The Pretend Boyfriend 3 (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male)

by Artemis Hunt

  After the young man leaves, Sam barges in.

  “You’re paying him to come here?”

  “He’s not my hustler type. I prefer them with tits.”

  “But that’s beside the point! I thought we were supposed to earn money, not give it away.”

  “Sometimes, you have to give away money in order to earn it.” Brian indicates the queue through the door. “When there’s a crowd at any new establishment, people want to see what the fuck is going on with the blue light special.”

  An attractive blonde knocks at the open door. “My two hours are up, Brian,” she says suggestively.

  Brian flashes her his most charming smile and hands her a hundred dollar note.

  “You know,” the blonde says, coming closer to finger his chest, “I would have done it for free if we could hook up again. Preferably in the showers.”

  She ignores Sam’s glare.

  “Sorry, Agatha, I don’t do encores.”

  Agatha grimaces. “I’ll bet you encore her all night.” She stabs a vicious glance at Sam.

  As she leaves, Sam hisses to Brian, “Is there anyone out there you haven’t slept with?”

  “Anything with testicles, if you get my drift.”

  “Brian, this is wrong!”

  “So is pissing away business.” He holds up a sheet. “Ninety-eight real recruitments today, and it’s not even twelve. Say, you wanna do brunch?”

  *

  Brian and Sam walk out into the parking lot. Sam notes that the lines have grown even longer, if possible.

  “It’s like a ‘Star Trek’ convention,” she confesses to Brian. And stops short when she sees what is parked in his reserved lot. “Where’s the Ferrari?”

  Brian unlocks the new Jeep he has parked there. “Traded it in.”

  “But why? You love that car?” It’s the one I first met you in, she doesn’t want to say.

  “It was old, past its prime.”

  Bullshit, Sam thinks. “You needed the money for this campaign we’re running. Gawd, Brian, you can’t keep doing this! Are you OK, I mean, financially? You need money for the lawyers!”

  “Fuck the lawyers. And I told you – it was heading for automobile menopause. Someone offered me a good price for it and I took it. Geez, don’t nag me when I’m hypoglycemic. I only had a bagel for breakfast.”

  Sam doesn’t say anymore on the matter. She hates nags herself. Reminds her too much of her own mother, when the latter isn’t flouncing off on some rich gentleman’s arm, of course. But her suspicions are piqued. She still can’t get over the fact that Brian has been so downgraded that he had to give up his penthouse, no matter what he says on the contrary about that place being haunted with the ghosts of what happened. And now his car.

  There must be something she can do.

  There is.

  On course to a deli they both enjoy, Sam notices a few people strolling around the broad sidewalks. They have large billboards hung around their bodies. All of them are young, fit and attractive. One blond man – a college student by the looks of him – wears a metal hat with two horns sticking out of its sides. He was obviously meant to be Thor, the god of thunder. He hands out leaflets to the passing pedestrians.

  Sam does a double take when she sees what’s inscribed on the billboard he is wearing. It’s an extremely flattering photograph of the semi-nude, muscled Thor. Not the god himself. Not even Chris Hemsworth, but Thor from the gym.

  The lettering below reads: “You want to build that six-pack before you drink it.”

  The other human billboards are all similarly decorated. Sam even spies one of Lydia, resembling Wonder Woman.

  Gawd!

  Sam has to admit Brian’s tactics are vivid.

  Her cellphone buzzes. She reads the text message on it.

  “Who is it?” Brian says.

  “An old friend.”

  He glances over at her and grins. “Aren’t you lucky you’re not a lawyer?”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe I should rephrase that to ‘aren’t you lucky your pants . . . or maybe your leotards aren’t on fire’?”

  Sam has to grace to blush. “Look, I don’t have to share every aspect of my life with you.”

  “Particularly when it involves a six-pack.” Brian’s tone is mild.

  Huh? OK, this time she doesn’t get the reference at all. Maybe she’s slow, but it’s been one of those days. Besides, she has to text back to the sender.

