Page 7 of Faking It

Done gathering all my toys, I make my way to the room across the hall, my fingers deftly pressing against steel as I enter the alarm code. The room lights up as I enter, then it dims as I move toward the cabinet. Stashing the toys, I consider why I didn’t invite my houseguest inside this space last night.

This room was designed as my refuge, the place where I command control, but I’ve never taken a woman in here. I can’t explain why, except that it didn’t feel right. Ever. My cousin Jared thinks I’m saving it for that special someone, which earned him an amused snort from me.

Even if he’s right, it’s definitely not that brunette in my room. I can’t even remember her name.

I hear the shrilling of my cellphone as I head back to the bedroom. My houseguest snoozes blissfully through it all. Shaking my head at the suspicion she’s not really sleeping, I lift my phone from the night table and get comfortable in the loveseat near the balcony door, staring at the phone until it stops ringing.

The missed calls and text messages from Dad are the first notifications that greet me when I open the phone with my thumbprint. A barrage of, ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ and, ‘Call me the fuck back right now!’ gives me a preview of his state of mind.Fuck noam I going to call him back. There’s no doubt he wants to yell about what happened last night. I won’t give him the satisfaction of calling me a failure. Not today.

Ah, there’s a voice note, too. Lucky me.

Wanting to get it over with, I turn the volume down, press play, then move the phone to my ear. It’s just as I thought. He’s mad at me for starting a bar fight that made the tabloids even before I whisked the brunette out the bar and bundled her in my car. By the time we got home to my mansion, the entire internet buzzed with the news. And, of course, they’re painting me as the villain of the story. They always do.

I delete Dad’s voice note, then open my Instagram app to the source of the scandal. ANON. This gossip page has been like a thorn in my side for six years now, reporting every single misdemeanor I’ve committed. Whether it was the drunken fight that got me on their radar, or a DUI that led to a resisting arrest charge that landed me in jail for twenty-four hours, this mysterious poster never missed a beat.

The funny thing is, most of those incidents weren’t my fault. It’s obvious this ANON character has no investigative journalism background, or they’d notice how the incidents dwindled since me and a certain someone parted ways.

They aren’t interested in the truth. They’re only in this for the money.

Scrolling past the photo of me with a bar stool raised above my head, I move down to the video of a Latin couple posing on the deck of a cruise ship. Apparently, Sandra and Diego’s divorce is now a national sensation. I don’t know why people are so shocked. It’s marriage, an institution that never lasts.

Well, unless you’re my mom, and you’re more concerned about your image than your happiness. Or, you’re probably like my dad, who’s having his cake and eating it, too. A loyal wife and a twenty-five-year-old mistress; who the hell wouldn’t want to sign up for that?

Well, me. I wouldn’t.

I’d rather live as I am. Casual sex, no strings, no promises. Definitely no heartbreak. A woman comes to my bed, knowing her time is short-lived. Nine out of ten times, they’re okay with that arrangement. I’ve had a stalker or two in recent times, and, of course, this goddamn gossip page was always here for that drama.

A sexy groan comes from the bed, reminding me that my visitor is still here. I order an Uber, then move over to rouse her. My hospitality ends right now. She pushes up to sit with a pout, the tips of her thick hair brushing against her perky nipples. I tear my eyes from them and ignore the stirring in my belly. One thing’s for sure, I never let my desires get the best of me.

While she freshens up in the bathroom, I haul on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, then consider my plans for today. I’ve been out of work for a few weeks now, which gives me more time to focus on my number one love. Dad’s incessant phone calls is a sign that focus will be short-lived. Not for the first time, or the last, I wish for the power to change my past.

“Sure you don’t want me to stay?”

My hands fall as I face my guest, whose expression is as sultry as her voice. “Positive.”

She shrugs, and I assume she’s gotten the message until she starts moving toward me, her hips gently rocking. “I make some mean waffles, you know.”

“Thanks, but I can handle my own cooking. I guarantee, my pancakes are way meaner.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” She runs her fingers up my arm.

Fuck. I walked right into that.

I clear my throat, prying her hand off me. “Um… Natalie, is it?”

Her sensual grin disappears. “Nadia.”

Oops.

“Nadia, I have some business to handle. You’ve been amazing, but it’s time for you to go. I’ve ordered an Uber—”

She swings away from me with a click of her tongue. “Whatever, asshole. What time is it getting here?”

I check the ETA on the Uber app. “Two minutes.”

“Motherfucker,” she mumbles, reaching for her heels on the carpet. She marches over to the couch, and as she yanks them on, I hear a sudden commotion beyond the bedroom door.

Nadia stares at me wide-eyed as I press a finger against my lips. Reaching for the metal bat from my side of the bed, I lean against the door and listen.

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