Groomless - Part 3 (10 page)

Luke looked over at me and just held me in his arms. I felt the warmth of his kiss on my hair and his thumb brushing tears off my cheek. Luke didn’t seem to mind how ugly I was in that moment, bawling, half-asleep, sweaty, and terrified. Instead of feeling self-conscious and trying to hide my feelings, I just kissed him for all I was worth.

I shut my eyes, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pulled him down onto the couch with me, opening his lips and pressing my tongue between them. He kissed me softly, languorously, never pulling back, never pushing me or tearing at my clothes. Luke stretched out to his full length on the couch beside me and pulled me up to face him. He kept his knee between my legs and his hands on my face, then casually brushed back my tangled hair. He kissed me so long that I began to suffocate. From confusion left over from my horrific dream, coupled with lack of oxygen from his smothering kisses, I found it hard to remember where I was or even what year we were in.

Softly, he laughed against my mouth.

“What?” I demanded, drawing back.

“Sometimes the simplest solutions are the best. How sixteen of us though.”

“Huh?”

“I would have done exactly the same thing. ‘I’m upset. Let’s make out.’”

I burst out laughing. “Whatever works,” I said with a shrug, struggling to sit up. “I think I’ve occupied your couch long enough. I’ll just find my ugly dress and go.”

“No need to rush off. You should at least eat before you run,” he said, gesturing to the food that had been delivered.

“I got wasted at ten in the morning and made a pass at you. I guarantee you it’s time to leave,” I said decisively and fought my way out of the tangled cashmere blanket.

“I won’t tell anyone on
The Today Show
about this. Don’t worry,” he said. “Besides, Liz might kill me.”

“Good. Otherwise, I’ll break more than your finger this time. You may be doing me a favor, but I also have a reputation to protect here. Notoriously drunken sluts don’t make it well in the fashion photography industry.”

“You’re not notorious yet. I think we have to stick to the script anyway. If we don’t, we’ll have to watch another PowerPoint and take notes.”

“Would she put us in detention for passing notes to each other?” I asked.

“We’re adults. We’re allowed to keep our phones on and text now. How many days’ detention did you get for that from old Sawyer back in the day anyway? I forget.”

“She gave me a week of before-school detention, the depths of hell.”

“Before? Vicious. You’ve never been a morning person.”

“It wasn’t the passing of the note that got me a week. It was also the drawing.”

“I never got to see the note. And what did you draw? I saw you doodling all over your sticky note when Liz was talking to us,” he said.

“It was a cartoon, a rather…sexually explicit one. I was really bored watching that dumbass King Arthur musical in English lit.”

“
Camelot
is a classic. Vanessa Redgrave was so hot back then.”

“I’m going to ignore that,” I said, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Well, that’s fine, but I’m not about to ignore this allegedly naughty drawing. In fact, I insist that you draw me a replica right now. Here’s a pad of sticky notes, and here’s a pen.”

“Wow. Office supplies at the ready. You sure are corporate, aren’t you?” I teased.

“It’s not every day I find out someone cruelly intercepted a graphic drawing from my high school girlfriend. I deserve to see it.”

“I thought you were all about making amends to me for dumping my ass and getting rich. What happened to that?”

“Draw,” he commanded.

I pursed my lips and started to draw, taking care to make the stick figures’ interaction completely clear. “Here,” I said, passing the sticky notes to him.

“Really? I waited twenty years to see this work of art, and this is all I get? Stick people?”

“You’ve been waiting nine seconds. I just told you about it. Besides, twenty years ago we were eight.”

“Fine, but it’s very rude to draw your girl stick figure flipping me off like that. She looks kind of bitchy. Not only that, but her middle finger is not proportionate. It’s way too big. So are her boobs, for that matter. She has Kim K. artificial tits.”

“Look, I can overlook the Vanessa Redgrave remark, but Kardashian tits is out of bounds. I hereby revoke your original work of art.” I snatched the sticky note and tore it in half. “And to think Liz was afraid
I’d
be the one who’d embarrass someone on TV, Mr. Tits.”

“My friends call me Luke,” he said. “Only very high-profile business associates are allowed to call me Mr. Tits.”

“Well, I’m your future pretend wife. I can’t get any more high profile or business associated than that, right?” I declared.

“Very well, but I must warn you. As your future pretend husband, it’s important to me that you take my name and become Mrs. Tits.”

“Right. That will look really great at the bottom of all my photo shoots.”

He shrugged. “It’s never held me back.”