  ‘OK. LET’S MEET AT SIX.’

  *

  Sam peruses the schedule her private investigator gives her.

  He says, “She’s regular. Every Wednesday and Friday nights, she leaves for Hatha Yoga classes at nine. She comes back only at eleven.”

  “Great.”

  He eyes her shrewdly. “I draw the line at breaking and entering.”

  “Did I ask you to break and enter her apartment?” Sam says innocently.

  “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Who’s doing anything foolish?” Even as she says it, Sam’s blood begins to churn in her ears in that sssssh-sssssh sound that clouds her hearing and agitates her brain. Brian is right. She just can’t lie.

  9

  It is two weeks before the trial. Brian has been to see his lawyer every day, preparing for the case. Preparing for the cross-examination by the prosecutor, who happens to be a hard-nosed divorcee who specializes in grinding men to dust.

  “Assistant DA Norma Hennessey is a tough bitch,” Karen Sandler, his attorney, warns him. “She has been a rape victim herself, and she hates all men.”

  “Yippee for me,” Brian says.

  “I’m going to bring up your fuck defense.”

  Brian rolls his eyes. “At least it’s coming in handy.”

  “How many women have you slept with?” Karen favors him with a glare. It may be personal, Brian thinks.

  He sighs. “I don’t know. Ballpark figure? Over a thousand.”

  Karen chortles. “Geez, you a prostitute or something?”

  “I don’t remember collecting from you. If I recall, I was the one who bought you a drink before I found out you were a ball-busting lawyer.”

  Karen gives him a strange look that is part reminiscence and part fondness.

  “Level with me,” Brian says, “what are my chances?”

  She shakes her head. “As your lawyer . . . not good. All the evidence seems to point to some sort of struggle, and definitely intercourse . . . with your sperm inside her. It’s her word against yours. There is, of course, the possibility of her staging the whole thing – ”

  She pauses.

  Brian finishes for her, “And there also isn’t.”

  The silence between them is a balloon void.

  Karen finally punctures it. “You seeing that shrink?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he thinks you’re non-violent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ve asked him for a deposition. He’s coming in into testify on your behalf.”

  Brian’s face softens. “He’s all right.”

  “Unfortunately, the prosecution also dug up your old hospital records. The ones that suggest a childhood history of abuse.”

  Brian’s stomach tightens. “The abuse was done to me.”

  “Yes. And they are going to bring up the correlation between childhood and adolescent abuse to violence in later life. They are doing all this not to make the jury sympathize with you . . . although they will . . . but to paint you as a possible rapist, especially since you don’t have a track record of misdemeanors.”

  Karen is right. The situation for him is glum. He won’t be able to prove that he didn’t do it. Especially with that hanging A.D.A., who is said to put a pox on all men for what one of them did to her.

  “If they decide to convict you,” Karen says gently, “let’s hope the judge will be lenient. It’s only your first offence, and it may have been substance-related. With good behavior, you can get out in five years.”
>
  Five years! That’s five years too plenty, Brian thinks. His spirits sink to the bottom of his Gucci loafers, which he may not be wearing in a while longer.

  “Hey.” Karen’s hand snakes across the table and clasps his. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

  She doesn’t say it, but he knows what she means. In prison – with his looks and unsolicited fame, and especially because he will be a convicted rapist – he’d be a target for the hardcores. And whatever they do to him will be far worse than what his father had drunkenly visited upon him that night so long ago.

  In five years, there’s no way you won’t be scarred from that.

  *

  Brian feels particularly vulnerable when he comes home to Sam that night. She greets him at her apartment – the one he has helped allow her to keep – with a kiss and a hug.

  “You look awful,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  She gently strokes the skin of his face. “You’re getting worry creases. At your age.”

  “Thanks again. Remind me to always come to you whenever I need a motivational pep talk.”

  She laughs. “Come and have some dinner. You’ll feel better.”

