That Guy

by Kim Jones

  I hide my grin behind the handkerchief and dab at my nose. I want to just blow the shit out of it, but that’ll have to wait until we reach that level of comfort all couples do once they fall in love. For us, I’m guessing it’ll only take a couple of days.

  Judge Judy calls a lady a moron. I focus my attention on that rather than the eyes burning in the side of my head. Chill bumps break out across my skin. I wish I could say it’s from his arctic glare. Truth is, I’m freezing.

  “Are you cold?” Jake’s tone is flat. Uncaring and bored as if he asks only because he absolutely has to. Still, an unforced shyness takes root inside me at his attempt to be…polite.

  “A little.”

  Without a word, he grabs the blanket from the floor and passes it to me. I try to touch his fingers—you know, so I can describe the “spark” I feel from our connection. But he ruins it by pulling away before I can.

  “Thank you.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

  I tuck the blanket around me and my legs beneath me until the only thing visible is my head. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t feign sweet innocence. Don’t act all shy and submissive…”

  Submissive.

  He said submissive.

  He’s a dom.

  I fucking knew it!

  “…Grandfather fooled, but not me.”

  “Huh?” Stupid day dreams. “Sorry. Could you say that last line one more time?”

  His lips thin and he pulls in a deep breath through his nose. What I’d give for his nostril to clog up… “I said, that little act you performed earlier might have my Grandfather fooled, but not me.”

  “What are you talking about? What act?”

  “I’ve seen your true form. Remember that.”

  I draw my head back and look at him like he’s lost his friggin’ mind. I’m sure I have three chins in this position, but I don’t care. “Your true form? Who the hell talks like that? What does that even mean?”

  “You’re prancing around my house in my goddamned towel, answering my fucking door, charming my Grandfather into believing you’re some sort of saint.” He pokes his chest every time he says my. I look at the red spot forming. He’ll definitely bruise there.

  I must’ve said that out loud. Because he laughs. Without humor. Don’t think that’s possible? It is. It’s a bark-type laugh that people do when they find something unbelievable and have no words to say. Of course Jake always has something to say.

  “You’re un-fucking-believable.”

  “Um, no. What’s unbelievable is that being an asshole really is hereditary. You should be proud. You and your grandfather proved a theory. I mean, even if I was an escort for hire, he didn’t have to be such a prick about it. I’m glad Miss Sims wasn’t here to listen to all those awful things he said about putting a price on one’s dignity.”

  “You finished yet?”

  “No. I’m not. Why do you need to hire someone anyway? You’re like…rich. And hot. You could have any woman in Chicago.”

  “I got this, Jake.” Cam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You see, Penelope, important people like Jake here don’t casually date. He doesn’t even have any female friends. Hell he barely has any male friends. He’s all work and no play. Which is why it’s both convenient and necessary for him to use an exclusive, very discreet, private escort service when they need a…female companion. Like for holiday functions. Balls, galas, charity parties…” He looks at Jake and smirks. “Grandfather’s retirement ceremony.”

  But Jake is looking at me. As if he’s anticipating my reaction. I try to remain indifferent. On the inside, I’m doing cartwheels. “So he hired Miss Sims to attend his grandfather’s retirement party?”

  “Yes. Although Miss Sims is a just a generic name we use. It rolls off the tongue a bit better than escort. Or…whore.”

  “I still don’t see why he can’t just ask like a friend or a colleague. Or why doesn’t he just go alone?”

  “He is sitting right here,” Jake says, and damn it I don’t want to, but I turn to look at him. And when I see his beautiful, chiseled face, I can’t stop the questions from coming. I know I shouldn’t ask. I know it’ll piss him off. But this is important. I have to know.

  “Do you use the escort service because they have to sign a NDA?” His brows draw together in confusion, but he doesn’t ask me to elaborate. He doesn’t have to. “Is it because you have a secret sex fetish you don’t want people to know about? I can see how discretion is important for a man of your…status.” He stiffens. I should reassure him. “I’m not judging.” I cross my finger over my heart. “This is strictly for research. I promise.”

