Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 2

  Perched on the top step, Tara’s wearing an indecently short blue and yellow sundress and holding her knees. She bolts up as I near.

  “Please me, baby, turn around and just tease me, baby…” I sing and dance over to her despite my aching feet just ’cause I’m feeling silly.

  “It’s about freaking time, Jacobs.” She glowers at me in faux rage. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

  Hugging her and patting her head in greeting, I hold up my phone behind her back and check the time of the text. “You’ve been waiting,” I say as I pull back, “exactly twelve minutes.”

  Pursing her shiny pink lips, she knuckles her hips. “Seemed much longer. Are you going to leave me on your doorstep all day, woman?” And then as if she just notices my outfit, she whistles. “What’s with the getup? Planning to go on the stroll later tonight?”

  “Hey, piss off. This dress cost me three Benjamins… and we won’t even talk about the shoes.” I trounce up the remaining steps with Tara on my heels. My tall red heels. It’s true the clothes are pricey, but they’re a business expense. If I’m to impersonate a rich girl, I have to look and act the part.

  The apartment complex is three stories tall, a U-shaped building with a central courtyard, the latter used once upon a time as a loading dock, garbage removal, and general butthole of the building. Now residential, it is a green space with outdoor sculptures, a fountain, and benches around the perimeter. We walk through the front entrance, go straight through to the back door to take a short cut to my unit located at the right arm of the building, cutting across the green expanse of lawn. The minute I push open the heavy metal door, I yank off my shoes.

  “Oh my God, that feels sooo good,” I nearly scream. “High heels are beautiful, but they are treacherous. I swear they are God’s rage at women for convincing dopey old Adam to bite into that juicy apple.”

  “Let me see those,” Tara says, grabbing for my shoe. She looks at the label and then looks up at me, wide-eyed. “You weren’t kidding when you said the shoes were expensive. Who are you doing?”

  “Later. First let’s go pop open a bottle of merlot, and you can tell me what’s up with you.”

  “You know I never pass up a chance to talk about myself. Do you have any prosecco instead?” she asks, trailing behind me as I nearly sprint to the kitchen.

  My loft apartment has two levels. The main floor has an open-concept living room, dining area, and kitchen. The upper level has a large bedroom, bath, and small office. The kitchen is almost my favorite room. It is open with an island. The floor is made of wood blocks that look like bricks, the most unusual flooring I’ve ever seen and manufactured right here in Chicago. The appliances are glass and stainless and the countertops polished cement. Grey metal cabinets with sliding doors give the kitchen an industrial flavor. The lighting is warm, though, with handblown colored-glass pendants that lend the whole space a coziness it wouldn’t otherwise have with the modern décor.

  And yes, it is way too expensive for my budget, but I love it just so much, and the owner gave me a great deal on the rent.

  Tara looks around the kitchen. “What a huge difference from our crappy kitchen on Belmont Avenue.”

  Times were tough for us when Tara and I were new to Chicago. Our apartment was spacious and had lots of old-world charm but was run-down. Sort of like an aging starlet where you could see how she was once beautiful, but now after neglect, she’s a train wreck. Things were always falling apart, our kitchen was last renovated when Elvis was big, and the one bedroom was divided into two tiny rooms with no closets.

  Still I was glad for it considering what happened to me when I first arrived in this city. But I won’t even allow myself to go there.

  Almost two years into our new life in a new city, we waited tables to pay the bills and rarely had enough left over to both pay for our classes and eat. Our survival hinged almost entirely on consuming one decent meal at work and then at home it was ramen or mac and cheese. Things like fresh vegetables, fruit, and herbs were a luxury splurge.

  When this job found me, it was the first time I could spend any money without getting sick to my stomach with worry. After a while, I even began to get used to having some money in the bank.

  Last year, after she graduated, Tara got a new job too—an office job with a decent salary—so we’ve both been doing better in recent times.

