One Week Girlfriend
Page 3His nonchalance makes me want to choke him. “Six months then?” I’m testing him by throwing that out there. And it works.
He slides me an incredulous look. “Three.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Right. Well, like I know since I don’t go to school anymore.” Stupidest answer ever. Everyone knows when school starts.
“Why don’t you?”
I didn’t expect him to ask me that. Figured he really didn’t care. “I can’t afford it and I wasn’t smart enough to get a scholarship.” Like I could waste my time with school at the moment anyway. I work as much as I can get. I used to have a fulltime job, but that fell through little less than a year ago. I put in as many hours as I can waitressing at both La Salle’s and at another tiny Mexican restaurant not too far from our apartment but that’s more a temporary thing. They only call me in when they’re understaffed.
The money sitting in my checking account thanks to Drew will ease some of that burden, at least for a little while. I didn’t put it in the account I share with my mom because I know the second she realizes that much money’s in there, she’ll blow it.
I can’t take that chance.
“How’d we meet then?” Drew’s deep voice breaks through my thoughts. I wish he would take the initiative and come up with some of this story.
“The bar,” I suggest because it sounds so trashy and I figure the only reason he’s bringing me is because he wants to look like he’s slumming it to his uppity family. “You came in with a bunch of friends and it was love at first sight the moment our eyes met.”
He sends me a look that calls bullshit and I smile in return. If I’m in control of making up this story, I’m going to make it the sappiest, most romantic thing out there.
There is no room for romance in my life. It’s so stupid, but I let guys use me because for that one fleeting moment, when he’s focusing all of his attention on me and no one else, it feels good. It helps me forget that no one really cares.
The second it’s over, it’s like I snap out of my mental fog and I feel cheap. Dirty. All those clichés you read about in books and see on TV or movies, that’s me. I am a walking cliché.
I’m also the town slut whose not as slutty as everyone thinks she is—again, another cliché. And I’m definitely not the girl you want to take home to impress your mama. There is nothing special about me.
Yet here’s Drew taking me home to impress his mama. Or more accurately, freak his mama out. I’m sure I’m that rich bitch’s (now I sound like Owen, from broke bitch to rich bitch) every nightmare come to life. The moment she lays eyes on me, she’s going to flip.
“I’m assuming you’re bringing me home to your mom so she’ll lose her shit, right?” I need confirmation. It’s one thing to think it and be okay with it. I need to face the facts head on and deal with the repercussions later. Like how this might screw with my head despite how much I need that money.
His jaw firms and his lips thin into a straight, grim line. “My mom is dead.”
Oh. “I’m sorry.” I feel like a jerk.
“You didn’t know. She died when I was two.” He shrugs. “I know my dad will love you.”
The way he says it kind of freaks me out. Like his dad is probably a creeper and that’s why he’ll love me.
“It’s just your dad and you then?”
“No. There’s Adele.” His lips virtually disappear when he says that name. And he has really nice full lips, so I’m wondering where exactly they went. “She’s my stepmom.”
“So you want to freak out your stepmom.”
The tension radiates off him in visible waves. There’s something going on between him and his stepmom that’s definitely not good.
Ignoring his remark about the wicked witch named Adele, I forge on. “Have any brothers or sisters?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Oh.” His lack of communication skills could be a real problem since I’m wholly dependent on this guy for the next freaking week. “I have a brother.”
“How old?”
“Thirteen.” I sigh. “Owen’s in the eighth grade. He gets in trouble a lot.”
“It’s a tough age. Junior high sucks.”
“Did you get in trouble a lot when you were thirteen?” I couldn’t imagine it being so.
He laughs, reaffirming my suspicions in a heartbeat. “I wasn’t allowed.”
“What do you mean?” I frown. His answer makes no sense.
“My dad would kick my ass if I stepped out of line.” He shrugs again. He does that a lot, but I like it because it reminds me that he has those delicious broad shoulders. If I’m lucky enough, I’ll get to touch them during our fake relationship over the next seven days. I’ll lean my head on his shoulder too. Press my cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt and secretly breathe in his scent. He smells good, but I want to get up close and really inhale him.
Sappiness is ready to overtake me and for once in my cynical, no room for fairy tales life, I’m ready to let it happen. After all, I need to be the best actress on the planet, right?
“Isn’t that what all dads say they’re going to do when their kids step out of line?” I ask.
“Yeah, but mine meant it. Besides, it was easier to do what I’m supposed to and not get distracted. I lose myself in the mindless stuff, you know?”
“And what are you supposed to do?” I add air quotes like those annoying sorority girls who come into La Salle’s. I really hate those girls and how they flip their hair and laugh too loud and say the stupidest things. They literally bat their fake eyelashes at the guys and everything. It’s pathetic, what attention whores they are.
Jeez, I sound bitter even in my own head.
“Go to class, study and get good grades. Go to football practice, stay in shape, play to the best of my ability and hope like crazy I’m impressing the scouts out there who are watching me.” He rattles everything off like some sort of list, his voice a dull monotone.
“And what are the distractions you need to avoid?”
“Partying, drinking, girls.” He slides me another look, his features softer, the earlier anger gone. “I don’t like losing control.”
“Me either,” I whisper.
He smiles at me and I feel it like a dagger to my softening heart. “Sounds like we might make a good pair after all.”
The second the words fall out of my mouth, I want to snatch them back. We are definitely not a good pair. She’s the worst sort of girl for me and I know it. It’s why I’m bringing her home. So my dad will think I’ve scored a hot little football groupie who gives it up to me whenever I want and Adele will finally leave me alone.
