The Convenient Wife

by Wylder, Penny

  “Or I'll write you out of the company, I'll leave the distillery to someone else in the family. Someone who deserves it, someone who won't take it for granted, someone who has children to keep our legacy going.”

  Furrowing my brows, I eye him. “You can't do that.”

  “It's my company, I can do whatever the hell I want to.”

  “Dad—”

  Tossing back the shot, my father slams the shot-glass down on the bar. My eyes immediately trace the base, trying to see if it's broken. It's not, and I'm mildly satisfied the glass is strong.

  Holding up his hand, I can feel the heat off his skin. My father is pissed. “This is it, Bolt, your last chance. I won't think twice about handing the keys to someone who is going to help keep this business in our family.”

  “You can't do this, it's not right!” My voice cracks as I yell, but I can't stop it. I can feel my blood as it starts to boil, and my heart start to race in my chest. “I've given everything to this place.” Grinding my teeth down, small bits of bone cover my tongue like fine sandpaper. “I deserve it.”

  Spitting on the floor, I wipe my mouth and try to make the sour taste disappear. This isn’t fair, he shouldn't be able to do it, but he is. And I believe him.

  My father doesn’t make idle threats. My father is a man who does exactly what he sets out to do.

  “You deserve nothing!” Balling his fists at his sides, his knuckles are suddenly bright white and the red veins in his eyes are overflowing like an engorged river after heavy rain. “You'll take what I give you!”

  Whipping his body around, he throws his arm over his head and lets out a heavy grunt. Storming out of the room, his feet come down hard, rippling through the room.

  My jaw is hanging wide open, and I can't think straight. I'm more stunned than anything.

  This is my distillery. I’ve earned every inch of this place. And now he's denying me of something I worked for, all because he wants me to get married and have kids.

  It’s the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard.

  Where the hell am I going to find a woman who will marry me basically overnight?

  Where the hell am I going to find someone who’s willing to let me woo them and marry them in the next few weeks?

  Time is not my friend.

  “Everything all right?” Gina asks, giving me a concerned look as she hands the customer his bag.

  Giving her a single nod, I lean on the bar and fold my hands together, dropping my head into my chest. “Give the man an extra bottle for his troubles. He shouldn't have seen that; my father should know better.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I don't need her to comfort me, even though I'm sure she'd be more than happy to help me forget the whole damn thing. Taking a step to the side, I stand up straight and run my palms down the front of my suit. “Don't worry about it, just focus on the customer.” Touching my chest, I hold out an apologetic hand. “So sorry for that, Sir. Enjoy the complimentary bottle.”

  Throwing open the door on the side of the bar, I head down the hall to my office.

  Where the hell can I find a woman who will marry me and agree to have a kid in the next few months?

  Slamming the door shut to my office, I pace in a circle, raking my fingers through my hair. I know there's not a chance in hell I'll ever be able to do what he's asking me to do. It's fucking absurd and crossing the line of what a parent can demand from a child.

  I'm not a fucking kid anymore he can just order around. Sometimes it's like he forgets that, barking orders and unreasonable demands like he owns the ground I walk on.

  And then it hits me, a thought that seems to take shape as I speak. “I just need a girl,” I say out loud. “Someone who will be willing to go along with this. . .”

  I don't need a real wife, I need a fake one. One my father will hate, one he'll demand I leave. And I'll be able to use that to get what I want, to get what's rightfully mine.

  The idea seems to roll into my brain like lava, slow and thick, and setting me on fire. All I need is a good actress, not a real woman.

  I need a girl who will be willing to go along with the idea. A girl who comes from nothing, someone my father won't want to be seen with.

  My eyes shift to the folder on my desk, the bright red folder, full of names that are looking for their shot to come intern at the distillery.

  A little smirk slips easily over my lips as I walk to my desk and pick up the folder. Peeling back the cover, I scan the list of names, feeling the weight instantly lift off my shoulders.

