Shopping for a Billionaire 3 (15 page)

Monica’s social mask doesn’t just crack. It shatters. “You’re, you’re…” Her mouth twists like she’s accidentally eaten a live gecko. “Lesbians?” The word emerges like that goopy, growling head from John Hurt’s stomach in
Alien
.

Amanda looks at her watch and doesn’t answer the question while I do my best imitation of a twelve-pound sea bass being pulled onto a ship with a hook in its eye and mouth opening and closing, unaware of its pending slow, painful death.

“We both have an appointment in thirty minutes, so could we move on?”
Amanda
says
to Jim
in a
don’t
you dare
say no
voice. Powerful and commanding, she’s also casual in an enviable way.
I almost want to date her. Wait. I’m married to her. I can’t date her.
 

Jim rallies. “Of course, of course! Monica, so good to see you,” he says as he reaches to shake her hand. She snatches it away, and instead those demon eyes glare like twin rubies, pointed at me.

“You’re a lesbian? A married lesbian?” Her tone is that of a preschool teacher explaining that there are seven continents to a group of three-year-old
s, as if I don’t know what I am saying and she’s correcting me
. She sounds unhinged.

“Yes,” I say in an out-breath, the word floating off on the air
like a fart
.
She flinches.
 

Then her entire face morphs. Jim goes back to his desk and mutters something about getting the paperwork in place. One claw-like hand reaches for my upper arm and pulls me a few feet away from him, and now her words come out in a hurried hiss.

Amanda follows us, still holding my hand and grinning like a Disney character. If Monica is Maleficent, then Amanda has somehow turned into Dopey in seconds.

“You like women.”

“I love women!” I chirp.

Her frown deepens, eyes flickering left and right as if retrieving memories to process. My hand starts to sweat and Amanda lets go of it, wiping it on her skirt. She shoots me a pleading look, as if to say there’s nothing we can do about this.

And you know those news reports about people who have cars suddenly plunge through plate glass windows into storefronts and houses?

I now consider them lucky.
Oh please God, send one now
.

But no.
Instead, Monica says, tapping a manicured index finger on her peach-coated lips, “It all makes much more sense now.”
 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Amanda and I say at the exact same time in the exact same
WTF?
t
one.

M
onica’s face transforms as she thinks, the locked jaw softening as seconds pass. “Oh, dear. No wonder you and Steve didn’t work out. You were
looking for a Boston Wife and he was looking for a wife in Boston.”
 

A Boston Wife. I’ve heard the term before. Antiquated phrase used to mean lesbianism long before it was socially acceptable to say
lesbian
.

“I dated Steve and loved Steve and he rejected me,” I say, a red cloud of fury growing over my head, ready to unleash a torrent of poison on Monica.

Jim clears his throat. Did he overhear that?

“Can you blame my son?” Monica is clut
ch
ing imaginary pea
rl
s so hard I think she’s giving herself a tracheotomy. “
H
e sensed it. He’s intelligent, and he’s a man. A red-blooded, masculine man with needs. You clearly couldn’t give him what he needed, so he left.” She sniffs the air. The gesture is so snobby it makes me bark with laughter.
Dame Maggie Smith could take lessons on aristocratic pretension from Monica.
 

“We are talking about the same Steve, right?” Amanda asks me. “The same guy who wore his socks during sex and who insisted on making you buy all the Japanese tentacle erotica on your
book account
so it was never traced back to him?”

“
Some things are meant to be private,” Monica whispers in a scathing voice.

“Monica, he buys old Japanese prints from the Meiji period and puts them on his bedroom walls. Haven’t you ever taken a good look at what’s going on in those paintings? The octopus hanging on to the woman’s half-naked body isn’t there to be cuddled,” I add.

Eyes widening, Monica looks like she might pass out. I start to feel guilty. I could really grind the knife in right now, but I don’t.

“Your red-blooded, masculine man has some really weird Hentai fantasies,” Amanda says flatly.