  “Research?”

  “Yeah. You know…for my book.”

  He nods slowly as if he just remembered I’m a published author with four thousand followers and eighty-three reviews on Goodreads. Four-star average, thank you very much. “Your last one didn’t do too well. Is that why you want to put me in this one? You hope people might actually buy it?”

  I ignore his jab. “I don’t want to put you, you in it. Just someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Do you even know who I am?”

  “Of course I do,” I lie.

  “Enlighten me.”

  Shit.

  “Well, I mean, I know your type.”

  “My type?”

  I shrug. “Rich. Single. Works too much. Takes life too serious. Controlling. Ambitious. Secretly generous.” I take a breath. “You’re driven. Independent. Loyal. You have a soft spot for your mom. An issue with your father. And you’ve spent your life trying to get out of your Grandfather’s shadow.”

  “I’m inferior to no one.”

  “But you don’t have your Grandfather’s respect.”

  “I have his respect.”

  I tilt my head and study him through narrowed eyes. “Do you?”

  He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Or that vein that’s about to pop out of his forehead. “I know you too, Penelope Hart.”

  I thought I’d melt hearing him say my name. But all I feel is the ball of nerves in my throat that threatens to choke me. I’d blurted out my thoughts on his personal life with no regard to how they might make him feel. And now he was about to do the same to me.

  Fair enough.

  I force down my worries and flash him a smile. “What do you know about me? Other than what your grandfather said.” I put my finger on my chin. “What was it he said again? I can’t remember. I know he left out irresistible, but that one is already pretty obvious…”

  “I remember exactly what he said.” His voice is cold.

  I throw his words back in his face and smirk. “Enlighten me.”

  “He said you were charming.”

  “I am charming…”

  “Polite.”

  “I’m that too…”

  “Genuine.”

  “Fake isn’t even in my vocabulary.”

  “And my favorite.” His eyes sweep over me. Not slow. Not hot. But quick. Callous. He’s about to say something to hurt my feelings. I brace myself for it.

  “He thinks you could actually pass as a lady.”

  “Jake…” Cam warns, but Jake ignores him.

  “Now my Grandfather’s definition of a lady is a woman with class, which you most definitely do not have. A woman of beauty…I’ll be generous and give you a six on that. A woman who has achieved success.”

  “I’m successful!” I snap in my defense. “I’ve accomplished something millions of people only dream about.”

  “Setting a bag of dog shit on fire doesn’t count, sweetheart.”

  I bite my cheek to keep from screaming at him. Or kissing him because he called me sweetheart. Even if it was in an indignant way. But that’s just my crazy hormones talking. Truth is, the previous dig at my writing career and now his blatant disregard of it hurts my feelings.

  Back
in my hometown, I’m infamous for being the eccentric, mischievous daughter of the estranged, sorrowful lady who creates wood art and bakes the best lemon pie in six counties. When I was crowned queen at the Watermelon Festival my senior year in high school, people congratulated me and my mom for months. They figured that would be my greatest achievement. I mean, what more did a girl like me have to offer the world after being born out of wedlock, ditched by a sperm donor while still in the womb and raised like a heathen by a single woman who had turned down every advance from every available—and some unavailable—man in town?

  I knew what the blue haired ladies said about my mother during the beauty shop discussion held every Saturday. I’d witnessed her name on the prayer list at church on Sunday morning. I’d heard them bless her heart for having such a nuisance as a child more times than I could count. Eyes might roll when I walked into a room, but daggers were thrown at my mother’s back every time she walked out of one.

  After high school, I enrolled in a local junior college. I’d exceeded the expectations of my small town, though I wasn’t trying to, and because they didn’t have anything bad to say about me, the gossip died down. The reprieve lasted until what will forever be known as The Big Break-up that happened my final semester of my second year in college.

  With six hours shy of an associate’s degree under my belt, a broken heart and that fucking Watermelon Queen trophy on the mantel in the living room serving as a constant reminder that the unspoken words of I told you so lingered behind every set of lips in Mt. Olive, Mississippi, I decided to write a book.