  There has to be someone in this list that’s exactly what I’m looking for, and I’m not going to settle until I find her.

  I have to fight fire with fire. If my father wants to try and control my life, right down to the very detail of when my children should be born, then I can play the same game.

  He overstepped his boundaries, trying to twist my arm into doing something I'm not ready for. Something I don't even want at all.

  My father has no right to plan or give me a deadline for my future. This is my life, it’s for me to decide.

  I’m pissed.

  Two can play this game.

  The winner will come down to who plays it better.

  2

  Starla

  I can't believe this, I can't believe this is actually happening.

  Pressing the phone harder against my ear, I'm ready to just hang up and drive to my best friend's house instead.

  Come on, Em, come on, pick up already.

  “Hello?” Her voice is so faint I almost miss it, ready to give up.

  “I got it! I freaking got it, Em!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. . . Why are you being so loud, and what did you get? It's not an STD, is it?” I can hear the sleepiness in my best friend's voice as she yawns while she's talking. “What time is it anyway?”

  “It's nine in the morning, you lazy ass.” Shaking my head to myself, I rub my forehead. “And no, shit head, I didn't get an STD, I got the internship!”

  Emily yawns louder, her voice crackling as she lets out all the air in her lungs. “That's great, Star.” She sounds exhausted, like she was up all night and has a raging hangover.

  “Were you out last night drinking without me? You never sleep this late.”

  “Well, Tom—”

  “Ahh, Tom, should have known, that explains it then.”

  Tapping my fingers on the table, I pick at the corner of the acceptance letter. I must have the read the letter over a dozen times, making sure I hadn't read it wrong.

  I kept scanning for the part where they say they're sorry, but I'm not what they're looking for. And for the first time ever, it feels like things are finally starting to fall into place for me. I'm so excited I just need to tell someone, and that someone of course is my best friend Emily.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah—so anyway, you really got it? You got that internship you applied for?”

  “I got it!”

  “That's awesome, it's perfect for you. You spent how many years practicing for this job?”

  “If you count that summer I spent testing different alcohol content, and how they affect the female mind, it's been four years.”

  “Did you tell your mom yet?”

  “No, you're the first person I called. I'll have to tell her later though, because I'm supposed to be at Sheckler Distillery in an hour.”

  “How long before you get here then to raid my closet?” Emily asks.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Uh, let's see, you don't own any dresses, only jeans and yoga pants. You don't have any heels, only sneakers and flats. You only own sports bras, t-shirts, and tank-tops. So tell me, what did you plan on wearing to this?”

  Fuck, she's right.

  I hadn't thought about this first meeting or the impression I wanted to make. If I want this to turn from an internship into a full time gig, I can’t show up in yoga pants and a tank-top. That wouldn't be professional or m
ake me stand out as the right choice for the job.

  “Be there in ten.”

  “I'll have coffee on for you.”

  Hanging up with Emily, I grab my clutch and keys and drive the short distance to her house.

  Emily and I have been friends since we were seven years old. We met in first grade after I transferred when my mother lost her job, and we had to move from our house into an apartment.

  Things were rough, and they haven’t gotten much better over the years. Until this morning when I got the mail and saw the acceptance letter. I hate checking the mail, I did everything I could to avoid it.

  There’s never anything good in there. Mostly just bills or collector notices. Once in a while, I get some decent coupons, but nothing really worth gloating over, not like this.

  Pulling up to Emily's, I can already see her standing in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee. She walks to meet me in the parking lot, steam rolling off the hot coffee as she passes it to me when I open my door.

  Her hair is a disaster, pulled up into a messy bun that resembles a bird's nest. There are smears of black eyeliner under her eyes, creating a lovely raccoon effect. Her robe strokes the ground as the hem swings back and forth, pulling broken leaves and acorn debris into the fabric. The girl looks like she had one hell of a night, either that, or she has the flu and hasn't left her bed in days.