“That’s because you don’t have to face the sort of sexism women do. I’m pretty sure no guy I work with, model or otherwise, is going to want to call me Mrs. Tits.”

“You never know, but it might make that Zack friend of yours kind of jealous.”

“Hey!” I said, playfully swatting him. “Leave Zack alone. The poor guy’s still laid up in the hospital from being practically smashed by a bus, and you’re here cracking jokes about him.”

“Sorry,” he said, sticking his bottom lip out in a fake pout.

“Anyway, as your pretend bride, I declare that I’m keeping my own last name. You’re not worth all the red tape I’d have to go through at the Social Security office.”

“How about a hyphen? You could be Julia Cross-Tits.”

“That sounds like a painful birth defect…or a ticked-off stripper.”

“But it’s so memorable. No one will ever forget you. What model wouldn’t want to be photographed by Cross-Tits?”

I couldn’t hold back any longer, and I burst out laughing until tears streamed down my face. “You’re awful, Luke.”

“That’s why you love me,” he said.

“Nah, I got over that years ago. It’s just the whiskey talking now.”

“Damn, JJ. Straight through the heart with that one. Way to kill a guy’s ego. We like to believe any woman we ever dated still carries a torch.”

“I may not have a torch, but I can scare up a pitchfork for an angry mob if I need to.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” he said.

“Hey, Zack can carry a torch. I mean, he’s sort of flaming,” I said, then placed my hand over my mouth.

“Weren’t you just scolding me for making fun of him?”

“Yes, but he’s
my
friend, and he would have laughed at it,” I argued. “I need to get to the hospital to see him. I bet he saw us on TV.”

“Probably,” Luke said. “I’m sure the whole city saw it.”

“Well, for now, I’m gonna go home and order some ribbons and crap for the wedding.”

“Reception,” he corrected.

“Right. Sorry.”

“And don’t order ribbons. We have Trump ribbons. They’re double-faced satin with a gilded monogram above an embossed profile of the man himself, comb-over and all.”

“I have to assume you’re joking. Please tell me my assumption is correct.”

“You know what they say about assuming.”

“What?”

“It makes an ass out of you and me, right?”

“Right.”

“Pink ribbons, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “How’d you know?”

“Some things never change. Making out is a good solution, tit jokes are unpopular with women, and you adore mozzarella cheese, the color pink, and everything Mary J. Blige has ever recorded.”

“True enough. Let’s see. You do crossword puzzles in ink and cuss when you make mistakes. You eat hard-boiled eggs for breakfast every day and probably still have every t-shirt from every Aerosmith tour since 2003.”

“Guilty as charged. I guess we’re both creatures of habit.”

“Do you still watch
The Godfather
trilogy every Halloween?”

“There are only two.”

“Uh-uh,” I argued, shaking my head. “Andy Garcia’s in the third one, and Michael Corleone gets old and falls out of a chair and dies.”

Luke covered his ears with his hands. “You should not speak such vile blasphemy, Mrs. Cross-Tits! As far as any real
Godfather
fan is concerned, that third movie does not exist. It was a mistake from start to finish.”

“There are
three
movies in the DVD set.”

“Which is exactly why I just go to Netflix to watch the real ones, the two that matter.”

“You’re in denial.”

“You said denial is your best friend.”

“Actually, Kate is my best friend.”

“What does she think of all this?”

“She told me to hire a gigolo, Mr. Tits,” I shot back.

“Maybe she’s right. If you verbally abuse him, though, he’ll just quit. I’m stuck with you because I have scheduled TV appearances.”

“You’re just afraid of Liz.”

“That too,” he said.

***

Back at my place again, I couldn’t resist the siren song of the website featuring our segment. I read through the comments; there were hundreds of them. Most told their own stories about losing a parent, sad tales of their mothers or fathers missing out on weddings, births, and graduations. My story had definitely touched a nerve. There were only four negative comments. Two obviously just loathed Luke because he was a rich white guy, and the other two insisted that I was just playing the sympathy card so I could “bone the billionaire” and “get him to marry me.” I took a screenshot and emailed it to Luke.

He called me back immediately. “That girl needs to watch the health film again,” he said. “I’d actually have to do the boning, unless you’ve had some sort of gender reassignment operation since the last time we were in a back seat together…or you’re into toys now.”

I laughed. “We were in a back seat just this morning, Luke, and no genitalia were exposed.”

“Well, I can tell you that my very expensive trousers were uncomfortably tight in the green room, Mrs. Tits,” he said.

“I don’t want your money,” I said.

The phone was suddenly very quiet, and he didn’t offer me a response right away.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you want to back out of our fake reception for some reason.”

