The Devil Wears Black

by Shen, L. J.

  “I said ‘beach.’ Surely you like building sandcastles.”

  “Uh, duh, I do.”

  I loved my best friend, but she was a role model to children like I was a can of soup. She didn’t even want to have any (children, not soup. Layla loved soup). Nevertheless, Layla had a point. I was going to attend my fake engagement party with the man of my nightmares, but I was going to do it in style. Chase and I had spent Christmas at his Hamptons estate before we’d broken up. It was the kind of place you only got to see on HGTV or celebrity Instagram stories. Problem was, Layla was a notorious commitment-phobe. Spending time with the man who’d broken her heart would never pose a problem, because her heart would never get broken.

  “You know what? You’re right. I’ll do just that. High five, Timothy.” I offered the kid my open palm with a smile. He stared at me vacantly, unmoving.

  “Mommy says not to let strangers touch me. I could get kidnapped.”

  Not if the kidnapper knows what your lungs are capable of.

  “Well, then it’s settled. You’re going to have fun, not overanalyze every moment, and allow yourself the luxury of an oopsie hate flock without getting attached.”

  “Hey! You said—” Timothy started.

  “Flock. I said ‘flock.’ Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.” Layla slammed the door in my face before I had the chance to moan about my upcoming weekend.

  That was when I noticed Layla’s word of the day.

  Birthday: the anniversary of the day on which a person was born, typically treated as an occasion for celebration and the giving of gifts.

  It was his birthday when Chase had cheated on me.

  And just like that, my mood turned sour again.

  Chase was five minutes late. Deliberately, no doubt. Punctuality had always been his forte. But if riling me up were an Olympic sport, he’d have an array of gold medals, a book deal, and a steroids scandal by now.

  He double-parked in front of my building, blocking traffic with the nonchalance of a psychopath who truly didn’t care what people thought of him. He got out, rounded the car, and wordlessly pried my suitcase from my fingers before throwing it into his trunk. People honked and shook their fists out their windows behind us, yelling their opinion about his poor driving skills while wishing him acute injuries in various creative ways, their heads poking out of their cars. He slipped back into his vehicle and buckled up, in no hurry. I was still glued to the sizzling curb, trying to come to terms with the idea of spending time with him. He rolled the passenger window down, giving me that barely patient smile he awarded his employees that made you feel so stupid you needed to wear a helmet indoors.

  “Stage fright, love?” He said the word love like it was profanity.

  I had to remind myself his mind games didn’t matter. Ronan Black mattered. His sister and his mother mattered. Their hearts. My conscience.

  “Sure,” I bit out sarcastically. “Wouldn’t want my fake in-laws to think their fake future daughter-in-law is not as charming as they initially thought.”

  “Ever heard about the term fake it till you make it?”

  “I’m sure the women in your life are familiar with it,” I quipped.

  He smirked wryly. “Our relationship might’ve been fake, but the orgasms were anything but.”

  The cars behind him honked loudly, not pausing for a breather. The sound began to echo in my head. I wanted Chase to know I was not going to be some yes-woman who’d cater to every whim and idea he had, even if I’d agreed to help him.

  “Get in, Mad. Unless you want me to get in a fight with half the street.”

  “Tempting,” I bit out. I mean, it was.

  He smirked, completely oblivious to the chaos teeming behind him as more and more cars began to honk. It wasn’t like me to keep people waiting, but making my point trumped being polite. He needed to know I was serious.

  “If you get nervous, just picture everybody naked.”

  “All right, then,” I said, my eyes traveling as south as they could down his body at this angle. “Are you cold, Mr. Black?”

  He laughed, enjoying our exchange. “I don’t remember you being so feisty.”

  “I don’t remember you being this intolerable,” I shot back. I realized it was true. When we’d dated, he’d seemed way more polite and closed off, and I was . . . well, less myself.

