That Guy

by Kim Jones

  THAT GUY

  Kim Jones

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Jones

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book belongs to me. If you bought it, thanks! If it was loaned to you, thank your friend! If you stole it, you’re a dick.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are of my imagination. I mean, really? You think heroes like this actually exist in real life? Well they don’t. If they did, people wouldn’t read about them, they’d go out and find their own real life book boyfriend.

  This is actually a book about a writer’s journey to find a fake book boyfriend. Still ain’t real.

  This book is dedicated to all the ladies out there looking for their

  That Guy.

  And to all the ladies who have already found him.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Kim Jones

  Chapter One

  Never in a million years did I think I’d be running down a sidewalk, bag of steaming dog shit in my hand with one pissed off owner and one really fast Golden Retriever on my heels.

  People in Chicago take shit way too seriously.

  What kind of person decided it was a good idea for everyone to make a habit out of picking up a hot dog turd? The park here even provides these little complimentary bags in a dispenser that has a picture of a dog holding a plastic bag in his mouth filled with his own shit.

  In my small hometown of Mt. Olive, Mississippi, nobody cares where your dog craps. If you happen to step in some, you just scrape your foot on the grass until you get most of it off. If you walk in a store and see people sniffing the air, saying, “I smell dog shit” it’s a natural reaction for everyone to check their shoes. Then it’s a courtesy for the victim to say, “It’s me.” And everyone else nods in acknowledgment and points to the nearest grassy spot around.

  Right now, home feels like a million miles away.

  I dodge a parking meter and nearly mow down a woman with a stroller. “Sorry!” I hold my hands up and jog backwards as I continue to apologize to the woman. She glares back at me as she squats down by the stroller and unzips the screen to check on her baby. I feel ten kinds of terrible. Until the little Chihuahua cranes it’s tiny, scarf swaddled neck toward me.

  For fuck’s sake…

  Stupid Chicago.

  Stupid dog.

  Stupid shit.

  Stupid Luke Duchanan.

  It’s been years since I acted a fool in Target and had to take an anger management course. But I can still hear the voice of my coach in my head every time I get pissed.

  “Now Penelope, it’s not anyone’s fault but your own that you’re in this situation. Let’s reflect on your actions that got you here.”

  Yeah. Let’s do that.

  Luke Duchanan stole my best friend’s heart while she attended a summer internship program here in Chicago. Six months later he crushed it when she caught him with his dick in another woman’s asshole. She moved back to Mississippi. In with me. And I’ve had to hear her cry and sniffle and sob and watch her drink all of my damn wine for the past two weeks.

  So when she told me Luke had a dog shit phobia, I knew what I had to do. I had to max out my credit card. Fly to Chicago on the eve of the biggest damn blizzard the state of Illinois has ever seen. Put some dog shit in a bag, set it on fire on Luke’s porch and video him stomping it out.

  I upload the video. It goes viral. I ruin Luke’s life. Make my best friend, Emily, smile. We go to a bar. She retells the story to a guy who’s hotter than Luke. They bang in the parking lot. Emily gets over her broken heart. And then she moves the fuck out of my apartment.

  Simple, right?

  Wrong.

  Why?

  Because it’s a struggle to find dog shit in Chicago, Illinois.

  When I closed in on the huge pile of crap, my arm rolling six complimentary plastic bags deep, the owner asked me what I was doing. So I told him.

  “Look man, I just really need this dog shit, okay?” I didn’t think he would chase me through the city, yet here we are. And there’s no damn way any of that is my fault.

  Stupid anger management.

  The dog’s bark becomes louder. I chance a look over my shoulder and they’re close. Too close. I take a quick left at the corner onto an even busier street lined with cars. The direction of the wind hits me head on and I’m blasted with arctic gusts of air so damn cold I swear I can feel pneumonia in my lungs.

  Out of breath, cold, legs burning, chest hurting, I make a bad decision. I yank open the back door of a black limo and dive onto the back seat. No sooner than the door closes behind me, the owner and dog pass the car. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  That lasts all of two seconds.

  I’m in someone’s car.

  It’s all rich black leather and soft seats. Clean carpet and blacked out windows. Fancy decanter filled with amber liquid. Tinted partition. Is the driver on the other side? Of course he is.

  “Miss Sims?” The voice booms through the speakers and I freeze. “Mr. Swagger asks that I drive you back to his apartment once you’ve finished shopping. Would you like to go there now?”

  Swagger? Mr. Swagger?

  My eyes move to the intercom. To the door. Back. “Yes, please.”

  Why did I say that? In that accent? I am not British. Or Australian. And I’m not sure which of the two I replied with. I always get them confused…

  “Very well, Miss. We’ll be there soon.”

  The car pulls into traffic and I have a three-second freak out.

  What have I done?

  I’m so stupid.