  For my mom.

  For me.

  For the right to stick my middle finger up at every blue-haired old lady in town so they’d have something to really pray about.

  So I did.

  And three years later I still do—flip off the old ladies, that is. But I do it behind their backs because the Senior Citizen Center donated the money for a big billboard with my picture on it at the city limits that reads, “Welcome to Mt. Olive. Home of Bestselling Author, Penelope Hart.”

  Gotta love a small town.

  What I’d do to be there now eating a slice of my mom’s lemon pie. Watching Jeopardy and not having the question to a single answer. Instead I’m eight hundred miles away. Sitting on a couch that costs more than my Chevy. Eyes locked with a man who I thought was my That Guy.

  He blurs in my vision and I blink the moisture from my eyes before tears can pool. The urge to cry is strong. I want to sob. Break down. Let go. But I can’t. I refuse to be weakened by this man’s words. If he threw me through a window or rammed my head through the T.V. screen, then yes—I’d cry. But shed a tear over hurt feelings?

  Never.

  And what happens when we don’t process our feelings? We lash out using a different emotion. Mine is anger. Or at least that’s what my anger management coach says.

  “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

  “You seem to keep forgetting that you broke into my fucking house.”

  I roll my eyes. “Are you not tired of saying that yet? Geeze, you’ve said it like, forty times today.”

  “You know what I’m tired of? You being here.”

  “Fine. I’ll leave.” The cover falls to my feet as I stand. “May I use your phone? Please?”

  He gives me a snotty look. “So the country bumpkin does have manners.”

  “Fuck you.” I stomp out of the room and into his office—ignoring his objections. I take a seat in his big chair and pick up the receiver. Cradling it against my shoulder, I punch in the number then lift my eyes.

  Jake lingers in the doorway. His arms braced on the frame. His torso is long. Cut. Ripped in abs. My tongue darts out to wet my lips at the sight of his bacon grease splatter scars. Hell, his belly button is even hot. And the position has those already low rise pajama pants hovering dangerously close to the base of his shaft.

  He’s a butthole.

  He’s a butthole.

  He’s a butthole.

  Between the mantra, his twisted scowl and the ringing on the other end of the phone, I manage to quell the heat that builds in my belly. “Do you mind? I’m on a call.”

  He mumbles something about me being fucking ridiculous, how I need to make it quick and to not touch anything, before he pushes off the door and turns. I have to mentally smack myself to get the image of his ass of brass out of my head long after he’s out of sight.

  Jake Swagger is a jerk.

  Chicago is stupid.

  And I want pie.

  It’s time to go home.

  Chapter Seven

  My Mom goes through the five stages of grief every time I talk to her.

  Step 1: Denial.

  “You are not calling me from a penthouse apartment in Chicago asking me for money to get you home. Seriously, Penelope? How did this happen?”

  Step 2: Anger.

  “How many times have I told you to stay out of other people’s business, hmm? Now what are you going to do if Emily takes this guy back and they get married? You did more than burn a bag of dog shit, young lady. You burned the bridge of your best friend’s potential future husband well and good.”

  Step 3: Bargaining.

  “I’ll send you the money to get home only if you promise me that you’ll stop these shenanigans of yours.”

  Step 4: Depression.

  “Do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened to you? I’m stress eating Oreos as we speak. I’ll be big as a house by the time you make it home.”

  Step 5: Acceptance.

  “I’m glad you’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

  By the time I hang up, I’m smiling. Mom’s worry has a way of doing that. It feels good to have someone care. Perhaps that’s Jake’s problem. He wasn’t loved enough as a child. It wouldn’t kill me to be a little more understanding. After all, I have brought him nothing but grief since I’ve known him.

  Ugh. Why does talking to her always trigger empathy?

  And why can’t Jake be more like her and love me unconditionally despite my flaws?