  She has arranged the table artfully with two placemats and a bowl of roses. Two candles flicker on their stands. He immediately feels at ease as he shrugs off his jacket and lays it on the back of her couch. He didn’t even berate her for the obvious romance of the tableau. She doesn’t mean it to be romance – she respects his ideals too much for that. But the fact she would go through all this effort for him is nothing short of remarkable.

  Sam serves them both pot roast and black bread – real comfort food. Brian begins to relax as all the tension of today leaves his body. He wonders when he has come to think of Sam’s apartment as ‘home’. Then again, he’s equally at home in his own new apartment. When she’s around.

  A fleeting pang in his chest makes him wince. He puts down his fork.

  “What’s the matter?” She observes him. “Pot roast giving you gas?”

  He masks it by smiling up at her. “Nah, Fitness Worx is giving me gas.”

  As is the beauteous Thor, who has become the most sought-after trainer in ‘Shape’ for obvious reasons.

  He continues, “Shape’s rolled in a hefty revenue this fortnight. If we keep doing the way we’re doing, we’ll be in the black before the year is up. But we can’t rest on our laurels. Fitness Worx is mounting a defense campaign even as we speak.”

  She pours them both some red wine and raises him a toast. “To ‘Shape’.”

  “To ‘Shape’,” he repeats. “May all the six-packs be flattened and steam-ironed into eights.”

  They both take a sip.

  “To our partnership,” she adds, flushing slightly.

  “Amen.” He finds himself thinking that unbidden thought – that they are partners in more ways than one.

  And all this might go away in another fortnight or so.

  His heart heavy, he reaches for the little box inside his jeans pocket. In the candlelight, the box is rich purple velvet, simultaneously absorbing and gleaming in the light. A frog comes to his throat, and he makes an attempt to clear it. But his voice still comes out funny. A strangled kind of funny.

  “I wanted you to have this.” Oh God, was that a squeak? Brian Morton squeaking. That has got to be a first without his balls being squeezed.

  He shoves it at her before he can make a further embarrassment of himself.

  “Oh, Brian,” she exclaims, taking it. “What is this?”

  “A little present I’ve been saving up for an occasion. Like your birthday. But I figured now is a good time to give it as any.” He bites back from saying ‘Before I get carted off to prison’. It sounds too melodramatic, and he’s not into sweeping melodrama.

  She opens the little velvet box. The pair of diamond earrings sparkles up at her.

  “Oh my God, these are . . . these are . . . ”

  “The ones I got you for the opera.” The night of his undoing. “You liked them so much that I . . . thought you might like to keep them . . . permanently.”

  Besides, he’d best get them out of his sight before he’d be tempted to pawn them for cash. The good thing is that ‘Shape’ is starting to turn around, so Sam won’t be in want for money.

  It is weird how he has started to think about someone else other than himself. If he has to go to prison, he needs to make sure Sam will be taken care of. His partner. He smiles inwardly. Funny how he manages to see her as a partner in all ways. They are not even married and he’s already making provisions for her, for Chrissake.

  Maybe Dr. Robertson was right. In his old age, he’s beginning to turn into a big softie. He’s so downright maudlin right now he should be committed.

  Sam glances at him, her eyes shining. “Brian, I can’t accept this. You can’t afford it right now.”

  “Of course I can. Take it.” He holds up his palms in refusal when she tries to give him back the box. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners? It’s rude not to accept a gift from the condemned.”

  “You’re not condemned.”

  “I will be soon. Fuck it, Sam, just let me do this for you, OK? Don’t nag.”

  “I’m not nagging, and you’re not condemned.” Determination makes her thrust her chin out.

  “Well, you’ve got more faith in the jury than my lawyer does.” Hell, and Karen has more faith in the system to treat him leniently than he does himself.

  She comes over to him and strokes his rich chestnut hair. “Hey, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”

  She leans over to settle her lips softly upon his. It’s a butterfly kiss – so light and gentle that it takes his breath away. He feels his groin tightening.

