Mister Fake Date: An Alphalicious Romance

A weekend away with a beautiful woman at a gorgeous estate.
It was a game.
A con.
A ruse.
And a job.
That was fun, hot, and sexy.
She paid. I delivered.
And I gave her something she’d never had.
But kept something she’d never get.
My heart.
That’s not for sale
What’s not to love?
I’m not.

CLOVER

There are few things more pathetic than a guy who thinks he’s all that, but is so not. 
And at that moment in time, I was confronted by this very essence of douche-baggery—a pain-in-the-ass dude trying to make himself look more impressive than he was.
“Clover,” Nat said, gazing around the sumptuous country club party I’d been forced to attend. He seemed to believe he could successfully get into my pants while scanning the crowd for someone more interesting to talk to. 
Seriously. The dude thought he could wear me down without even making the effort to look me in the eye? I’m not a demanding chick, not by any stretch of the imagination, but at the same time I do demand some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Did men like this actually get laid?
“You look great tonight,” he continued in a surprised tone, as if I usually looked like shit. His eyes continued to scan the room when someone bumped his arm. His Moscow Mule splashed all down the front his ill-fitting shirt where buttons strained over his belly, and an ice cube clattered to the floor.
“Thank you,” I mumbled. A Brazilian bikini wax would be more fun than I was having at that moment.
His full name was Nathaniel Jessup. To his face I called him Nat, but behind his back, my sister and I called him The Jester. His fake smile was nearly as annoying as his fake laugh.
No, I was not a fan of the one man in the world my mom was convinced was my soul mate. It was testament to how little she knew me—that she’d pressure me to be with such a douchebag. 
“Your mom tells me you need a date to your sister’s wedding.” Clearly proud my mom had confided in him, he hitched up his trousers, exposing his hairy, sockless ankles. 
Thanks, Mom.
“Well, that was nice of her. But I’m good. Really.”
“Yeah, well I thought maybe I could help you out, and that we could go together.”
Did he not hear what I just said?
“Thanks, Nat, but I don’t need a date.”
“But you’re going, and I’m going, so why don’t we go together?” He winked at me—why, I was not entirely sure. Maybe this whole thing was a conspiracy between he and my mom? Forces joined to ruin my life?
“No, that’s okay. I appreciate your asking, though.” Now I scanned the room. Where was my sister when I needed her most?
Either he wasn’t listening, or he had something wrong with his hearing. “We’ll probably be sitting at the same table anyway—it makes sense that we go as dates. You know what I mean?” he asked like he was making me the offer of a lifetime.
I did know what he meant. But there wasn’t enough money in the fucking universe to get me to be The Jester’s date.
“Really, Nat, I’m good.”
If I could have wiped the condescension off his face without disgracing my family, I would have. “Clove”—where did he get off giving me a nickname?—“everyone knows women hate going to weddings dateless. Let me help you out. You know, so you don’t look like the family’s old maid.”
He did not just say that.
I leaned toward him and smiled as sweetly as possible, but there was acid in my voice, the kind people in certain social circles use, where words flow like honey but sting so fast you’re not sure what happened. 
“Nat. I said no. Thank you.”
He shook his head and smiled. “All right, Clove. When you are ready to swallow your pride, just let me know. I’ll be here. No judgment.” 
I stood stiffly when he gave me a one-armed hug, and watched him wander off to the buffet table, where he’d been scarfing shrimp all night. I had half a mind to tell him to lay off them. They were doing nothing for his horrendous breath.
But fuck him. I didn’t owe anyone who called me an old maid a damn thing.
Not only was The Jester a douche, but he was also a dork. At the caliber of party we were attending—a birthday party for my father’s best friend and oldest business associate—no one ever ate. It’s not that there wasn’t a ton of food. No, on the contrary, you could have fed a small village with the spread offered at this and every other party just like it. It’s just that no one wanted to look as common as needing food. The women were rail thin and fought like hell to stay that way, and the men just drank most of their calories. And heaven forbid someone photographed you with food in your mouth, or worse, chewing. That would bring on shame of one of the highest degrees. 
No, the food, plentiful as it was, would all be trashed at the end of the night. Or sneaked home in the backpack of some resourceful waiter.
“Sweetie, I saw Nathaniel and you chatting,” my mom said as she approached me in an ivory silk pantsuit, looking like a million bucks. 
Which was funny, because she had way more than a million bucks. 
“Yes, Mom, we had a little chat,” I said, taking a deep breath for control.
She scanned the crowd, looking for him. “He sure looks handsome tonight.” I marveled at her invisible pores. She was always perfect, never had a hair out of place. She could even eat without messing up her lipstick.