“
Wait,” Monica says, eyes clouded with confusion. She pulls out her phone and taps into what looks like her text message screen, then reads something. “Steve told me you’re dating Declan McCormick now.” Low whistle. “Impressive.” Her eyes flicker to Amanda. “You accept the fact that Shannon is…bisexual?” That word seems easier for her to say than
lesbian
, but it still manages to come out sounding like she’s accidentally bitten into a piece of chocolate-covered poop.
 

I freeze. Amanda does, too. What can we say? How do I explain to my fake wife that I have a real billionaire boyfriend?

Amanda laughs. “That’s just business.”

Monica’s eyebrow shoots to the sky. “You’re pretending to date Declan McCormick? Even Jessica Coffin made a comment about you two as a couple.”

Amanda grimaces. I know she follows Jessica on Twitter. This is a mess. Certified, Grade A, failed-shop mess.
If I admit I’m dating Declan, the entire mystery shop falls apart. If I don’t, Monica will start up the rumor mill into a DEFCON 1 level, complete with whooping sirens and
fainting blue bloods.
 

I’
d rather have my hand
stuck
in a toilet
while
eating hazelnut-flavored horseradish.

Amanda is cutting her eyes over to Jim so shar
p
ly she looks like she works for W
ü
sthof, and
she
squeezes me with more affection than a three-year-old
meeting her first creation from
Build-
A
-Bear. “
Right, honey? You’re just dating Declan to make a solid business deal even better.”
 

Monica is ey
e
ing me like my mom eyes a
seventy-five-
percent-off sale at Gaiam. “That’s right.” Fake smile. “I’m working on being more
aggressive
in business.”

“Steve would be proud,” his mom mutters. “
He tried so hard to help you develop that killer instinct.”
 

I open my mouth to say something, and Amanda presses her finger against my lips in what looks like
an
affection
ate gesture
.

“So you’re really, truly not dating Declan McCormick for his looks? His charm? His money?”
Monica persists.
 

“For his company’s money,” I say, instantly hating the words on my mouth. Trying not to blow my cover means I’m about to blow chunks. Amanda squeezes my hand and nestles closer. I feel green. I’m Kermit the Frog right now.

“Everyone’s so much happier now, aren’t we? Steve certainly is.”
Amanda’s words make Monica back down. She reaches into her purse and fiddles with something on her phone, then looks up at the wall clock.
 

Tight smiles all around. We look like the “After” picture from a
two
-for-
one
coupon for plastic surgery.

“Your mother must be very happy to have one of her girls married off.”
She pauses. “Again, I mean. I know Carol’s divorced.”
 

Oh, no.

“It was a simple, civil ceremony,” I shoot back. “Not an actual wedding.” I squeeze Amanda. “We’re holding a wedding and reception quite soon.”

“Really? Where?”

“At Farmington,” Amanda blurts out.

Amanda doesn’t realize that Monica is on the
b
oard of
d
irectors for Farmington Country Club.

“
You
can’t
.” Monica’s voice becomes low and roaring.
 

Jim happens to wander over at this exact moment. “Can’t what?” He’s holding a stack of printouts. I see a mortgage disclosure statement thicker than a
thirteenth
-century French stone castle wall in his beefy hands.

“Can’t have a wedding at Farmington Country Club,” Monica says in hushed tones.

His expression is bemused. “Why not?”

Monica blanches. “Because it’s not done.”

“Weddings are done all the time there.”
His eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. Go Jim! You’re getting one hell of an evaluation. At least, after I go puke in a trash can and take four Xanax.
 

M
o
nica stiffens. “Of course.” Smile so tight she could slice cheese with it. “We’ll see about that,” which, when translated from Bitchspeak, is actually
Oh hell no they won’t
.

Jim gives me a searching look, then grants Amanda one as well. “Shall we?” He holds up the stack of papers. “You newlyweds have a home and a life to start building.” He gives Monica a cold look. “Right this instant.”

She frowns and pretends to answer her phone, her exit remarkably anti-climatic.