  He murmurs against her softly breathing mouth, “In my case, it’s till the ball-crushing Assistant DA sings.”

  “Have faith.”

  “Trying to.”

  They are lost in another kiss. He kisses her with feeling, with emotion. The monstrous rush of abandon fills him, and suddenly, his guts are swimming above his throat, and he has to keep himself from being choked by the overwhelming enormity of it all.

  Sam, Sam, Sam . . . I will miss you so much. You have no idea. You have no fucking clue how much I will miss you.

  “Then tell her,” the voice of Dr. Robertson echoes across the divide of the last session they had.

  I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair. I can’t keep her waiting for me – a man with a future as bleak as a dystopian tundra. She deserves to find someone else when I’m away. Someone like Thor, god of thunder forbid. Or maybe Caleb.

  For answer, he seizes her face and kisses her again, this time more passionately. He slips his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweet, gravy-scented texture of her. The wonderful, wet and endlessly roaming map of her mouth, her tongue, her teeth, her palate. He can drink her in forever like a drowning man.

  He feels her hands clasp his shoulders, and then slide down his pecs . . . and down, down to his jeans’ zipper. He hears the soft k-r-a-a-a-c-k of the zip being pulled down. His rod is already hard and pulsing. He does not wear underwear, and she curls her knuckles in the tangle of his pubic bush. She tugs at his nether hair gently as he locks mouths with hers, merging their essences together.

  Her hand wraps around his turgid shaft – so stiff that he doesn’t think he can get up. She moves her hand back and forth slowly. Her lips press against his chin, his jawline, as she escalates the intensity of her strokes. His breathing has grown harsher.

  “Sammie,” he moans against her cheek.

  I’m going to miss this. I’m going to miss us being together. You have no idea how wild you drive me. And it isn’t just sex. It’s the togetherness. The ‘us’.

  But he doesn’t say a word. He used not to believe in an ‘us’, and now that someone has shown him how wonderful ‘partnership’ can be, he’s about to have it whisked away from him. So there’s no fucking point.

  Sl
owly, she kneels before him. He is still seated in the dining chair and his thighs are wide apart. With her gaze burning into his, she takes his painfully erect cock into her gorgeous mouth. She doesn’t wear lipstick because she doesn’t like to smear him with it. Considerate, as always. And she has such an incredibly talented mouth.

  His loins shudder as she licks his crown. She tongues him and tongues him until he’s writhing in his seat. His buttocks clench as he tries to stave off his orgasm, which is cresting in little white-tipped waves. His mind is turning delirious.

  “God, you’re so good,” he murmurs, sinking his fingers into her curly hair.

  She circles her tongue around his shaft, darting back to lick his head. Up and down his pillar of flesh again, as if she’s determined to slather every part of his flesh with ripe wetness. Then back to his sensitive head, which is already throbbing with the pressure of his impending release. And when she presses the tip of her tongue into his ultra-sensitive slit, he explodes. He can’t help himself.

  He cries out a warning to her as he gushes his copious sap into her willing mouth. On and on it streams, a never-ending tidal wave of life-giving cum. She closes her eyes and laps every bit of it that she can muster, but his penis still jerks unstoppably, and the thick, frothy cream continues.

  Finally, he pulls out his still dripping cock from her mouth. He is panting. He strokes her damp forehead as the cum drips down her chin and spatters his clothed thighs and the seat of the chair. A few drops of it fall onto the new carpet.

  He can’t help laughing. Wiping her mouth, she joins him in laughter, until he pulls her up and kisses her creamy mouth deeply, tasting his semen on her.

  “Brian,” she whispers against his lips, “I . . . I . . . ”

  She seems to hesitate, unable to say the words.

  “You’ll miss me,” he finishes for her before they can both embarrass themselves.

  He thinks he hears her say, “Not if I can help it”, but he can’t be sure.