  This car is so warm.

  I could use a drink.

  Fuck it.

  The bag of dog shit hits the floor and I squat-wobble to the bench seat across from me. The decanter is heavy and hard to manage. I wrangle it between my legs and pull hard on the cork. When the suction gives way, my hand flies back and smacks me in the face.

  “Son of a bitch!” I clear my throat. “Son of a bitch!” I repeat, in accent.

  The whiskey is so strong it singes my nose hairs when I take a big sniff. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing but I pour a glass anyway. Or a finger. Whatever they call it. I contemplate adding ice, unsure of how this is supposed to be served.

  I wish they had beer.

  This gasoline they call liquor burns all the way to my toes. But it has a nice, smoky flavor that lingers on my tongue. Anxious for the next sip, I finish off the glass and by the time it’s empty, I feel warm all over. And a little more confident in the bad decisions that placed me here.

  I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I rode in a car. There’s no law against catching a ride to escape the blistering cold. If I get caught, I’ll just frown and tell them I’m poor.

  That’s not a lie.

  I am poor.

  Which is another reason I made this trip—thoug
h I’ll never admit that to Emily.

  In addition to my seek-and-destroy plan, I’m hoping to find my perfect muse so I can finally write that sexy, cliché romance I’ve been attempting for months. The kind of romance with the hero who I refer to as That Guy.

  You know, the super-rich, powerful CEO who is beyond sexy. Lives in a penthouse. Is wicked in bed. Has a driver. A big cock. Is kind of an asshole, but really he’s not because he harbors some major secret that you find out at sixty-five percent, which explains all his past demons that reveal why he is the way he is—therefore completely redeeming himself and making all the readers who hated to love him swoon.

  The car stops.

  “Miss Sims?” It’s the intercom voice again. “Would you like me to walk you up?”

  “N-no. That won’t be necessary.”

  Why do I keep using that accent?

  “If you don’t feel comfortable with the concierge—“

  “The concierge is fine. Thank you.”

  On cue, the door opens and a gloved hand reaches inside. I take the offered hand, grab my bag of shit and exit the car.

  The sudden blast of strong winds causes my eyes to water. My fingers squeeze and I cast a side glance to the man next to me. He offers me a polite smile and a nod. I look up, up, up at the massive building, then back at him.

  “What kind of apartment has a concierge?” My voice carries away in the wind as he pulls me into the lobby. I stop just inside the door and stare. The snow and ice on my ruined Uggs melts into the dark rug as I take in everything. Mouth hung open like an idiot, I scan the entry and all its opulence.

  Soft, cream-colored furniture arranged in a semi-circle faces a gray stone fireplace that stretches all the way to the top of the high ceilings. The orange and red flames inside the hearth dance and sway to the faint sounds of classical music that plays throughout the room. I want to stick my hands and frozen ass to the fire, then sprawl out like a cat on the thick rug in front of it.

  “This way, Miss Sims.”

  I follow the man through the room. My boots squeak against the marble floors and leave a trail of dirty water in their wake. I twist my head up and around. Everything is gold and glass. Accented with hints of yellows and grays. From vases to hanging lights, sculptures and paintings, the place radiates a magnificence far fancier than anything this small-town girl has ever seen.

  “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring me.” Alfred—I shit you not that’s what his name tag reads—comes to a stop in front of a massive elevator door. The solid, flat black color is a stark contrast to the other four elevator doors that are mirrored glass tinted in gold. As he slides a card through the little back box next to the door with a big “P” over it, I chance a look into one of the mirrors.

  My curly brown hair sticks out all over my head like broken twigs and falls over my shoulders to the middle of my back. My “all weather” jacket that’s appropriate in Mississippi is nothing more than a raincoat in Chicago. And my once fashionable skinny jeans, are now soggy and sag heavily on my hips. Stretched out from being worn so long, one might think a covey of quails just flew out of the ass of my pants.

  The elevator door glides open and Alfred gestures with his hand for me to enter. I snap back to reality.

  “Alfred…” I reach out and grab his arm.

  The corners of his mouth dip to a frown and his eyes widen.

  “I have a confession to make.”

  He pats my hand and his anxiety disappears, replaced with a warm smile. “Say no more. I already know.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. And don’t worry…Miss Sims.” He leans in and drops his voice to a whisper. “Your secret is safe with me.” He straightens and winks at me. “Mr. Swagger won’t be back until noon tomorrow. You’ll have the place to yourself. Enjoy it.”

  Is it possible that this man knows I’m not Miss Sims?

  Does he often let strangers invade this man’s home without question?

  What kind of person is this Alfred?

  I step inside the elevator. The doors close and I skyrocket to the top of the building so fast, I have to reach out and hold onto the railing for support.