  I hopped into his car, opting to stare out the window throughout the drive, watching Manhattan’s high-rises sliding by in slow motion. Like flicking through a magazine quickly, the scenery changed frequently, glossy through the filter of the squeaky-clean window. All the hysteria I’d somehow managed to shove under piles of to-do lists and work throughout the week simmered back up as we left the city. How was I supposed to mask the sheer loathing I had for this man? I couldn’t kiss him or hold his hand. Jesus, I’d just realized I was supposed to share a room with him. No way, José.

  It had been hard enough to explain the situation to Ethan a couple of days after agreeing to this fiasco, when I’d met him after Chase dropped in for a visit. I relayed the entire situation to him, including Chase’s cheating, his dying father, and my own experience of losing a parent. Then I told him about the nickname Sven and Layla had slapped on me. Martyr Maddie.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I asked Ethan for the millionth time over xiao long bao and Chinese beers. I was treading carefully. I understood how crazy it all sounded. Ethan and I had never discussed exclusivity. We dated casually but hadn’t slept together, let alone put a label on what we were. We had shared a few sloppy kisses, nothing more. I wanted him to put his foot down and tell me he wasn’t comfortable with the idea. It’d have been the perfect excuse. But Ethan, who saw the good in everything—serial killers included, I suspected—simply nodded, grabbing another dumpling with a chopstick and tossing it into his mouth.

  “Sure? I am more than sure. I’m honored to be dating someone like you. The only thing this weekend in the Hamptons is going to prove is that you”—he pointed at me with his chopsticks—“are an amazing person. Chase Black was a fool to cheat on you, and you’re still helping him out. You’re fantastic.”

  I watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Besides, we aren’t really exclusive, are we?” He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. “We haven’t even . . . you know.”

  I did know.

  “So”—he shrugged—“it’s not like I’m in any position . . . what I mean to say is that I’m good with it. Really.”

  For some reason, his reaction had unsettled me. I wanted him to be at least a little unnerved by the prospect of my spending the weekend with my ex-boyfriend. Which was completely irrational, since I wasn’t possessive toward Ethan at all, and because he was right—he and I weren’t really exclusive.

  Back in reality, Chase read my thoughts.

  “Does he have a name?” He snapped me out of my reverie, his eyes still glued to the traffic jam we were approaching. It seemed like the entire world was headed to the Hamptons. A bottleneck of trucks, Priuses, and convertibles waiting in a never-ending line of vehicles.

  “Don’t start,” I warned.

  He tutted. “Touchy. I’d be, too, if my partner was dumb enough to send me off to a weekend in the Hamptons with someone who’d previously fucked me to three consecutive orgasms in less than twenty minutes.”

  “Can you be any cockier?” I whipped my head around to scowl at him.

  “Yes, but then I’d have to wear a condom.”

  There had been some relief to breaking up with Chase. Six months into our relationship, I was still flustered and constantly berating myself for saying the wrong thing in his presence. My voice was always high pitched when he was around, and I filtered my words, my thoughts, to try to be the woman I thought the Chase Black would date. He felt so far out of my league that I concentrated on not making errors more than I did on getting to know him and having fun. I’d always felt less. Less attractive, less stylish, less smart. Hat
ing him now was so much easier than trying to worm my way into his bitter heart, like I had when we were dating.

  “So. His name.” Chase returned to the subject at hand.

  “How is that your business?” I began to scratch at my nail polish to keep my hands from strangling him.

  “It is my business who my fiancée is fucking,” he said matter-of-factly. I paused midscratch, pulling at the delicate flesh around one nail and tugging at the dead skin until it ripped.

  “Fake fiancée,” I corrected.

  “And a real pain in the ass.”

  “Gosh, Chase, how are you single? You’re just about the most charming man I’ve ever met.”

  “I choose to be single,” he fired back, smiling patronizingly. “Just like you choose to date anyone under the sun, just as long as you’re not alone.”

  Ouch. Awkward silence filled the car. The banter was fine, but when we started speaking truths, that was when it got too much. Not that I did date anyone under the sun, but I was pretty sure Chase actually believed what he’d said. I decided to play along. It wasn’t like I had anything to hide. I was proud of Ethan.

  “Ethan. Ethan Goodman.”

