Faking It

by K. Bromberg

  “And Harlow?”

  “She’s out and about,” I say, knowing damn well that checkout time at the hotel is nearing—because I already called to find out about an hour ago—as I was sitting there working and wondering where she was.

  Robert nods slowly as we start to walk. Where? I don’t know. “Let’s grab a drink.”

  I glance at my watch. “It’s a bit early yet, but sure, mate.”

  “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he chuckles and then falls silent in a way that has me—someone so very used to watching people—notice.

  “It is.” We head into the lavish hotel where the event happened last night. There will be another one tonight followed by what Robert deemed phase two tomorrow: a press junket with radio stations in the morning.

  “It’s going well though? It seems your crowds are receiving the platform well.”

  “They are.” I nod to the concierge I spoke to last night about putting Harlow’s room on my card. “I sent you the numbers for phase one. We’ve had a fifteen percent hike in preregistrations and a twenty percent increase in site traffic since our first event in LA.”

  “Tomorrow will begin phase two.”

  “Interviews with the media and more presentations,” I say, repeating his own advertising plan back to him as if he didn’t already know it, but more so that he knows I know it. So that he sees I’m taking this all seriously. As we cross the lobby, I glance around as if I’m going to see Harlow, but she’s nowhere in sight as we head to the hotel bar.

  “That will help get the buzz going, then we’ll move onto the whirlwind of New York and network television before the official launch online.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “The crowds really seem to love Harlow,” he says as we enter the bar, already crowded with people who look like they are grabbing a drink before they head out to enjoy the resort’s extravagant pool area.

  “So it seems,” I murmur, still trying to figure out what this fishing expedition is about.

  “And how are you with that?”

  “With what? People loving her?”

  “Mm-hmm. It must be hard for a man like you to share the spotlight when you’re used to being the one it shines on.”

  I angle my head and consider his comment. “Not hard, no. She’s going to shine whether she’s in the spotlight or not. She’s just that kind of person.”

  “Hmm.”

  Robert falls quiet and fuck if his silence isn’t an indicator that something is wrong. So I wait him out. You never show your cards unless you have to.

  He sighs. We get our drinks and still he’s silent. Then he stares at me long and hard. “You know, sometimes travelling together can test a relationship.”

  I take my time with my nod. “Definitely.”

  “It makes you fight when normally you wouldn’t. Teaches you what each other’s pet peeves are and how to use them to irritate the other. Allows you to have great make-up sex.”

  I smile tightly. “What are you getting at, mate?”

  He leans back in his chair and purses his lips. “I’m just trying to make sense of something I saw today.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I’m trying to figure out if I’m being played by you, if you’re who you purport yourself to be . . . or if you’re just a down right sleazy son of a bitch.”

  With our eyes locked on one another, I take my time lifting my bottle of beer to my lips and then setting it back down before I speak. I need a minute to try and figure out what his angle is. “I’m assuming you’re going to fill me in on what you’re talking about.”

  “When I was checking into the hotel earlier before my first meeting, there was a mix-up with my reservation. Since we’re holding the event here, I used the business account and lo and behold, they told me I’d already checked into my room. That one Harlow Nicks had taken it last night.”

  “That’s a mix up. I called this morning to put my card on it and—”

  “So she stayed in the hotel and you stayed in the coach? The very coach that I was walking out to this morning to discuss some things with you when a very gorgeous woman just happened to be leaving it? One, I might add, that wasn’t Harlow.”

  “Robert—”

  “No.” He holds his hand up to cut me off and prevent me from explaining. “Don’t dig the hole, Zane. Give me the respect I deserve by not giving me some bullshit excuse.”

  My temper roils beneath the surface. “It’s not what you think,” I say, thinking of the knock I got on the door this morning from one of the bar bunnies from last night.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Do you remember me from last night? From the bar? Wow, this is an incredible bus.” I didn’t respond but took in the perfectly done make-up and hair and already knew she was lying through her teeth. “I partied all night and now . . . now my phone is dead. I was wondering if maybe I could trouble you, you know, to get off my feet for a few seconds and use your cell to call a cab.”

  She batted her lashes, stuck her tits out as far as possible, and tried to do the let-me-touch-your-arm-so-you-know-I-really-like-you routine. I’ve seen it a million times and it’s old and desperate.

  “I’m not interested, but there’s a perfectly good hotel you just made yourself look pretty in at your back. You should go back there and ask them to use their courtesy phone.”

  “C’mon, I’m just looking for a good time.” She tried to step into the tour bus but I just stood there, her body brushing against mine, the perfume she drowned herself in filling my nose.

  “And I’m not.”

  Just my fucking luck Robert happened to walk up when she was walking away.

  “Robert. You’re being ridiculous. It wasn’t what you think it was.”

  “All I know is that I have the two of you picture perfect on stage. Almost too perfect really. You’re selling the brand. You’re doing the song and dance . . . but for such a high profile couple, there’s nothing else out there. No midnight dinners at In and Out. No pictures of you kissing in a bar somewhere. Nothing.”

