Page 15 of One Billion Reasons

8

Lane

I settle deeper into the pillows on my bed and click into Miles’s profile on my phone. I still have his cell phone number, his email, his address, his birthday. I’m sure if I pull up my old college email address, I’ll have stupid memes and plans to go to the Montauk house, and old photos I used to send to everyone after taking silly group shots on the beach.

Before I can chicken out, I hit his number. The phone rings, and my stomach tries to turn itself over. Maybe two glasses of wine was a bad idea. Two rings, three. Maybe he won’t answer. A nauseating mix of relief and disappointment rushes through me. And then he does.

“Lane Overton. I didn’t expect you to call. And so late too. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice is smooth, with that little hitch that always made him so enticing. He could be a phone sex operator. He’d make millions. I press a hand to my mouth. He doesn’t need millions. Right.

“Um, hi Miles. I was just thinking about the offer you gave me. I want to accept.”

“What offer?” Ice clinks faintly on his side of the line.

He’s messing with me. He hasn’t forgotten. Miles forgets nothing. It’s what makes him so good at what he does.

“The offer to be your date. To the wedding.” I grit the words out. I’ll play his game. I need to be nice. Fifty grand. Remember.

“Ah, that. Why does it sound like you’d rather be thrown out of a moving vehicle than date me?”

I’m silent. I would. I so would. But I won’t say that. Not when I need the money.

“Going to have to do better than that while we’re at the wedding.” He tsks, and I hear him sip something.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Lane, that it needs to be believable. I won’t have my integrity called into question. I’m not paying for a date. I’m paying for an adoring girlfriend. One who smiles at me, who whispers in my ear. One who puts her hand on my thigh at dinner. I want people to wonder if we’re sneaking away to have sex at all hours of the day.”

Heat flashes through me at his words. I should be disgusted. I really should. But I know Miles’s body is perfection, that his thighs are steely with muscle.

“And Lane.” He pauses. Sips. “Based on this conversation, it doesn’t sound like you can play the part.”

“I can do it.” I clear my throat. “I took two semesters of theater in college. I can pretend to like you for a week.”

“Hmm. Let’s hear it then. Ask me to come to the wedding.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. I’m a toy to this man, not a person. I hate you, Miles Becker.

“Do you want me to beg?” My voice drops on the last word, and there’s silence on the other side of the line.

His breaths are heavy, harsh.

“Yes. Beg me.”

I hate you. I hate you.

“Miles, please.” My voice is throaty, low. “Let me come to this wedding with you. I’ll make it the best week of your life, I promise. Please.”

He’s silent again. “That’ll do,” he says shortly.

“Great,” I say sarcastically. “So glad to be of service to you.”

“Careful, Lane. Or I’ll change my mind.”

My hand tightens around the phone. He would. Just because he can. He’s silent for a minute, and I refuse to speak first. He must need this, or he wouldn’t have asked. I just need to figure out why. Figure out what he’s doing, and then I can gain the upper hand.

The silence has finally stretched almost to the point of discomfort. Miles and I never used to have awkward silences. He was my roommate for three years in college. I can picture with perfect clarity the way he used to lay on the floor with a whiskey balanced on his flat stomach. I’d sit on the couch and read or doodle. Silence was a comforting blanket on those nights.

“Why me?”

“Because I trust you.” His voice is resigned. “And because people like you.”

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