But one area she might have needed looking into was getting glasses. If she thought The Jester was even remotely attractive, she surely she needed them.
“Mmmm-hmmm.” I was inches from using one of my ‘escape’ excuses. I had an arsenal of them, ranging from the basic I have cramps, to the more desperate my roommate just called and thinks our place is on fire.
Mom put a hand on her hip. “I don’t know why you play so hard to get with him. He’s a wonderful young man, and I know he cares about you.”
If she weren’t so blinded by ambition and her obsession with her daughters making good marriage matches, she might have seen the real Nat. But my mother seldom saw the real anything—only what she wanted. And the fact was, The Jester’s family had something she valued. Prestige and money. The perfect storm.
“Mom,” I said, glancing at my watch, “I have to head back to L.A. I have class in the morning.”
She looked at me sympathetically, like I was off to do something dreadful along the lines getting a cavity filled.
“Darling. You really don’t have to do that.” Her face was beatific. I don’t know how she did it.
Botox, maybe?
“Do what, Mom?”
I knew what she was talking about, but I wanted her to say it.
She sniffed impatiently. “You know. Go back to that horrible apartment. And job.”
Okayyy. There we had it, out in the open. Honey, you don’t need to work, much less study for your master’s degree. Silly girl.
“Uh-huh. Thanks, Mom. I’ll be heading out now.” I set down my wine glass and slung my purse over my shoulder.
But she grabbed my hand, pressing a small wad of cash into it, like she often did. “Sweetie. You could always move home, like Jessamyn, and fill your days like she does.”
Fill her days? All she did was plan her wedding. And shop. And I happened to know she was bored as shit. There were only so many ways to spend money before you got into the absolutely stupid, and Jess wasn’t that vapid.
“I know I could do that, Mom. But I want to do something with my life other than charity luncheons and shopping excursions.”
She made a small, high-pitched laugh. She didn’t say it, but I knew she was wondering how she got such an alien for a daughter. Sometimes, I wondered the same thing. If we hadn’t looked so much alike, I might have had my DNA tested.
When I’d finally escaped, I got to my Prius and kicked off my red-soled Louboutins, happily replacing them with my black high-top Chucks. The Loubs went into the trunk, under a pile of blankets and towels I kept in my trunk for impromptu beach days.
There were some parts of my life I kept to myself.
* * *
“Hey, I’m home,” I yelled, walking into the apartment my mother had decided was ‘quirky.’ She really thought it looked like a crack house, I’d overheard her telling my sister.
Who says stuff like that?
“Yo,” my roommate, Sarah, said, coming into the kitchen where I was putting on tea. She was little and perky, and was going to make the perfect teacher with her passion and love of all things kids. “How was the birthday party?” 
This was where the ‘keeping things to myself’ part came in. Sarah was sweet, but the Loubs in my trunk cost more than her share of the rent.
“It was all right. Kind of boring. You know, a bunch of old people.”
What I didn’t tell her was that people had arrived in limos, that there’d been a U.S. senator and two members of Congress in attendance, or that there wasn’t one woman’s handbag in the crowd that cost less than ten thousand dollars.
No, when you wanted to fit in with the other broke graduate students getting their master’s degrees in elementary education, you didn’t share that your dad built private jets sold all over the world, or that your family home was an estate in the hills above Santa Barbara overlooking the stunning California coast.
You kept those things to yourself, like the Louboutins in the trunk, hidden under beach blankets and a slew of lies—like that my purse wasn’t actually a knockoff I bought from a street vendor in downtown L.A., but the actual, designer real deal.
“What did you do tonight?” I asked.
“Well, let’s see. I finished my lesson plans for the week, then went to the taco truck down the street. So good, and so cheap. Hey, speaking of cheap, Macy’s is having a huge sale, if you want to go tomorrow.” Her face lit up at the word ‘sale.’ 
“Yeah, sure,” I said, thinking of the five one-hundred-dollar bills my mother had pressed into my hand on my way out of the party. She’d tasked me with finding a nice dress for my sister’s rehearsal dinner, which meant Neiman Marcus or Saks. Not Macy’s.
I’d never even been in a Macy’s until one of my college roommates had taken me there. ‘Course, I hadn’t let on. I acted like I shopped there all the time. I’d found a few things on the sales rack and was initiated. It was actually fun to find a couple bargains.
I grabbed my tea and headed for my room in our graduate student apartment. “I have to get a lesson ready for tomorrow, too. I’ll be leading an art class.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun. Way more fun than the reading lesson I need to lead.”
I wasn’t sure how much fun it was going to be, trying to teach a roomful of seven-year-old kids how to paint with watercolors.
But it would sure be a lot more fun than the party I’d just come from.