  “Goodman,” Chase repeated, whistling low.

  “Nice job, Chase. I didn’t know you had that word in your vocabulary. How did it taste?”

  “Like two point three kids, a suffocating mortgage on a Westchester house you hate, and a midlife crisis consisting of mild alcohol abuse at forty.” His eyes were still hard on the road. “What does Ethan Goodman do for a living?”

  “Doctor.” I kept it vague, feeling my cheeks heat.

  “Hmm. I’m going to rule out plastic surgeon on the grounds that it is too sexy—actually, any kind of surgeon; he doesn’t seem the steady-hand type—and go with dentist.” He paused, frowning at the row of vehicles ahead of him. “No. That would actually be profitable. I changed my mind. Ethan Goodman is a pediatrician.” He swiveled his head, flashing me a smirk so sinister I physically felt it licking at my skin.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I narrowed my eyes. “He saves lives.”

  “Private practice.” He ignored me, hitting the nail on the head once again. “So technically, he fills out growth charts with handwriting nobody can understand and examines butt rashes. Let me guess—he did a tour somewhere to give back to the community. Gain perspective. South America? Asia? No . . .” He paused, grinning so widely I was tempted to punch him square in the face. “Africa. He is committed to the cliché.”

  “Yeah, the cliché of saving lives and helping others.” Seriously, my face felt so hot I was one blush away from exploding. “He’s a good man.”

  “Clearly. It’s in his fucking name. And you’re here because Ethan the good man has some commitment issues of his own.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why else would he be okay with this arrangement? He wants to see how you and I play out.”

  “We are not a thing. Ethan and I met at SeriousSinglesOnly.com,” I couldn’t help but blurt out, and I immediately regretted the decision. It wasn’t something I wanted to advertise, but Chase needed to know he was wrong about at least one thing. I mean, obviously, his very existence was wrong on multiple levels, but I was talking specifically about Ethan.

  “You could have met him at WillMarryAnyoneForABlowJob.com, and I would still think the same. He is no more committed to you than you are to me, and you two are forcing this shit upon each other despite you having zero chemistry just because you don’t want to be alone. Called it now. Thank me later.”

  “You’re one to talk,” I muttered, returning to the task of scratching off my nail polish. It was a nasty habit I was trying to kick, but the need to taint his precious Tesla with dry flakes of Moroccan Nights pink was overwhelming.

  “I can do more than talking,” he mumbled.

  “As much as you shutting up is tempting, no thanks.”

  I swiveled my head back to my window, to the safety of watching other people in their cars, trying to lower my heartbeat to a normal rate. I thought we were done talking. I hoped so, anyway. And then . . .

  “Hope you’re okay with fifty years of lights-off missionary, eating rolled oats for breakfast every day, and naming your pets after trashy reality-TV celebrities your kids idolize.” He kept baiting me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and jump out the window, but I didn’t trust Chase not to do unholy things with the body I’d shed and leave behind.

  I put my hand to my heart, feigning shock. “The horror of living a good, quiet life with an honest man, pets, and kids will haunt me forever. I beg you, stop.”

  He sent me a sidelong glance. “You wear sarcasm well.”

  I waited for the strike to come. Chase didn’t disappoint.

  “Unfortunately, it is the only thing you wear that doesn’t look ridiculous.”

  “Can you just shut up? It’s bad enough you forced me into coming here. Don’t offer me unsolicited commentary about my style or analyze my current relationship. I just want someone nice and normal.”

  It was hard to admit, even to myself, that now I was even more nervous about sex with Ethan. If he wasn’t going to rip my clothes off and take me against a spiked wall in a BDSM dungeon, I was going to be disappointed, solely based on the fact Chase had been right about pretty much everything else about him.

  No, I chided myself. Ethan doesn’t have doubts about dating me. We’d been hanging out for three whole weeks and still hadn’t slept together. He was obviously in it for the long run.

  I could see Chase shaking his head in my periphery, chuckling to himself. “You don’t want what normal people want, Mad.”

  “You don’t know what I want.”

