“Until I got fired, it sort of was.” I almost reach out and put my hand on his, but I draw back at the last second when I remember he won’t be able to feel it. “Thanks for making him apologize.”
“Somebody had to.”
Right. And that somebody had to be Alex. Alex, the hero. The guy who saved his fiancée from a mugger and is paying the price of spending his life strapped to a wheelchair. The amazing part is I don’t even think he regrets it. He isn’t happy about his situation, but he doesn’t regret saving Isabelle.
“So how did it go with Isabelle?” I ask.
“I messed up.” He sighs, leaning his head heavily against the headrest. “Parker walked in, and I just blurted out that he was cheating, but I didn’t have time to say anything else. I don’t think she believed me.”
“I think you’re right.” Isabelle was clinging to Parker’s arm as they left the restaurant together—not a sign of a woman about to call off her wedding. “Honestly, Alex, you’re wasting your time. She’s never going to leave him.”
“I’m not giving up yet,” he says firmly. “I need to get her alone again.”
I don’t try to talk him out of it. As if I could. And anyway, the truth is, now that I’ve realized Isabelle is marrying Parker, I want to stop this wedding too. Maybe not as bad as he does, but I don’t think Parker deserves a happily ever after. Getting dumped right before his wedding would be the perfect punishment for him.
“You know,” I say, “if we go to that karaoke bar, I could sit next to Parker and try to get him to hit on me. If Isabelle caught him trying to kiss me…”
“No.” Before I can even complete my thought, Alex is glaring at me. “You’re not doing that. No way.”
“But it would convince Isabelle that—”
“I said no.” His jaw twitches. “I’m not letting you prostitute yourself. Forget it. There’s got to be another way to convince Isabelle.”
I don’t know if it would be prostituting myself exactly, but I see his point. I’m not excited about allowing Parker to put his slimy paws all over me again either, even if it’s for the greater good.
“Fine.” I chew on my lip. “But, you know, it might be fun to go to karaoke. I haven’t done that in years.”
He frowns at me. I’m almost certain he’s going to say hell no, but then a smile touches his lips. “Are you saying you’re going to sing if we go?”
I return the smile. “Curious?”
“I can’t say I’m not…”
“Let's do it then!” I clap my hands together and he laughs. “But can we go upstairs first? I’m cold and I want to grab a sweater.”
“Sure,” Alex says. “Let me just…” He leans forward in his chair and tries to grab at the sip and puff control with his lips, but somehow he can’t reach it. Usually, it’s so close to his face, he barely has to move his head to get at it. He strains at the strap across his chest, trying desperately to reach it. After realizing his problem, I reach over and move it a few inches closer.
“Thanks,” he says gratefully. He makes a face. “Parker moved it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I roll my eyes. “Is it in a good place for you?”
“Uh…” He leans forward and tentatively puts his lips on the tube. But he’s able to bring it closer to himself on his own at this point. “Okay, this is good. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
He hesitates before putting his lips back on the control. “Also, thanks for going along with the girlfriend bit. I know what I said before, but… well, thanks.”
“Hey, that’s what Doug is paying me to do.”
“But don’t feel like you have to, you know…” He lowers his gray eyes. “I mean, you don’t have to touch me or anything.”
“I don’t mind touching you,” I say. That’s a big understatement. All day, I’ve been looking for excuses to touch him.
He smiles wryly. “I feel like such a loser,” he sighs. “Having to pretend I have a girlfriend…”
“You could have a girlfriend if you wanted.”
He gives me a look like I’m out of my mind. He has no clue how hot he still is. He hasn’t even tried to put himself out there. It’s understandable and all, but until he does, of course his self-esteem is going to be low.
I almost say all that to him, but I don’t. It’s none of my business.
Chapter 25
Alex
This karaoke bar was a mistake.
It’s too crowded. Too loud and too crowded. And everyone is drinking too goddamn much. Also, there are too many young people around.
Wow, I sound like an old man. I swear, I’m only thirty-five. I’m not ready for the retirement home yet.