  On tiptoe, I reach for stemware hanging under a high cabinet. The prosecco is chilled from the wine cooler. I slide open a drawer to get the corkscrew, slamming it closed with a swing of my hips. In less than two minutes we’re sitting on the overstuffed sofa in the living room with our glasses full to the brim.

  “What’s going on?” I ask before taking a large swallow of the pink bubbles, feeling them tickle my nose.

  Tara heaves out a loud breath and places her drink on the coffee table. “I quit my job.”

  That sits me up straight, almost spilling my drink in the process. “What? Why? I thought you loved it.”

  With both hands she pushes back her wavy reddish-blond curls and holds the sides of her head, shaking it as she does. “I did. I do. I don’t know, I probably made a mistake. It’s just that I lost my shit, and the only way out of it with a shred of dignity intact seemed to be to quit and storm out of the office.”

  I let the wine linger on my tongue a moment before swallowing. “Give me the rundown.” Honestly, I don’t really want to hear every excruciating detail of Tara’s temper tantrum, but I know from past experience it’s the best way to make her feel better: let her talk, get it out of her system, get bored, and move on. I listen for the next thirty minutes as she rehashes every single detail. As is usually the case with Tara, the drama involves a man she found attractive and a woman she didn’t.

  When she is talked out, she finishes her wine and holds up the glass. I get up and pour us both more, then sink back into the sofa at the opposite end.

  “So,” Tara says, one hand brushing back her hair, “why the sexy outfit?”

  “Oh, a client asked me to wear these clothes.” I run my hand down the front of my dress. “He was very specific in how he wanted me to look.”

  “Why?” She kicks off her sandals and brings her feet up to the edge of the sofa seat. “What kind of job were you doing for him exactly?”

  Tara is one of only three people in my life who knows what I do. Cilla is another, and my movement teacher is the third. I tell everyone else I work in an office, one that is never fully described, the topic being carefully avoided whenever possible.

  As I’m finishing my second glass and feeling tipsy, my phone pings. “Tar, hand me my phone.”

  While handing it over, Miss Nosy reads what she can. “Whoa, another job?”

  “Give me that,” I snap, reaching to snatch the phone. Quickly I scan the text and see it’s a job offer from a repeat customer. I type out a reply and put the phone on the table.

  “So? Are you going to tell me?”

  “New assignment.”

  She smiles crookedly. “Anything good?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe.” I sip my wine, casting my mind toward my closet and what I need to buy for my upcoming jobs.

  Tara sighs dramatically. “I need a reliable boyfriend. I’m sick of always getting involved with dicks.” Her eyes drop down to her bare feet. “I just had a pedicure and Rina did a sloppy job today. I think she was upset about something.”

  Tara jumps from one topic to another. You really have to pay attention to keep up sometimes. I place the phone on the end table and turn back to her. “Did you ask her if she was okay?”

  She screws her lips to one side, shaking her head. “I love her to death, but I can’t understand a word she says. She mumbles, you know? And with her thick Russian accent, it’s anybody’s guess what she’s saying. Poor thing, I gave her a healthy tip. Best I could do.” She tips back her head and downs the rest of her wine. “Ah, I totally needed that.”

  “It’s Polish.”

  Sh
e looks at her glass suspiciously. “What is?”

  “Her accent. Rina’s Polish.”

  “Oh, is she? And all this time I thought she was Russian. Go figure.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  She winks and clicks her tongue. “In so many ways, baby.”

  2

  Marley Jacobs

  “Wow, you are one gorgeous girl. I wish you really were my wife.”

  The man gushing over me is my newest client, Todd Richmond, referred to me by one of my first. I get all my jobs through word of mouth because I’m not a hundred percent certain that what I do is legal. I’m pretty sure it is, but why tempt fate, right? This way, it feels a little safer too though that might just be my wishful thinking.

  “I’m glad you think so.” I smile at him. I think men find me attractive because I’m tall and blond—well relatively tall but very blond. Still, I’ve yet to meet a man who bothers to get to know the person under all the flaxen hair and big smile.