“Why do you always jump to the worst conclusions?” he asked.

“It’s just one of the things you love about me, right?”

“Well…”

“Hey!” I teased.

“No, I’m not backing out on our deal, but I am taking you out tonight.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I forgot to mention it to you today, but I have this really boring benefit to attend, and I expect my fake fiancée to be my arm candy.”

“Do I have to wear a floral dress and cross my ankles?”

“Always. It’s in the contract.”

“I didn’t sign any contract.”

“Sure you did. I had Liz scan your retinas. You have to look at me adoringly for a minimum of thirty seconds every minute, and you have to say ‘prince’ and ‘fairytale’ at least once an hour, in reference to me, even if you are speaking with others, twice an hour if you are speaking to members of the press.”

“I don’t recall giving anyone authorization for scanning my retinas either. They’re wild bastards who’ll sign anything if they think there’s free food on the line, but I’m not one of them,” I protested.

“I’m coming to pick you up. I’m bringing a dress, and I have every intention of conducting a spot check to ensure that you won’t be boning me or anyone else tonight.”

“A gynecological exam? Wow. Now that’s sexy talk. Are you bringing stirrups and rubber gloves?”

He was speechless for a moment, then just said, quietly laughing, “Just be ready. I’ll be there shortly.”

As soon as he hung up, I bolted for the bathroom and started flat-ironing my hair and putting on mascara. I did not want him to see me with my hair a mess, and my eyes were bloodshot from starting my day off with whiskey, waking up from a nap with nightmares, and staring at the computer too long doing vanity searches and reading comments.

I fished around in my underwear drawer until I found a lacy teal uplift bra and put it on under my sweats. There was no reason for the lingerie, really, as I knew we were not going to be up to anything R-rated or scandalous. Just in case, though, I wanted to be prepared. To that end, I dry-shaved my legs and slathered myself with vanilla scented lotion.

When Luke arrived, I was sitting casually in my chair, pretending to read a magazine that I really cared nothing about. I couldn’t focus on the stupid “Cramps: How Serious Are They?” article in Kate’s magazine, because I’d been popping out of my chair every two minutes to peer through the peephole and see if he was coming down the hall. When he knocked, I threw the magazine on the floor and ran to answer.

Luke grinned at me when I opened the door. He was freshly showered and smelled great, and his damp hair curled up a bit at the ends. The tuxedo he was wearing would have put James Bond to shame. He looked so masculine, barely civilized, and he was wearing a slightly feral smile.

I bit down on my lip and let him in. “You look like a good dream,” I blurted.

“I can be your sweetest dream or your worst nightmare,” he said.

I snorted. “I said that to you once. I thought it sounded so cool.”

“I thought so too. Thus, it bore repeating,” he said, handing me a garment bag.

“Did your secretary pick this out?”

“No, but she’ll send you over a Trumptastic t-shirt and some jogging shorts with Trump’s face on the ass.”

“I sincerely hope that’s another joke.”

“Mrs. Tits, you have to stay humble. Never be so sophisticated that you think you’re too good to wear Trumptastic ass shorts.”

“How did you ever succeed in business? Seriously. You have the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Some women find it charming.”

“Some women find
your money
charming, Mr. Tits.”

“That was cold.”

“I’m only your pretend bride, right? I don’t owe you any compliments. Now, what’s in this bag?”

“Your dress for tonight.”

“I hope it came with Spanx, because designers and my thighs do not get along.”

“No girdles, but it does come with a bottle of Glenfarclas twenty-five-year-old single-malt.”

“Why?”

“I figured you’d have a headache after this morning and might need a little hair of the dog.”

“A new dress and hard liquor. Gee, Luke. You really know how to get a girl to bone you.”

“Just try on the dress, and I’ll pour the drinks.”

A few minutes later, I walked out of the bedroom in a flame-red, lacy dress, constructed form several sheer panels, with dark beaded swaths embroidered over the crucial places. I looked like a dirty pin-up of a phoenix. I scraped my hair back into a tight twist and put on more eyeliner and some dark red lipstick for drama. “Well?” I asked. “How do I look?”

Luke’s eyes raked over me from head to toe, and he nodded. “Perfect, but you need these,” he said, handing me a velvet pouch.

I loosened the drawstring and pulled out a pair of long ruby and diamond chandelier earrings. I gasped in happy surprise and ran to the mirror to put them on. “At the risk of sounding completely unsophisticated, these earrings freaking rule, Luke. I am so J.Lo in this dress anyway.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I have to give the earrings back, don’t I?”