Fable really is a team groupie. She’s supposedly banged half the guys this season alone, though I don’t know how accurate the rumors are. This is how I first discovered her existence. A bunch of guys from the team were talking about her when we were at La Salle’s one night right after the semester started. After she took our table’s order, they compared notes and bragged how great in bed she is. One of them even pinched her ass when she walked by, earning a dirty look from her that made them all laugh.
Her reputation—and her feisty reaction—was my first clue she might make the perfect fake girlfriend. I don’t fool around with any of those girls who hang around the locker room after practice or after a game. I don’t really fool around with anyone. It’s easier that way. You give girls a little bit of yourself and they always want more, more, more. Things I can’t give them. I shut myself off to make my life bearable. I’m like a damn machine sometimes.
Unfeeling. Uncaring. Emotionless.
My dad worries about me. I know he thinks I’m some sort of pu**y who can’t get laid, which blows his mind. He’s confronted me about it before, asking me point blank if I’m gay.
The question had come out of nowhere and I was so shocked, I started laughing. That pissed him off more, and though I denied the accusation, I know he didn’t really believe me.
Hopefully, showing up with Fable hanging all over me will end that worry.
Damn. I know I’m a jackass for doing this, thinking like this. For using Fable in such a shitty way, but it isn’t the only reason she’s going with me. Not that I can tell her the truth, but if I did? She might understand. She looks like the sort of girl who would get it. Who might’ve gone through some of the same bullshit I have.
What we really need to do is talk about our supposed relationship more. I have to stop being so wrapped up in my worry over going home and ask her more questions. “You only have your little brother then, huh?”
“Yes, just me and Owen. And my mom.” Her voice tightens. I figure she doesn’t like her mom very much.
I can relate.
“You don’t get along with your mom?”
“She’s never around to get along with. I’m always working and she’s always screwing around with her latest boyfriend.” The bitterness is obvious. No love lost between those two.
“And your dad?”
“I don’t know him. He’s never been a part of my life.”
“But if Owen’s only thirteen…” I’m confused.
“Different guy. That one didn’t stick around either.” Fable shakes her head. “My mom knows how to pick them.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not comfortable with the personal stuff. I have friends, but none of them are really close. The guys I hang out with are from my team and we talk football and sports and that sort of bullshit. Sometimes we talk about girls, though I just sit there and laugh at whatever they say. I never really join in. I don’t have much to add.
Here’s the deal. I could have any girl I want. I know this. Yes, I’m an arrogant ass to think like this, but it’s true. I look all right, I’m smart and I play decent football. The girls want me even more because I don’t pay them any attention.
They all want something. Something I can’t give. At least with Fable, I was upfront with what I needed from her from the start and I compensated her right away. She won’t want anything else from me.
It’s easier that way. Safer.
“Sure.” I’m opening this discussion up for potential disaster. I can sense it.
“Why me?”
“Huh?” I play dumb. I know what she means.
“Why did you choose me to be your pretend girlfriend? I know I’m not the ideal choice. Let’s be real here.”
She must be a mind reader. “I knew you wouldn’t give me a lot of trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
I’m going to f**k this up, I can feel it in my bones. “Any other girl wouldn’t want to just pretend to be my girlfriend. She would really want to be in a relationship with me, you know? And I knew you wouldn’t.”
“How? You don’t know me.”
“I’ve seen you at La Salle’s.” Weak reasoning.
“Big deal. Lots of guys come into La Salle’s. Lots of guys you play football and hang out with go there all the time. I’ve hooked up with a few of them.” She crosses her arms in front of her, plumping up her boobs so I catch a glimpse of creamy skin ready to spill out over her low cut top. I don’t usually slobber over girls, but there’s something about this one that makes me want to see her na**d. “I’m not going to have sex with you.”
She’s being defiant and I kind of like it. What the hell is wrong with me? “I don’t want to have sex with you. That’s not why I hired you.”
“Hired me.” She snorts, like she doesn’t care what she sounds or looks like when she does it, and I can’t help but admire that. “You make it sound like a proper job when really I’m your paid girlfriend-slash-whore. Where did you get that sort of money anyway?”
“It’s mine, don’t worry.” I have money saved. My dad’s in finance and has made a lot of money throughout his career. He’s generous with it, especially now that I’m his only child. “And don’t call yourself a whore. You’re not.” I don’t want her to feel like one. Even though whatever she’s done with other guys might qualify her as a whore, sex is the farthest thing on my mind when it comes to her.
Or at least, it was. Now though…fuck. I don’t know.
She confuses me. What I think, what I feel when she’s around, confuses me. And I don’t even know her. I’m totally getting ahead of myself and I don’t know how to stop it.
“There’s going to be no sex,” she says again. Almost like she’s trying to convince herself as well as me. “No blowjobs either.”
“I don’t want any of that.” It’s the truth—at least, that’s what I tell myself. She’s hot, there’s no denying it, but sex brings nothing but trouble. I’m not about to fool around with a girl who has an easy reputation and who’s literally at my beck and call for the next week. It’s pointless.
Right?
“But we’re going to have to pretend we like each other,” I remind her. “That we’re supposed to be…in love.” The last word was hard for me to say. I don’t really use it. My dad never tells me he loves me. Adele has. But her love is tainted with shitty conditions and stuff I don’t want to think about.