  “I wasn’t aware that part of your marketing plan was to exploit my relationship outside of SoulM8’s canned promotion.”

  “That’s not what I implied.”

  “Like hell it is.” Now I’m pissed. No one tells me what to do, how to do it, least of all, Robert. Fuck yes, I need his connections to help to win this goddamn bet but I don’t need him looking over my shoulder every step of the way. “You may be a partner in this venture, Robert, but you don’t get to tell me how to run my relationship. You changed shit up already once when I didn’t want to.”

  “And my changing it up and having you two as the face of the campaign has been successful.”

  “But that’s where the line ends. We don’t have to open every part of our life for your approval. Harlow didn’t feel well last night so she suggested that she sleep in the hotel as to not get me sick and so she could go soak in the tub. Maybe have a little space. I came and sat in here, had a few drinks, and that woman who knocked on the coach this morning wasn’t my type last night when she tried to flirt with me and she sure as hell wasn’t this morning . . . so if you’re done trying to tell me how to live my life, then I’ll get back to the coach and the conference calls I have scheduled for the next few hours.”

  The ice in his glass clinks when he sets it down on the table and his eyes measure whether he believes me or not. “What I can’t figure out, Zane, is if you’re being defensive to protect the woman you love or to protect a lie you’ve told me?”

  “And I’m trying to figure out why if you don’t trust me, you went into business with me.”

  There’s a cold smile on his face. The fucker is serious. Talk about being blindsided by a person when I never am.

  He leans in and lowers his voice. “Fair enough . . . but just remember this, I may be old, I may be lonely, but I won’t be had.” He scoots his chair out and throws a few bills on the table for the drink. “If you’re lyi
ng to me, this deal is over and your reputation”—he shrugs nonchalantly—“you’re reputation will be done with in my circles.”

  I don’t trust myself to say a word. Memories flood back. The threats of what I can and can’t do reinforced with an open palm to my cheek. The crash of the vodka bottle from his hands the first time I fought back. The vow I made myself to never allow someone to threaten me again.

  To never live that life again.

  I haven’t come this far to be told who to be, who to fuck, and how to run my business.

  He’s not your dad, Zane. Just an investor wanting the same results as you do.

  Success.

  ZANE’S HEATED BREATH HITS MY ears and sends shivers down my spine.

  I’ve successfully kept my promise to myself. The one I made when I left the hotel room this morning to make sure I kept busy, kept my distance physically from him, and kept my mind off of him.

  Kept it that is, until right now.

  Of course I participated in our dog and pony show tonight for our attendees. The sweet smiles on stage, the lingering glances, but I did so from afar. I made a point to always be on the move so I could avoid his touch.

  Distance means a clear head. Space means I can avoid that weightless free fall of a crush that inevitably turns into a painful landing once you crash down to earth.

  Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A silly crush on a handsome and successful man that will amount to nothing. Not that I’d want it to either . . . but just . . . Zane’s breath hits my neck again and I lose my train of thought when his arms slip around my waist and pull me back against him. Every long lean hard inch of him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs and when my eyes move up, they meet Robert’s from where he’s been sitting quietly, watching us across the room and observing the whole event.

  “We can’t.” When I turn around in protest, I find myself chest to chest with Zane. I go to step back but his hands are on my lower back preventing me.

  His head dips down, his lips finding my ear again. “Yes, we can.”

  “Where are we—”

  “Anywhere but here.” He links his fingers with mine and turns to those standing around us. “If you’ll excuse us for a minute, Harlow and I are needed for some interviews.”

  And before my mind can process the fact that we’re playing hooky, Zane is leading me out of the ballroom without another word.

  We clear the doorway, then the hallway, and are out the side door and heading toward the coach.

  “Go change. We’re going out,” he mutters as he opens the door to the tour bus.

  “Zane—what are—”

  “What the fuck is it with people questioning me today?” There’s a bite to his voice as he works the buttons on the front of his dress shirt. I stand to the side of him, watching as he strips his shirt off, balls it up, and then throws it into the corner.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Robert.” He eyes me over his shoulder and I immediately jerk my eyes from admiring the subtle ripple of muscles in his back. “Are you wearing that or are you changing?”

  “Robert?” I take a step toward him. “Where are we going?”

  “Out. We’re going out.”

  “What’s going on, Zane?”

  “I’m being suffocated is what’s going on.” He strides past me in the small space and yanks a black v-neck T-shirt from a hanger before pulling it over his head. “We’ve more than done our job for the night. I’m tired of being watched and told where to go and what to do,” he rages on as he shoves his slacks down and grabs a pair of dark blue jeans. “We’re allowed to go and relax. We’re allowed to step the fuck away from this prison on wheels . . . besides, I’m your boss so what I say goes.”

  “You may be my boss and you can definitely say whatever the hell you want, but that doesn’t mean I have to go along with it.”

  I yelp when he spins around and pounds the wall on either side of my head with his fists so that his body frames mine. There’s anger in his emerald eyes, frustration, but it’s the desire that has me opening my mouth and then closing it just as quickly.