“Sorry about that,” Jim says as we settle in. I’m guessing another hour or so of paperwork and then we can leave. If only my cre
di
t score were higher than my bra size.

“No problem. It happens,” Amanda says. Her tone is neutral but I know she’s testing Jim. My body
i
s about to supernova with anger and parts of me
will
turn into ribbons of flesh that stretch into the parking lot and strangle Monica, so I stay silent and just brood.

“The truth is all over Shannon’s face,”
J
im points out.

“
The truth?”
 

He
looks pointedly toward where Monica just exited,
sighs, and pulls out the first paper from the stack, clicking a ballpoint pen. “Some people would rather hide behind a mask than be vulnerable and real.” His eyes are open and respectful, but something darker passes through them.

And with that, Jim just got the highest score possible on this mystery shop.

And I lost everything important to me because I couldn’t ditch my mask.

The first person to message me is my sister, who
does
it to my face.

“Oh MY GOD,” Amy screams
as she crashes through my doorway, nearly flattening the cheap hollow-core door. Her hair springs to life around her like Medusa snakes as her neck snaps up and down between freaking out at whatever’s on her phone screen and making eye contact with me that reminds me of the women in
The Handmaid’s Tale
when they are sent off to their assignments.
 

“What did Mom do now?” I ask. Note to self: get deadbolt for bedroom door. Especially if I plan to have overnight guests.

W
hich I do.

“It’s not Mom. This time. For once.” She paces, her hair like a lady in waiting. I run my hand through my own locks and find a rat’s nest of straight, stringy hair. How does she manage to look like a cross between Merida and Christina Hendricks while I look like a drunk Cameron Diaz in
Bad Teacher
combined with Melissa McCarthy after that unfortunate diarrhea scene in
Bridesmaids
?

G
enetics.

“Then who?” I reach for my phone to check message
s
from Declan. He was working late last night and then had a
b
oard of
d
irectors meeting for some big charity organization. We’re meeting tonight at my place for drinks. As in, he’ll drink me and I’ll drink him and eventually we’ll cave in to basic sustenance needs and order Thai takeout.

“Jessica!”

“Jessica…who?”
I’m rubbing my eyes, trying to wake up. Before being so rudely interrupted I was in the middle of a dream where Declan and I were in a cabana on a beach on some tropical island, naked and tanned and drinking something fruity and delightful out of a half coconut…
 

“Coffin!”

“Jessica Coffin.” I say the name slowly, then open
m
y messaging app.

157 messages.

Say wha?

“Why do I have 157 messages? Steve isn’t THAT crazy!” I shout.

Amy throws her hands in the air in exasperation. It just makes her look cuter. If I do it, I look like I’m swatting flies. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Her eyes are filled with panic and pity. “Your life blew up last night in cyberspace.” She pauses. “And, soo
n
, real life. Have you heard from Billionaire Boy?”

“What the hell does Declan have to do with anything?”

The front door opens and someone shouts “Hello—oh, Jesus! Leave me alone! Those are new shoes!”

“Chuckles!” Amy and I shout at the same time. The cat had his balls hacked off forever ago but sometimes he still marks his territory, especially on shoes with laces that go up the ankle.
As Amanda stumbles into my room shaking her foot, I see I’m right.
 

“Why are you wearing
gladiator sandals
in my place? You know Chuckles pees on them.”

“Forgive me for forgetting that you have a cat with a lace fetish,” she says back, fuming. “
They’re in style right now.”
She grabs a towel draped across the back of a chair and starts wiping her foot, cursing under her breath as she teeters off to the bathroom. The faucet turns on just as Amy zeroes in on me.

I cut her off. “Coffee? I can’t handle a crisis before I’ve had three cups.”

“Tough
luck
, sis, because the crisis is here whether you’re caffeinated or not.”

“And what, exactly, is the crisis?”

She points to my phone.

157 messages.

“
Read those while I make you a double espresso. You’re going to need it.” Her ominous warning makes me frown, and Chuckles wanders in with a disapproving look that makes me scan the room for laces of any kind.