  We’re sitting in a taxi about to go into a conference room in the large sandstone building—a hotel now—with, I’m guessing, a great view of Lake Michigan considering it’s right on the shore. Todd’s a decent-looking guy—sandy hair, good features, fair complexion—but he’s a nervous type, talking fast and a lot, his hands flying around his face, gesturing. Being around him is kind of exhausting, but he’s full of compliments for me so that’s sweet. “Why don’t you bring me up to speed on what my role is today?”

  The assignment calls for me to play his wife during an important meeting. That much I know. I loved the red dress that I wore for Harold’s job so much, I went back to the store and bought it in the iridescent color. It looks excellent with my coloring—my natural complexion looks like it’s lightly tanned. Supposedly we have Cherokee somewhere in our bloodline. I also wore the false lashes since they make me feel beautiful.

  To that I added falsies to make my boobs look bigger and padded undies to make my butt plumper. I glued my upper lip to the skin under my nose to make my lips look poutier. I wore my blond hair long but curled it so it looks wavier and thicker, and I put in temporary color to give it some contrasting skunk streaks.

  This girl that I’m playing—Taryn Richmond—is an aspiring actress, but all she ever gets are small roles in low-budget or student films. Fortunately, she has a doting husband who pays her bills so she can pretend to be living her best life.

  “I have an important meeting today,” Todd explains. “I’m considering a large purchase—a firm that I can fold into my transportation holding company. I’d buy it outright and then take it public next year. Keep controlling interest but free up cash for more acquisitions. It’s what I do.” He mops sweat off his brow with the side of his finger.

  “I’m single—never been married— but I started lying about being engaged because it looks better for most jobs. I know it was dumb but… marriage equals stability, you know? Then my so-called engagement went on for so long that I had to progress to a fake marriage.” He barks out a short laugh. “We eloped to Vegas over a long weekend. Just to avoid all the family drama that goes with a big wedding. So that worked out. But someone called my bluff and requested I bring my wife to this meeting. I’m not even sure why.”

  “So… you need me to just look good and smile occasionally?”

  Todd grins at me, flushing. There is something endearing about him. “You don’t even have to smile. I might ask for your opinion only because I think that’s what a husband would do. Right?”

  I nod. “One would hope so.”

  “Yeah, so when I ask, just give me your honest opinion. We’ll go with that. Otherwise, just look good and… yeah, that’s it. Oh, wait.” He pats his breast pocket and then his pants pockets, reaching into one. “I almost forgot. Here’s a wedding ring.” He opens his hand, and there’s a cheap-looking gold band sitting on his palm.

  I hold up my left hand. I’m wearing a thin diamond wedding band that I purchased myself after my first big paycheck. Realizing I needed one after a client had to scramble to find a ring at the last minute, I invested in a tasteful band that looks way more expensive than it actually was.

  Todd nods his head. “You’re prepared—I like that. And since that one is so much nicer than this pathetic thing, I think we should go with yours. Oh, your name is Taryn Richmond, correct?”

  “Yes, we definitely don’t want to get our wires crossed on that one.” I check my hair in the rearview mirror one last time and then give him a smile. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Todd pays the fare, and we climb out of the cab into the bracing early-morning air. It’s supposed to be a scorcher later today if the weather people got it right, but right now the morning air is cool, and the young grass edging the sidewalks glitters with morning dew. Todd crooks his arm and I loop my hand through. The elevator is open and waiting and whisks us up to the second-floor pavilion. The conference room is straight ahead.

  The air conditioning has made the room frigid, and as we enter I feel a shudder wriggle up my body like an air bubble. It’s quiet. Everyone is speaking in hushed tones, and though there are only six of us in total, including Todd and me, the table where two men and a woman huddle around a laptop and a stack of papers can seat a couple of football teams. At one end of the long table is a CEO-type guy with a laptop in front of him and a few sheets of paper to the side. A shiny silver pen lies diagonally on the paper.