“Smile,” Nellie whispers in my ear.
I force the tiniest of smiles. She swore she wouldn’t leave my side without asking first. If she did, I’d start panicking. Nellie’s presence is the only good thing about being here. The other bad things include Parker sitting directly to my right, Isabelle next to him, and then a bunch of other guys I used to know from Coleman, all of whom stare at me bug-eyed, then tell me how fucking fantastic I look.
“I can’t believe you got me to agree to this,” I hiss at her. “I must have gone temporarily insane.”
She giggles into her hand. It’s cute how she does that. Nellie—my fake girlfriend. If only she were my real girlfriend, instead of the paid help. I wish when she touched my shoulder, it was because she liked me and not because she’s putting on a show.
“This round is on me!” Parker calls out to the table, as a waitress comes by and distributes a bunch of whiskey shots to each occupant. “Everyone take one!”
Christ, Parker is in his late thirties and acting like a college frat boy. But because everyone always does what Parker says, they all take a shot glass and down their drinks. Including Isabelle, who shudders at the taste of it. But I can tell Parker is pleased, because he rewards her with a big, sloppy kiss that makes me look away. I never kissed Isabelle that way. He kisses her like he’s a dog who’s happy she got home from work.
“Warner!” Parker snaps. He’s pulled away from Isabelle and is now holding up one of the shot glasses. “You didn’t take a shot.”
“No, thanks,” I mutter. I’m on a lot of medications that don’t mix well with alcohol.
“You used to be able to hold your liquor, Warner.” Parker’s lips curl into a smile. “You got soft.”
Yes, I used to be able to match Parker shot for shot. Friday night was drinking night when we were at Coleman. I’d throw back three or four drinks and barely feel it. I never worried about how much I used to drink, but in retrospect, it was a lot. It’s not like I ever got blackout drunk or did something irresponsible while drinking, but another twenty years of it would have probably done a number on my liver.
“Not everyone needs to get shit-faced to have a good time,” Nellie speaks up. She didn’t do her shot either.
“Well, la dee da,” Parker laughs. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you skipping out on your shot too, Miss Nellie.”
I glance over at Nellie, who is glaring at Parker. “You can take a shot if you want,” I tell her.
She eyes the glass. “Only if you’ll do it with me.”
I hesitate. I like the idea of taking a drink with Nellie. One shot is probably okay with my meds. My tolerance may be shit, but I don’t think it will make me drunk. I don’t want to get drunk—I’d need Nellie to steer me home if that happened.
“Okay, sure,” I say. “Just one.”
Nellie grins. She grabs her own shot glass and downs it in one quick gulp. Christ, she looks sexy when she does that.
Then she picks up my glass and holds it to my lips. This is the first time Nellie has given me something to drink, since I was pulling off the long straw from my water bottle while we were having brunch. She does her best, but half of it still ends up splattered on my shirt. She grabs a napkin off the table and quickly dabs at my chin and shirt. I don’t have to look up to
know everyone at the table is gawking at me.
But a few minutes later, I feel a sensation of warmth go through my whole body, even the parts I can’t ordinarily feel. And just like that, I’m not quite as bothered by any of it anymore. Even the idea of being in this karaoke bar with Isabelle and fucking Parker.
“Izzy.” Parker nudges Isabelle. “You should get up there and sing.”
“No, thank you,” she says. “I’d prefer not to make a fool of myself tonight.”
“Baby,” he says, “you could never make a fool of yourself.”
For once, I agree with him. Isabelle would be classy cleaning the toilet.
“Maybe I’ll sing something,” Nellie speaks up.
“I’d love to see that,” Parker says, giving her a look that makes me want to hit him.
Nellie ignores him and smiles in my direction. “What do you think I should sing?”
I smile back at her. “I don’t know. ‘Baby Got Back’?”
“Alex!” She swats at my arm. She’s doing a good job acting like she really is my girlfriend. “What are you saying?”