  I hate elevators. There’s something terrifying about being in an enclosed space, dangling above the ground in a heavy metal box suspended in the air by nothing but wires and pulleys and…what if the power goes out?

  My nose finds the wall. I close my eyes and hold on tight, humming my favorite song to keep from passing out. Finally, there’s the telltale ding and the doors are opened. I step out into a small hall with a table decorated with the biggest damn vase of flowers I’ve ever seen. A solid wood door with a sleek, golden handle stands beyond the table.

  Without the pressure of a driver or a concierge or a man and his dog, I have the time to stop and think about this shit.

  If I open that door, I could go to jail. And though I know jail is a possibility in the event Luke Duchanan catches me on his property, trespassing won’t be near as serious of an offense as breaking and entering.

  I call Emily.

  “Yeah?”

  Damn. She sounds awful.

  “Hey Em. How you holding up?”

  She sniffs a couple times and I hear what might be a laptop closing. “Luke just posted a picture of him and his new slut on Facebook.”

  “Yeah? Well, she’s ugly.”

  “No she’s not.”

  “Want me to punch her in the face? Make her ugly?”

  Emily sighs then blows her nose. “No. They’re on a date. Looks like our prank isn’t going to work. They’ll probably be out all night.” Her voice cracks on the last word.

  “I can still do it tomorrow.” The hopeful hint in my tone does nothing to ease her. She wants me to abort. To come home so we can drink wine and eat chocolate. But I can’t leave. My curiosity demands I find out what’s on the other side of the door. Research demands it. The good Lord does too.

  My eyes zone in on the golden handle of the door. It shimmers like an angel’s halo.

  Things like this don’t happen without help from a man like God. Maybe this is His plan for me. Maybe that dog was in that park for a reason. Maybe the owner was an angel who chased me to the very place I needed to be. That car? It wasn’t waiting for Miss Sims. It was waiting for me. Alfred? He may be an angel too. What if Mr. Swagger is my That Guy?

  Now, I understand.

  I’ve been divinely favored.

  I’d explain this to Emily, but she just wouldn’t get it. She’d tell me I needed to stop allowing my imagination to take over. Why did I even call her? She’s way too emotional to be of any help.

  My mind is made up.

  “I gotta go, Em. I’m at my room.”

  “You have a room? When did you do that? Why? How?”

  I roll my eyes at her questions.

  Emily likes to stick to a plan. She’s one of those people who keep a calendar. She never strays from it. If Jesus shows up on the same Thursday as her dentist appointment, I have no doubt she’ll tell him he has to wait. “Sorry, Jesus. You’re not on the calendar.”

  I don’t own a calendar. My plans change depending on the conditions. I’m supposed to wait out my flight in a crowded airport. Fate has decided that I stay in a luxurious apartment instead. The circumstances have been altered in my favor and I refuse to ignore them and deny myself this opportunity.

  “Penelope…”

  “What?”

  “You can’t afford a room.”

  “Sure I can.”

  “How?”

  “I called and got a credit increase on my card.” A lie. But the truth will bring questions I don’t want to answer. Which will turn into more lies.

  “But…how?”

  “Don’t question the unexplainable, Em. Just go with it, okay? I have to check-in now. I’ll call you tomorrow. Fuck Luke Duchanan.”

  There’s a pause before she releases a breath. “Fuck Luke Duchanan.”

  I end the cal
l.

  Put my hand on the door.

  Offer up a quick prayer of thank you, an apology for all the bad things I’ve done and a promise to not curse as much in the future to show my appreciation for what I’m about to receive.

  Then I turn the handle and walk inside…

  “Holy-motherfucking-shit.”

  Chapter Two

  I’d like to go on record and say that I lied.

  But really…what did God expect?

  I’m standing inside the minds of millions of readers. This place is the penthouse of every rich hero in every romance novel. Open floor plan. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking downtown Chicago. Hardwood floors. Spiraling staircase with glass rails. Artsy shit hanging from the ceiling that I’m pretty sure is just a fire hose that’s been sprayed with gold paint.

  I toss my jacket to the floor and kick off my boots and pants. Wearing nothing but a sweater, I pad further into the room. My hand slides along the back of the white, leather couch, dips to touch the mahogany table beside it. Then flattens against the curved glass that stretches the length and width of the entire wall. It’s warm to touch. Not cold, as I thought it would be.

  The view.

  OMG the view.

  Lights twinkle and blaze against the backdrop of a clear, black sky. Buildings staggered in height and lit in an array of colors loom high over the streets dotted with the smaller lights of moving cars. It’s almost overwhelming. The idea of waking up to this in the morning—watching as the sun rises behind the buildings...

  This is so worth going to jail for.

  If the rest of this place is as miraculous as the view, I might have to stay until Mr. Swagger gets home. Then I’ll make him fall in love with me. Shouldn’t take long. I’m a good catch.