorge Hines, the musician? You’re kidding me!”

  “I never kid when it comes to jazz, juicy interviews, or potentially getting to snap pictures of Jake Falcone and his new sweetheart swaying on a revolving dance floor. The romance factor is so intense my teeth are starting to hurt just thinking about it, but I like it. I’m dying to know if that man can dance.”

  “We’ll be there,” I blurt out, figuring I can always call and play sick if Jake says he’s not ready for something like this. But my gut tells me he’s ready to go in big. I know I would be if I had a Keri following me around.

  Which I guess I do…

  All the more reason to go big or go home.

  “Amazing!” Denise squeals. “I’ll text you all the details. It’s cocktail hour dress for ladies and mandatory jackets for the gents, so make sure your honey has something that will stretch across those epic shoulders.”

  “Will do.” I start toward Madison Avenue, where I can grab breakfast and a new dress before heading over to watch the rest of Jake’s practice. “Thanks again, Denise. I really appreciate this.”

  “No, problem, honey. I know you. If you’re on Jake�
�s side, then he’s good people. Anyone who thinks otherwise has rocks for brains.”

  I thank her again and sign off, bolstered by her none-too-subtle assurance that this piece is going to focus on singing Jake’s praises and highlighting his impressive rise to become one of the faces of the NHL, not feeding the gossip mill or lending credence to ugly rumors.

  Feeling productive and proactive, I compose a quick text to Bash:

  Can’t make it for donuts. Woke up with a funny stomach. Need to run to the pharmacy and get some rest today. Will call you later to touch base.

  Jake has plans tonight, so he won’t be available for debriefing, anyway.

  I hit send and ignore the tingle of guilt pricking at my chest.

  Guilt is a waste of energy. I’m doing what I believe is best for my client. If Bash doesn’t like the way I roll, then he can fire me.

  But hopefully, once he sees how well tonight goes, he’ll realize that Shane knows best.

  In any event, isn’t it always better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jake

  Madison Square Garden can seat over eighteen thousand people, and even at the best of times it’s a chaotic echo chamber. Sound reflects off the ice, bounces off the boards and the glass protecting the people in the stands, and pings back to hit you three or four times before drifting up to buzz in the air above the crowd.

  Even on a practice day like today, with the stadium seats mostly empty, I can’t hear myself think over the shouts of the defensemen pushing in on either side of me, the string of verbal abuse coming from the bench, and the huff of my breath rasping around my mouth guard, but somehow I hear her laugh.

  It’s like the mute button’s been hit on the rest of the world.

  Coach Bosko’s calls to get open, the sharp shush of skates on ice, and the boom of male voices echoing through the cavernous dome fade to static as Shane’s laugh dances through the air. It isn’t loud, and I’ve only heard her laugh a handful of times, but I recognize it immediately and it has the same effect as if someone had shouted my name in a crowded room.