“Well, what do you want to sing?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. Maybe something by Green Day. They’ve always been my favorite punk band.”
I gasp. “Nellie, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just call Green Day a punk band.”
“Um, they are a punk band,” she says. “They popularized punk rock music.”
“Yeah, and that, by definition makes them not punk.” I shake my head at her. “Punk music is loud and aggressive and anti-establishment. The Sex Pistols are punk music. The Clash is punk. The Ramones are punk. Green Day—mainstream.”
“No way.”
“Nellie, they played a Green Day song at my fucking high school graduation,” I say. “You don’t get more mainstream than that. At best, they’re pop-punk.”
She whips out her phone from her purse and starts punching in keys. After a moment, she holds it up in triumph. “Look here! Wikipedia says Green Day is an American punk rock band.”
“Ooh, well, if Wikipedia says it’s true…”
Nellie lets out a loud huff. “Isabelle, was he always this opinionated?”
Isabelle, who has been quietly observing our dispute, smiles shyly. “Yes,” she says. “He thinks he knows everything.”
I do know everything. Okay, fine, I don’t know everything. But I know a lot. More than most people. Moreover, I know how to act confident. Confidence can make up for a lot.
I’m not that way anymore. How can I be confident when I need help with every tiny little thing? But I know Green Day isn’t a punk band.
“I’m not saying I don’t like Green Day,” I say. “Just that they’re not punk rock.”
She pokes me in the shoulder, in a place I can feel. “What’s your favorite Green Day song?”
I remember what she said when we were waiting in line for brunch—Nellie loves playing the Favorite Game with guys she likes. Or apparently, guys she’s pretending to like. Although for a split-second, I wonder if it means something more.
Don’t be stupid, Warner. Look at the girl. Out of your league by a mile.
“Probably ‘When I Come Around,’” I say.
“I like that one.” She nods. “Maybe not my favorite, but…”
“So what’s your favorite of Green Day’s many pop-punk songs?”
“Probably ‘Holiday,’” she says.
“I approve.”
“Good to know.”
Parker ordered a bunch of appetizers that all arrive at our table at once. It looks like he got just about everything on the menu: curly fries, normal fries, onion rings, nachos, wings, stuffed mushrooms. I look at the array of food and my stomach growls. I’ve eaten nothing since our brunch, and I’m hungry. Nellie looks at the food and raises her eyebrows at me.
I quickly shake my head. No. No way. I don’t care how hungry I am. It doesn’t matter if I hadn’t eaten in a week. I’ll be damned if I let her feed me in front of Parker. I’m sure as hell not letting her put a bib on me.
I’ll eat later, when we’re upstairs. Maybe Doug can feed me.
Everyone else digs in with gusto. The food smells really good. I’m so fucking frustrated. Everyone else in the world can feed themselves like it’s nothing. It’s exhausting to rely on other people for this basic task.
Nellie picks up a French fry and she’s giving me a look. I can tell she’s itching to feed it to me. I mouth the word “no.” She mouths back, “Come on.” I shake my head again. She doesn’t get it. She really doesn’t.
And that’s when she stands up. At first, I assume she’s going to the bathroom, so it shocks the hell out of me when she sits down right on my lap.
I’ve seen photos before of women sitting down in their wheeler boyfriends’ laps, but this is the first time I’ve ever experienced it. And the truth is, it’s nice. Nellie wriggles up against me, her small body pressed against mine, her right arm around my shoulders, squeezed into the gap between my neck and the headrest. Her face is inches away from mine, and I can smell the whiskey on her breath.
I love how close she is to me. I love the way this feels.
I hate that she’s being paid to be here. I hate that after this trip, I’ll probably never experience this again. Well, unless I’ve got another two-thousand dollars burning a hole in my pocket.
Nellie puts the fry near my lips. I try to grab it, but she pulls it away, teasing me with it. She giggles, then brings it closer again, this time allowing me to take a bite. I’ve been fed hundreds of times now, but this is the first time it’s ever been sexy. It’s the first time I’ve ever enjoyed it.