  “You're a life saver,” I say, taking the coffee and climbing out.

  “I know.” Her smile is smug, and I can see her friendship ego as it soars through the sky. “You'd be better off wearing a potato-sack and going barefoot than wearing anything you own.”

  “Hey! Have you looked in the mirror yet? Because you're one to talk.”

  “Yeah, but I have an excuse.”

  Giving her a little shove, we both laugh. I follow her inside, clutching my cup of coffee like a lifeline. “So Miss Style, what do you suggest I wear?”

  Emily screeches like an excited child, shaking her fists up by her face. “Let me work my magic. Come on.” With a skip in her step, she sets her mug down on the counter as she walks through her kitchen and into her bedroom.

  Her apartment is small, a first floor, one bedroom, last renovated circa nineteen ninety-one. There's blue wallpaper with small white flowers covering her kitchen walls, and tan laminate sheet countertops.

  Burn marks pepper the surface from hot pans, and the edges are chipped and worn down from years of use. All the ceilings have those three ring light fixtures that buzz when she turns them on, the ones that sound like a hive of bees.

  Emily's passion is not interior design, it’s fashion design, which is why she's so excited for me to raid her closet. Any chance for someone outside our circle to see her style tips makes her happy.

  “Star!” she calls out to me.

  “I'm coming, I'm coming.”

  “Hey, it's not me who needs this internship, it's you. If you want to go looking like you just got done doing leg presses at the gym, be my guest. But if you want to nail this meet and greet, then let's dress you for the part.”

  “Fine, but nothing frilly, lacy, or anything that will make me itch in weird places. I don't want to be scratching like I have body lice or something.”

  “Got it. No rashes or doilies.” Giving me a thumbs up, she throws open her closet door like a bevy of white doves will spring free and fly around the room.

  I half expected the interior to glow like heaven and music to play from above. None of that happens, but damn if that girl doesn’t treat her closet like a treasure chest filled with jewels.

  “Alright, with your skin tone, you'd look gorgeous in green, maybe even a nice blue.” Pulling out several dresses, she lays them on her bed. “But you can tell me what you like better.”

  There are three dresses in front of me and all of them make me want to throw up. A deep, emerald green tea-cup dress with sequins that trace a small flower pattern across a sheer layer on top. The second is more of a pastel blue, and all I can think of is an Easter egg, one that's been dipped repeatedly in dye but won't hold the color.

  None of these dresses match who I am.

  “Hate it.” Touching the first dress, I lift it up and hand it back to her. “Hate it.” Taking the second one, I hold it out for her take. The last dress is the worst, and I can't even look at it without scrunching my face up tight. “Yuck, burn it.”

  The dress is olive green, with white frills on the sleeves, and large out of place buttons down the center.

  “What? That's my favorite one. I wore it to my sister's graduation.” Her voice sounds slightly sad and insulted, and I don't mean to be rude about her clothes.

  I just need her to understand I'm not a dress kind of girl.

  “Em, it's just not me, you know this. I want to look nice, but I also still want to be comfortable. How am I going to make a good impression if I don't feel like I'm in my own skin?”

  “Star—you can't go like that. I know you'd rather be wearing basketball shorts or yoga pants, but this is important. You want to work with fancy alcohol that requires people to know the layers of taste, and what type of hops—”

  “Grains.”

  “What?” Em looks at me confused, so I explain.

  “You don't use hops in whiskey, you use grains. Beer uses hops. Whiskey and beer start off the same, but whiskey uses grains and pitching the yeast in—”

  Opening her lids wide, she lets out a groan as she cut me off. “Okay, whatever. The point is, you want to make a good first impression, and you won't dressed like that.”

  “I just hate dresses.”

  Inside I know she's right, I just don't want to change. There are certain things I love about myself, and it's hard for me step out of that box I've come to love.

  Dresses are a no.