  As we approach the table, I try to look as confident as I should. I’m playing a role, and I’m being paid to do it well. The man at the table looks up as we approach, and I can easily spot the spark of surprise in his eyes as he takes my presence in. Is it surprise over me personally or just that I’m here at all?

  Todd reaches out his hand toward the man. “Mr. Hammer. This is my wife, Taryn.”

  The man stands up. “Harry, please.” Mr. Hammer shakes his hand and turning to me, flashes me a megawatt smile. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Richmond.

  3

  Fletcher Creed

  My eyes are glued to the screen because I can’t fucking believe what I’m seeing. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Who is this woman, and more urgently, why the hell did I send Hammer to close this deal? The money was practically in my hand, and I just watched it fly away with a big assist from my jackass colleague Harry Hammer, the man who was supposed to get the contract signed and get out of there.

  And her.

  I study her face closely through the monitor. I don’t think I’ve seen her before—I’d definitely remember her. She’s drop-dead gorgeous and evidently smart though her reasons for discouraging her husband from the sale are not sound. They could be legitimate if the company wasn’t in a healthy state, but it definitely is. I’m not looking to cheat anyone—I just need to turn some assets liquid in a big hurry to do a stock buyback.

  Scrubbing my face with both hands, I rack my brain for some way forward. I can’t think of any right off the bat. Well, except for one drastic option. That sends my fury into DEFCON level. I look around for something to throw, but there’s nothing around of enough heft to be satisfying. Plus, there’s a lot of glass in my office. Bolting out of my chair and despite the restrictions of my tailored suit, I drop to the floor and start pushups to burn off some of this crazy adrenaline. It’s a better alternative to murder, plus, I’m not sure who my victim should be.

  Forty-nine, fifty. I drop to the carpet and roll to my back, the whole time my mind focused on the beautiful woman who just sank my sale.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Less than an hour later, Hammer returns to the office, a sheepish expression on his ruddy face. Per my text he comes straight to the top floor and tentatively taps on my office door. I march over to it and fling it open, spin around, and stalk back to my desk.

  “Close the door behind you.” I’m so furious with him that I need to keep it in check to avoid ending him here and now.

  Hammer winces as he rushes to comply. He’s heavy into self-p
reservation. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me what the fuck went wrong? Why the hell was the wife there in the first place?”

  “No idea.” He starts fiddling with his tie, his eyes refusing to meet mine. It’s a sign that he’s lying, and it’s pissing me off even more, if that’s even possible. I’m tempted to kick him when he speaks up again. “When she walked in with him, it was a total surprise.”

  “Total?”

  I glare at him, my anger like a living thing in the room with us. I know he can feel it. This sale was in the fucking bag and poof, he made it disappear like a fucking magician. The meeting was basically a formality—to sign the contract, which had already been drafted and vetted by our legal department and was signature ready. And then… gone. It evaporated in two seconds. If I hadn’t seen it go down in real time, I almost wouldn’t have believed it.

  Hammer knows me well enough to know the current state I’m in, which is why he scurried into my office and plopped his ass right in the chair I pointed to. And now he’s letting me rant without response. Good.

  “Tell me something, Hammer, because I really want to know. Truly. How was it a total surprise? How? He must have brought her for a reason. He must have said something at your previous meeting, given you some inkling that he was getting cold feet. Had I had some warning beforehand, I would have handled it differently. I would have probably gone myself or at least accompanied you. I would have reassured him, damn it.”

  Hammer holds up his hands, his face a deep scarlet—whether from shame or fear of my wrath, I’m not sure. “All I know is that at our last sit-down, he was yakking about how hot his wife was and what great tits she had, blah, blah, blah. I said I’d like to meet her sometime—just to be polite,” he hurries to add when he sees the escalating anger on my face, no doubt. “He never mentioned bringing her… never gave me any clue he wasn’t all in on the deal either. I’m telling you the truth.” He heaves a great sigh. “I’m sorry, Creed.”