I’m not worried everyone at the table feels sorry for me, that’s for sure.
There is one thing I am worried about though. What Nellie is doing is turning me on like crazy, but since the connection between my brain and my dick is severed, I don’t have to worry about getting a boner from her sexy game with the French fry. But I do have to worry that her curvy ass on my cock is stimulating it, and therefore giving me a hard-on.
I probably get two or three erections each week—not that I’m keeping track. I started getting them again maybe two months after my injury. The first time was when I was getting sponge-bathed by a sixty-year-old nurse. She was wiping down my junk, and all of a sudden, my dick was standing at attention. I almost cried with relief—I’d never gotten up the courage to ask, but I’d assumed I was impotent since I couldn’t feel the damn thing. But my dick wasn’t dead. It was alive and well, albeit a little confused.
Four years later, my erections are a pain in the fucking ass. You think I want to get a woody when my mom is bathing me? I don’t. And every time I get a new PCA, I have to explain I don’t have any control over it and swear they’re not turning me on. One of these days, one of them is going to slap a sexual harassment suit on me for something I can’t control. If I were ever to have a girlfriend, I’m sure I’d be grateful for them, but considering that’s not anywhere on the horizon, I could do without them.
In any case, I hope I don’t have a boner right now. I can only imagine Nellie leaping off my lap, horrified.
She feeds me a bunch of fries, some onion rings, and a stuffed mushroom. She doesn’t attempt a buffalo wing, which is a wise choice on her part. I have a feeling my wing-eating days are over. Her face is only inches away from mine the whole time, her pink lips parting each time she smiles.
If she really were my girlfriend, she’d probably lean in for a kiss right now—that would be a natural thing to do. But that won’t happen today. Even though we’re paying Nellie, she won’t kiss me during this trip. Kissing is off the table. She made it painfully clear.
Christ, this is frustrating.
“All right,” Nellie says, after she’s stuffed me with food for the second time today. “I’m going to go pay my dollar to do a song.”
I grin at her. “Yeah? What song?”
“That,” she says, “is a surprise.”<
br />
And then she hops off my lap, scurrying in the direction of the stage. I watch her, because how could I not watch her? She looks so sexy in those tiny jean shorts…
“Nice ass.”
I glance over at Parker, who said the words just softly enough that Isabelle probably didn’t hear. He’s grinning at me as he watches Nellie make her way to the stage.
“Shut up, Parker,” I mutter.
“What? She does have a nice ass.” He punches me in the shoulder. “I always thought so. I can’t believe you landed her.”
I won't dignify him with an answer.
“You always had a thing for waitresses, didn’t you, Warner?”
“She’s not a waitress,” I say. “She’s a comedian. She just waits tables on the side.”
“Oh yeah?” Parker looks impressed. “No kidding? How did you meet her, anyway?”
I decide to stick with something close to the truth. “I went to one of her shows. After it was over, I went to find her and tell her how great she was. We got to talking and… well, she gave me her number.”
“Niiiiiice,” Parker says. He holds up his fist to bump mine, which I’m sure is an automatic gesture for him and not necessarily meant to make me feel like shit. I hate Parker, but back in the day, I participated in his fist bumps like everyone else. But not today. Not ever again. When he realizes I’m going to leave him hanging, he laughs. Loudly. “Holy shit, look what I just did! I’m sorry ‘bout that, man.”
“No problem,” I mutter.
He takes an onion ring from the table and stuffs it in his mouth, all the while looking at me. “So the whole wheelchair deal,” he says, waving his hand over my body, “that’s all permanent, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say.
His brow furrows. “What about that stem cell shit? Isn’t that supposed to cure anything?”
I can’t even get angry at Parker for suggesting something like that. It’s what I thought when I first got hurt. Stem cells. Why can’t stem cells cure me? Why can’t anything cure me? It took a long time to accept that my paralysis was never going to get better.
My Ex's Wedding: A Fake Boyfriend Romance Page 15
