Page 20 of Keeper
“He says he loves you?” I touched my hand to my heart. “That’s so sad!”
“Pft. No, it’s not. Every time he says he loves me, I tell him to his face he’s dumb. Sometimes he says he wants to marry me, but I’d actually be insulted if he proposed to me.”
“But why?”
“Have you seen the type of girl these guys end up marrying? Ainsley, I’m telling you, they aresoratchet. They go for these trophy wife types, but they’re always sofakelooking. We’re talking fake lips, obvious nose job, fake boobs, and no ass. They don’t even look human anymore—just a blob of plastic. Oh, andnopersonality whatsoever.”
“Well, with that ringing endorsement of athletes, I’m not sure why you want to hookup with this hockey player.”
“Um, hiscock, remember? Do I need to show you again?”
She reached for her phone, but I stopped her.
“No! Don’t. I don’t need to see it again.” Just the mention of his cock gave me a flashback to the thick cock with the big vein running right down the middle. “I think it’s forever imprinted into my mind.”
“Girl.” She grinned coyly. “Mine, too.”
“So how am I supposed to help you hook up with the hockey player, anyway?” I asked. “Are you hoping to run into him tonight?”
She laughed. “I said there was aplan,didn’t I? It wouldn’t be much of a plan if I aimlessly went to a random club and hoped to bump into a specific athlete, would it?”
“Okay, so what’s the plan?”
She stirred her drink. “A couple weeks ago, I reached out to his publicist to see if he wanted to do a collaboration.”
“On what?”
“Basically, it’s a photo shoot, except we’ll stage it to make it look like we’re hanging out together, and afterward I’ll slowly drip the pictures to my Instagram feed.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“Well, it’s a type of guerrilla marketing. It gets people on the internet all riled up with speculation—are we friends? Are we dating? Are we screwing? As an added bonus, it cross-pollinates his audience with my audience, which means more followers for me.”
“Okay, I see how that helps you. But why does a pro hockey player need an audience?”
“Honestly? I don’t really know.” She laughed. “I mean, sure, athletes are all about their ‘brands’ nowadays, too. And gigs like this probably give him more leverage with sponsorship deals and whatnot. But I’ll be honest, Ainsley, this was a total shot in the dark. I’ll hit up hundreds of famous people for this type of thing and never hear back. What surprised me was that his publicist actually got back to me and said yes. Anyway, the shoot is planned for Sunday.”
Ah.Now everything made sense.
“And that’s why you need me,” I said with a bob of my head. Those crummy feelings about only being needed to document Marta’s life began to resurface.
She grabbed my hand. “Yes, because you takethe mostwonderfulphotos, Ainsley.”
“Thanks,” I said, sheepishly. “I’m not sure I can stay here until Sunday, though.”
Sunday felt so far away—could we even make it that far? I was starting to remember why Marta and I had such a turbulent friendship. Some people you can only spend so much time with before tensions inevitably flare.
“Oh, please stay! It’s just one more day and I promise I’ll make it worth your time.”
All sorts of bad feelings lingered.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’thaveto do it, of course,” she said.
Gee, I’m glad I have a choice in the matter, after all.
“But if you ask me,” she continued, “the way this came together is kind of serendipitous.”