  More silence. My soul was banging its head against the futuristic-looking dashboard. Why did I have a soft spot for people I didn’t know? Why had I thought this was a good idea? But I never really could refuse small acts of kindness. That was why I didn’t narc on Nina from work for bullying me. I knew intern jobs in fashion were hard to come by, so I sucked it up while Nina verbally abused me daily. I kept a chocolate bar in my purse in case others fainted on the subway and needed sugar to spike their blood pressure. It was an Iris Goldbloom trait I’d inherited.

  “Friendly reminder—you have to pretend that you like me,” Chase snapped after a while, tap-tap-tapping his steering wheel with his perfect long fingers. I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose.

  “I know.”

  “Convincingly.”

  “I could be convincing.”

  “Debatable. There may be touching involved. Light patting in nonstrategic areas and so forth.” His eyes were still on the road.

  “Are you out of your mind?” I hissed.

  “Presently, yes, hence why you’re here. As a result, we’re going to have to play the loving couple.”

  “We will. Now can you please, please be quiet? I’m doing you a favor. A huge one. Don’t make me regret it,” I finally barked, feeling dangerously close to falling apart. My face was hot, my eyes watery, and it felt like someone had punched my nose from the inside.

  To my surprise, he zipped it.

  We zoomed past Long Island, the Tesla’s quiet buzz the only background noise accompanying the drive. I closed my eyes, feeling my throat bob with a swallow.

  I longed for a truce. For Chase to take a step back and let me gather my ragged self-esteem and frayed thoughts. For a sign what I was doing was the right thing and not destructive to both my heart and his family.

  Most of all, I longed to run away. Somewhere far, where he couldn’t grab my heart with his poisonous claws again and devour it.

  See, I had a secret I didn’t share with anyone. Not even Layla.

  Sometimes, at night, I could feel Chase’s claws sliding across my heart, sharp as blades. I still wasn’t over him. Not truly. I didn’t even think it was love—there was nothing about Chase’s personality I particularly enjoyed.

  I was obsessed.

  Consu
med.

  Completely enamored.

  Problem was, Missionary Ethan, I knew, would be kinder on my heart than Reverse Cowgirl Chase.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHASE

  First thing I’d noticed about Madison Goldbloom when I’d hit on her in Croquis’s elevator? Her beautiful hazel eyes.

  Okay. Fine. It was her tits. Sue me.

  To anyone else, they were probably average, pleasant-looking tits. They were even modestly tucked inside a perfectly sensible, albeit visually offensive white turtleneck with a tacky lipstick pattern all over it. But they were so perky—so goddamn erect and round—I couldn’t help but note they were the perfect size for my palms.

  In order to test that theory, I had to wine and dine her first. Since nature all but conned me to pursue her, I took Madison to one of Manhattan’s finest restaurants that same evening and spared no expense—nor compliment—for the sake of my palm-to-tit ratio research.

  (Which turned out to be a success. Science, baby. Never failed.)

  Madison was smaller than the average human being, which was preferable, seeing as I hated people, so the less there was of them, the better. Alas, this specific person was a honey trap. Because what she lacked in size, she made up for with enthusiasm. She was perky and charitable and got breathless when she spoke about things she was passionate about. She cooed at babies and patted dogs on the street and made eye contact with strangers on the subway. She was in-your-face alive in ways I wasn’t accustomed to or comfortable with, and that didn’t sit well with me.

  As for her clothes . . . part of me wanted to take them off her because they were horrendous, and it had nothing to do with the sex part.

  It was never supposed to be more than a fling. The thought of it exceeding the shelf life of a week hadn’t even crossed my mind. My relationships typically coordinated their expiration dates with my milk cartons. In my thirty-one years of existence prior to meeting her, I’d only had one girlfriend, and it had ended in a farce that reminded me that humans, as a concept, were faulty and unpredictable and, although unavoidable, should be kept at arm’s length.

  Then came Madison Goldbloom, and poof! Girlfriend number two materialized. If we were being technical here, she didn’t earn the title. She stole it.