  Push-up bras are a no.

  Fake eyelashes—nope.

  Thongs. . . I should instead ask you thong-wearers—why? Why slip a string purposely up your ass crack? Please, tell me why, so I can understand the meaning of a self-induced wedgie.

  We all avoided them like the plague as kids, but the second girls hit sixteen, some even younger, they start wearing a wedgie like it's some sort of fashion statement.

  Newsflash: it's not.

  “I know, but trust me on this, Star. You want to shine don't you?” Nodding, I can’t argue her point. “Then let me make you the star you are.”

  “Can you do that with a pair of dress pants and flats?” Tilting my head, I arch my brows. “Because that would be great.”

  Sighing, Emily gives me a soft smile. “I've got the perfect thing. One of these days I'll get you in a dress, though.” Going back into her closet, she starts rummaging through the rack. “And a nice pair of fuck-me pumps.”

  Giggling, I walk to her dresser and start looking through her earrings. “Great, so you want me to be half naked and break an ankle. Some friend you are.”

  Poking her head out of the closet, she smirks. “As long as you're half naked and break your ankle because the sex with some dude gets rough, it'll all be worth it.”

  Laughing out loud, I look in the mirror and rest a dangly blue feather earring against my earlobe. “I actually like these earrings.”

  “Good, because they'll match this.”

  Turning to face her, Em is holding a pair of black dress pants, with a white and blue blouse, and a pair of blue flats. The smile on her face is endless as she wiggles the pants side to side. “Better?”

  “Better,” I say.

  “Good,” she says, smiling with a devilish grin. “Now, about your makeup. . .”

  3

  Starla

  I'm standing in Sheckler Distillery, about to meet Bolt Sheckler, and I've never been more nervous in my life.

  The building is brick, and wire caged lights hang from the ceiling on long chains, all of them holding Edison bulbs, giving the room a very old fashioned, industrial look.

  The raw, bare feel of the space, the way the ceilings are open and yo
u can see the beams, the way the floor is dark wood, and the windows are wrapped in iron; I love the place instantly.

  “Hello, I'm Yale Bradson, assistant to Bolt Sheckler. I'd like to welcome you to Sheckler Distillery. We're heading in here,” he says as he opens a door, and I'm struck by a sweet scent that hits me in the face.

  It smells good, and I find myself inhaling longer, deeper breaths. The scent makes my stomach twirl, causing my thighs to squeeze together and my chest to hitch.

  “Mr. Sheckler, this is the woman I was telling you about, Starla Bishop.” Yale takes a long stride into the room, but I'm not ready, so I stay outside the door, hiding in his shadow with my toes touching the threshold.

  Stepping to the side, he exposes where I'm hiding. There's nothing blocking me anymore, and I instantly sense a set of eyes as they look me up and down, covering every inch of my body.

  “Come in.” Mr. Sheckler's voice is deep, the baritone sound cuts through my body, and chills scamper down my spine.

  Intimidation isn’t a feeling I’m used to, but this man gives it a new meaning. The sensation was a mix of hot and cold, of nerves and butterflies, of anxiety and fear. I was a mess with no real direction to go.

  Taking a short step into the room, I finally lift my head to see a man perched behind a giant desk with his hands folded in front of his face. There's a shadow blanketing him, and all I can make out are his eyes.

  Bright, bold, green orbs are peering at me from the other side of the room, they're intense, I can feel them on my skin, making the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

  They move from my face down my throat and over my chest. Inhaling a sharp breath as his eyes hover over my breasts, my chest snaps out hard, and the man smiles, exposing bright white teeth. I can't control this, the way my body is responding to just his eyes.

  Another wave of shivers washes down my body as I stand silently, waiting for him, frozen in place by his unrelenting stare. I want to move, to take a bold step forward and make him see me, not the timid girl that has suddenly taken over my body. This girl came out of nowhere, I don’t even recognize who she is.