Page 2 of Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband

“And that’s no bull. Ha. Okay, stopping that. But seriously. My name, Smitty, is Weland. I’ve told you a hundred and one million times to just please call me that.”

“Okay, Miss Bull. Okay.”

My phone is on the older side of things and doesn’t need to be clenched this hard. “Grr.” No, that’s not me practicing being a bear. That’s me being totally frustrated by all of this. “I know I got two hundred grand. I know that. But if I break the contract now, you do realize if he sued me to pay it back, which yes, I know is one of the clauses I signed off on, I could just declare bankruptcy?”

“You wouldn’t do that, Miss Bull. You’re too good for that. Too kind.” Oh, well, it’s a good thing Smitty believes in me. “Your brother got what he needed because of my client, and I know you’ll hold up your end of the deal.”

My eyes start to sting. “What if I don’t? What if I’m so hopeless that I don’t want to? What if I go to the clinic and get in vitro tomorrow and get pregnant and cause a huge fuss and stir? There are no rules against that. I also have the money.” Kind of. I kind of have the money. Not that there was much left over after Bryan’s medical bills were paid.

“Would you do that?”

“I don’t know. Would I not do it?”

“I really hope not. You’re a good girl. I really like you, Miss Bull. I don’t want to have to sue you, but I’m my client’s lawyer before I’m your friend.”

“I think we have different definitions of friends.”

I know that’s doubly not fair. Smitty has always been so good to me. So nice. None of this is his fault. I suppose he could have said no to taking this job, but then someone else would have done it. Maybe he donates money that he feels is dirty money to charity. He seems like he’d be the type. He probably donates money anyway. Probably for homeless cats or sweaters for hairless dogs so they don’t have to shiver in winter. Believe me, Michigan can getreallycold. Sweaters are a great thing. We need more sweaters in this world. And more dogs. And people with hearts like dogs have.

“If you’re lonely, I’m sorry, but why don’t you get yourself a dog?”

I almost laugh because, really? Are we that in tune that we’re on the same wavelength about dogs here? “Um, I don’t think I’m looking for that kind of relationship.”

“I know you’re not the kind of woman who does one-night stands.” Smitty’s voice goes from deep to deeper. “But more importantly, you’re not the kind that goes back on her word.”

“I want to be that woman, Smitty, but I don’t know. I can’t make any promises.”

Actually, I can. Because this phone call is actuallybull. I know I won’t find someone and take them home. I could never do that. But it doesn’t hurt to vent. And who am I supposed to vent to? Only a few people in this world know the truth. And that’s me, Smitty, and his client—as he terms him. My family thinks I got the money from my song going viral, then selling the rights to it, and some of my other work to some big record exec who discovered me and didn’t like me but liked my music. That’s the convoluted story I gave them, but it worked. It explained where Igot a large chunk of money from, why I took the video down, and why I haven’t put anything else up.

My mom didn’t even know the whole story, and she still begged me not to give up the rights to my songs, even knowing that as she was telling me not to give up something that should have been mine, she was resigning her son to a life of never being able to walk properly again. My brother shattered his knee in a stupid dirt bike accident. On a friend’s bike. Driving it when he didn’t really know how.

It was pretty easy to convince my mom in the end that songs didn’t matter. My brother did. When I put it like that, she understood, even if she sensed there was more, and I wasn’t telling her all of it.

“I’m going to get you a dog. I’ll have him or her delivered within the hour. Personally. I will personally pick him or her out for you.”

I know he won’t do it. Smitty has more important things to do. These are empty threats. Just like I’m calling him to threaten and vent because he’s the only one I can call at this point. It’s not like I know my husband’s number. It’s not like I know anything about him. He could be called Buttfink Finkle Finkleton the Eighth and makes his oodles of money by selling photos of his hairy big toe, for all I know.

Fine, so I know he’s not named Buttfink, and I know he doesn’t sell photos of his toes, although they might be hairy. Do I know he doesn’t sell photos of his toes? No. No, I don’t. But I would bet he doesn’t.

“Okay, Smitty. I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, Miss Bull. Take care. I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up, confident he’s bluffing and that he’s called my bluff. That we’re both bluffers, and all this amounted to nothing, though I do feel just a little bit better. Smitty has that effect for some reason.

Two hours later, I realized one of us wasn’t bluffing.

I open the door to a red-bearded, big-hearted, big juggernaut lawyer dude in one of those customhuge and extra huge and then somesuits, holding what can only be described as an old and slightly moldy ancient-looking dog in his arms.

It only has one eye and one ear on opposite sides, half a tail, and very, very strange fur. And its tongue lolls out. Permanently, I think. There is also a decrepit odor that has to be the dog because Smitty doesn’t smell like old armpits.

“His name is Beans, but you can change it if you want. He’s had a hard run of things, but his luck changed today because you’re going to love him. He’s your new best friend.”

He holds out his arms, and the dog rips a massive fart. It absolutely rips it. Like, loudly. And eye wateringly too. What were they feeding this guy? The dog probably also weighs at least sixty pounds. It’s not a small breed. I’m not sure what breed it is. It’s some terrifyingly cute mix of every single breed on Earth. Honesty, he looks more like a scraggly potato than a Beans.

The poor thing’s tongue is lolling out, and it makes me think he can taste the fart. Dear god, I hope he can’t taste the fart. It’s potent. So, so potent. I can feel myself tearing up because it’s that bad.

“Can you set him down on the couch?” I shouldn’t be asking this. I should be telling Smitty absolutely not and to take that dog back to wherever he got it, but it was probably a shelter, and who knows? Maybe this poor guy won’t find another home. He’s old. He’s a scraggly potato with mold, and he looks very, very sad.

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