“Yeah. Sorry. They’re just on loan.”

“I was just asking. I didn’t know if Trump gives out free Trumptastic earrings to his favorite people.”

“Well, it’s not like you’ll ever wear them to work or anything. One of those snarky models you work with would fight you to get her hands on them.”

“Maybe I’d like to show them off,” I said, pivoting to admire their glint in the mirror.

“If it bugs you that much to give them back, I can—”

“No way. You’re not buying me bajillion-dollar earrings.”

“Not even as a fake wedding gift?” he offered.

“No, Luke. You just need to show up in a suit and be nice. That’s more than enough.”

“What if I want to get you a present?”

“Then have your secretary send me a fruit basket on my birthday.”

“April 29?”

“No. Believe it or not, it’s still in March.”

“What?”

“I haven’t changed my birthday. It’s still March 2, like it has since…well, my birth day.”

“Groundhog Day? I know I would remember that.”

“Groundhog Day is in February,” I said, shaking my head at him. “No wonder you have a secretary and your tablet at your beck and call. You’re crap when it comes to remembering dates.”

“I know your birthday is in April, JJ.”

“Would you like to call my dad for verification? My mother gave birth to me in March, twenty-four years ago.”

“That shocks me. I thought I remembered everything so well.”

“Sorry, dude. You’re fallible, just like the rest of the mortals.”

“Is it really March, or are you just messing with my head?” he demanded.

“Why would I lie about my birthday? Are you going to card me now or what?”

“No, that’s not necessary. It’s just… I’m just really disappointed that I didn’t remember it right. I’ve always prided myself on my long-term memory for details.”

“That might be the most boring thing any man has ever told me about himself.”

“I just gave you borrowed rubies. At least humor me while I’m racked with self-doubt, okay?” he pleaded.

I took his arm, looped my hand through his elbow the way I had at prom two years in a row, then led him to the hall. I made it halfway down in the elevator before I caved. “Fine. It’s in April. I wouldn’t have cracked, but you seem so torn up about it.”

“Ha! I knew it. You’re such a cheater.”

“I’m not a cheater!”

“You lied about your own birthday to make me feel…mortal.”

“So I’m a fibber, but that doesn’t make me a cheater. I’m having a fake reception, so why not add a fake birthday?”

“You should have at least made your fake birthday next week or something. You coulda got an early present out of me.”

“Out of your secretary, you mean. Clearly, I didn’t think it through.”

“You’re a terrible liar. I knew all along that you were teasing me.”

“Now you’re the one who’s lying, Luke. You didn’t know, and it freaked you out. It attacked your self-esteem and messed up your whole concept of good and evil.”

“Don’t exaggerate. You aren’t
that
powerful.”

“So you say, now that you know your sense of self is intact.”

“I admit that I was starting to panic a little. I was wondering which other woman—”

“Objection!” I cried. “The court rules that you should not continue that line of mentioning unless you wish to piss off the woman with the expensive loaner earrings on. It would be a shame if one of them, say, got dropped in a toilet and flushed.”

“You’re officially insane. No girl flushes gemstones or even threatens to.”

“I’m sure I’m not the only one, but we’re a rare breed. I’ll grant you that,” I said.

“No, you’re one of a kind for sure,” he mused.

***

We arrived at the hotel and walked into the ballroom. The décor was beautiful, all baroque in red and gold. Round tables were topped with tall floral centerpieces that stretched almost all the way up to the chandeliers. On top of the red linen tablecloths sat gold-rimmed china and expensive flatware.

“Are there vampires?” I asked. “Organ music? This has a creepy vibe.”

“I think they were going for opulent with an edge.”

“Some edge. I’m afraid they’ll serve us blood instead of champagne or wine,” I said dubiously as we took our seats. I eyed the water goblets suspiciously.

When the other seats filled up, Luke introduced me as his friend Julia. Every person at our twelve-seater had seen the talk show segment and knew the whole story, or at least the parts Liz had let us recite. It was sort of embarrassing at first, but it saved us a truckload of explanation or the awkwardness of people thinking I was really his girlfriend.

Halfway through the speeches, we were given a basket of herbed crackers, which we fell upon like a starving plague of locusts. I nearly snatched Luke’s half-eaten one from his hand in my desperation.

“I’m just starving,” I said. “I wish I would have eaten that food this morning or at least stuffed some snacks in my purse.”

“Me too. You could sell granola bars and Lifesavers to hungry rich people.”

“I’d make a fortune, maybe open my own restaurant,” I mused, still eyeing his cracker.