  “Do you want to stay cooped up in this coach again or would you rather get away from the prying eyes of all of these people . . . and Robert. Just go and have some fun,” he says, his voice low and grated.

  “You know how to have fun?”

  For the slightest of seconds I think he is going to lean forward and kiss me. My lips part just a fraction and my hands fist in anticipation.

  But his lips slide into a cocky grin and his eyes darken. “You’re getting sassy, Harlow.” There’s something about the way he says my name that makes every nerve I have stand on end.

  “I’m always sassy.”

  We stare at each other in that suspended state of uncertainty. Where I want him to kiss me but I’m not sure if he wants the same thing. It’s seconds but feels like it lasts forever.

  “Get changed,” he says before dipping even closer for a moment and then pushing off the wall to grab his belt on the bed.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again.

  “We need to do things outside of the events.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out as I look in the closet and grab a short and flirty sundress to pair with the cowboy boots I brought. When in Texas . . .

  “I’m a pretty public guy. People see me. They’ll start to recognize you with the ad campaign. Maybe they’ll take pictures. Maybe they won’t. Then bam, Robert has his proof that we’re okay.”

  “Dare I ask you what you did that has you suddenly worried about what Robert thinks?” I ask as I pull my dress over my head and then look over my shoulder when he doesn’t respond. I’m standing in the bedroom with my bra on and boy shorts—way more than any bathing suit I’d put on would cover, but it’s obviously caught his attention. He takes his time—eyes roaming over my bare back, my ass, my legs, before he clears his throat and meets my eyes again. “Are you trying to get away from him or appease him?”

  “Both, really.” His lips turn down. “Forget Robert. He means nothing. Everything is fine.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?” The dress slides on over my head and when my face peeks out, his attention is still on me.

  “Believe me. Don’t believe me. It’s no skin off my back.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Zane.” And then the thought hits me like a battering ram. The sudden attention from Robert. The immediate bristling of Zane to it. My stomach churns all the sudden when I’m looking at a man I have no claim to. “You slept with someone else and got caught, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  My chest constricts at the thought and I hate that the mere thought has me glancing toward the bed, while imagining the door I opened for him last night when I went to the hotel. The door I opened so that I could gain some space and distance so I wouldn’t want him and obviously failed at miserably.

  Because of course I want him. Haven’t I in some way or another since he brought me the shoes?

  Holy shit.

  Did I really just admit that?

  My revelation hits me full force as I stare at him. Blinking. Rejecting the idea with a subtle shake of my head that I know isn’t going to do shit to get these sudden feelings from going away.

  It’s this whole situation. It has to be. The road trip. The sleeping together on the coach. The being in each other’s hair twenty-four-seven.

  But my irritation has given way to want, my resistance to desire, both of which I’m finding a hard time grasping when for the past few weeks all I’ve told myself is that there can be nothing between us.

  He stands before me hair mussed, eyes intense, and tension set in his shoulders and all I can focus on is what triggered this whole revelation. Because more important than realizing I really like Zane Phillips, is the fear that he might have actually slept with someone last night.

  “Zane . . .” His name is a sigh on my lips. A warning. A plea fo
r my train of thought to be wrong . . . but when I stare at him, he doesn’t back down in his resolve. He’s either one hell of a liar or he’s telling the truth.

  “Robert saw a woman walking away from the coach this morning who was definitely trying her hardest to be you.”

  “Me?” I laugh and he just nods.

  “He thinks I cheated on you. Among other things. I told him he was crazy and that our life outside of this promotion is none of his goddamn business.” Zane shoves his wallet in his back pocket as if the accusation is no big deal and his eyes flicker down to my boots before roaming back up. “So are we going or what?”

  I stare at him, at the hand he has outstretched to me, and the question in his eyes: yes or no.

  But I know the answer. Especially when he’s standing there looking dark and dangerous in the dim light of the coach and with my unexpected revelation running a loop in my mind on repeat.

  Yes.

  Definitely, yes.

  We make our way toward downtown with the lights and the bars and the crowds. It might be a weeknight but the city’s alive with people needing a release after a long, hard day.

  “Pick.” It’s the only thing Zane says to me as he opens the car door and helps me out of the Uber.

  We spend a few minutes walking down the strip of street lined with bar after bar. Past the people busking for change and the street vendors selling useless glow in the dark items that appeal to those who are drunk. The smell of fried food fills the air and the flash of neon reflects off the glass windows.

  “You said it was my choice,” I say and lift my eyebrows, glancing over to where he sits beside me on the barstool.

  “It was a good choice.” A nod of his head. A sip of his beer. A casual glance around the crowded bar.

  “You’re such a liar. This is the furthest thing from your style and you know it. You wanted that classy joint on the corner.” I laugh.

  The music overhead is loud and full of twang, the belt buckles are big and shiny, and the atmosphere is more rowdy and casual than the sophisticated whiskey bar feel I expected of him.

  “Nah. It’s perfect.” He leans back in his stool, his arm over the back of mine absently playing with a loose strand of my hair. It’s innocent in nature but something about it feels so intimate to me.