  For that, I make sure to leave lots of fingerprints all over the freshly polished wood of his desk. And because I’m petty and childish, I lift my towel and wiggle my naked ass on his chair.

  I walk back to the living room feeling lighter. Better. I’ll soon be saying my goodbyes, but I’m not sad. Though it was never his intentions, Jake gave me so much while I was here—material for my book. A limo ride. A view of Chicago and his half naked body. Pizza. Bacon. A get out of jail free card.

  Well, he didn’t really give me any of that. I stole it. But technicalities are overrated.

  “I’m not fucking doing it, Cam. Forget it.” I linger in the doorway of the office, hoping to catch more of the conversation. Jake spots me immediately.

  Always crushing my dreams…

  I smile to show him he’s forgiven. I’m ready to tell him I’m leaving. Say my goodbyes. But he scowls at me and storms out of the room and up the stairs. Just like that, I’m pissed all over again. And the thought of leaving is fleeting. I’d rather stay until he kicks me out again for the satisfaction of knowing that once more, I got under his skin.

  “It’s not you he’s mad at, babe.” Cam’s lips tip a little in an apologetic smile. It’s cute and all, but I’m still mad.

  “Do you always make excuses for him?” I make my way to the liquor cabinet. Drinking doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now.

  “When I need to.”

  I pour myself a glass and toss back the smoky flavored, burgundy liquid. Shit that burns. I cough a couple times. Then fix another and take a seat across from Cam. “You’re a good friend. I don’t know why, but you are.”

  Cam shrugs. “Jake’s like an onion. He has layers.”

  “You just quoted Shrek.”

  He grins. “It’s a good movie.”

  “So if he’s not mad at me, who is he mad at?”

  “He’s pissed about the situation wi
th Miss Sims. And his grandfather always puts him in a shit mood.”

  “Well, he didn’t have to take it out on me.” I take a small sip. It goes down smoother. Probably because this is the kind of liquor you’re supposed to nurse. Not chug.

  “You did break into his house, babe.” Laughter dances in Cam’s eyes. I might laugh along with him if I were in a better mood.

  I cross my legs and Cam’s gaze drops to my naked knees a moment before it returns to my face. His grin widens.

  I take a gulp of whiskey. Or scotch. Or brandy. Whatever this expensive shit is. There is no way I’m buzzed off two glasses. But I do feel less tense. A little warmer. And suddenly more passive about the situation.

  “Look…” I pull in a deep breath. My limbs feel heavier when I release it. “What I did was wrong. I admit it. But me being here today? That’s not my fault. I could’ve told his secretary I was Miss Sims. But I didn’t. I could’ve asked him to bail me out. But I didn’t.”

  A hiccup escapes my lips. It sounds exactly like a donkey bray. I take a couple more sips to chase them away.

  “I hung up the phone, Cam. Hung it up.” Another hiccup. “Do you know I chose death over involvin’ Jake in my problems? My cell mate was gonna kill me if I went back in there. And I would’ve had to,” hiccup, “go back in there if you hadn’t come because they wouldn’t let me leave unless someone pick-ed me up.”

  I finish off the glass.

  Hiccup.

  “I think I’m a little buzzed.”

  “That’s a hundred and eighty-four proof single malt whisky you’re chugging, babe. Normally, people sip two fingers over a period of time. Your first glass was about four fingers.” He points at the empty glass in my hand. “That one was at least five.”

  “Huh.” Hiccup. I study the crystal tumbler. Probably shouldn’t have filled this sucker to the top. “You know if the tables were reversed, and Jake was at my house instead of this way, where I’m at his house, things wouldn’t be like they are.”

  Cam chuckles. “Not following.”

  Hiccup.

  “Well first of all, he wouldn’t have had to pour his own drink. Second, I’d have offered him some of my breakfast. B, he wouldn’t have had to,” I lower my voice and give my best impression of Jake, “’Prance around my damned house wearing my fucking towel,’” because I’d have found something for him to wear. Or not, probably ‘cause I’d want him in jussa towel. But I wouldn’t have bitched about it.”