* * *
“Joshua, please don’t put paint in Caitlyn’s hair.”
It might have been smarter to just stick with crayons and coloring. But no, I had to get creative. Teach the little ones something new.
And now there was paint all over the damn classroom. 
I’d studied business as an undergraduate. Thought I’d go to work for my dad’s company and build private jets for the richest people in the world. But after a couple summer jobs working in the mailroom and as a general office gopher, I realized the business world was just never going to float my boat. I needed something where I was interacting with lots of people. Something where I didn’t sit on my ass all day and plug away at a keyboard while stressing over numbers and dealing with investors.
“Miss Clover, tell him to stop,” wailed another little one whose name I was always forgetting.
I couldn’t let my supervisor know I didn’t have all the kids’ names down pat. They placed a big premium on that sort of thing. Mandy, Mindy…maybe Myndy with a y and an accent. I could never quite be sure.
So I crouched down next to her instead. “Sweetie, who’s bothering you?”
She pointed to a dough-faced little turd with a smug look on his face sitting just next to her.
I knew that look. It was exactly what The Jester wore when he made me the offer of a lifetime. Cripes, did it really start this early, with the creepiness and the inability to understand the word no?
“Did you hear her say stop?” I asked him.
With a confidence I didn’t know was possible among seven-year-olds, he shrugged like he’d done nothing wrong. “She likes it. I know she does.” And he rolled his eyes and turned back to his painting.
Holy shit.
I’d had it. I knew what I needed to do to help out my little girlfriend who was being harassed, and I knew what I had to do to help myself.
“May I have your paintbrush, young man?”
He turned to look at me like I was bothering him. “Fine,” he said. Then, to my surprise, he slapped the paint-covered end of the brush right into the palm of my open hand, leaving me looking like a jar of mustard had exploded there.
My bad for not anticipating that as a possibility.
“Okay, buddy,” I said, grabbing his hand with my paint-covered one, “you’re coming with me.”
He shrieked when he realized he, too, now had bright yellow paint all over his hand. But I held his little paw firmly in my own and marched him down to the principal’s office where I hoped he’d learn a thing or two about respect. I left him sitting in a chair way too big for a kid, sniveling about the mess in his hand.
The rest of the art lesson came off without a hitch, and to be honest, I was quite pleased with my class of mini Picassos and Matisses. 
On the drive home from school, I knew it was time to do something for myself. I dialed my best friend, Hen.
“Henrietta Rousseau here,” answered an efficient voice.
I knew how much she hated her name, and it always shocked me when she actually said it out loud.
“Yo. Hen. It’s me,” I said, picturing her long red ringlets. We’d been friends since elementary school, sticking together even through undergrad. I’d not seen her in ages and needed to remedy that.
“Oh, hey. I thought you were my new pain-in-the-ass client.”
A snicker escaped me. “You mean your new pain-in-the-ass client who’s going to be paying you shitloads of money, right?” Her public relations firm had fairly exploded in the last eighteen months. Of course, it didn’t hurt that one of her first clients was my dad’s company.
“Yeah, yeah,” she replied with a snort. “So what’s up?”
“Hey, so you know how my sister’s getting married, right?” I asked.
In the background, I heard her close her office door. The firm she ran was loaded with gossipy bitches.
“Of course, I got the engraved invitation myself. Kidding. I know I’m not invited. But when it is, anyway? And is she still marrying that douchebag Robert?”
“Soon. And yes. Man of her dreams, and all that.”
“Gag,” Hen said, laughing. She went through men faster than anyone I’d ever seen.
I sighed. “I know, right. But hey, I need a date for the shindig, and The Jester is all over me. I gotta show up with someone. You know that place you told me about?” I asked. “Where you get your itch scratched?” Those words made my skin crawl, but they got right to the point.
“What place?” she asked, then ooooh’ed happily. “Yeeeesssss, Player. Welcome to the dark side, my beotch. You gotta call them! Their guys are a-mazing.”
“Yeah, well, what I need is a date, not that,” I replied, although I could have used that, as well. “Text me their number? I’ll call today to line something up. It feels weird as hell, but it would be worse to show up dateless and be subject to The Jester’s harassment. I’m already the black sheep because I want to teach, and now even more so that I didn’t manage to get married before my younger sister.”
On the other end of the line, I heard the door to her office open. She muttered, “Thank you,” most likely to some harried intern. “Shut the door!” she screamed after the poor soul before returning to her inside voice. “It’s weird at first, being out with one of those guys. But you’ll find they’re just nice, normal men. Well, normal in public.”
You never knew what Hen meant by ‘normal.’
“Cripes, how many men have you gone out with through the place?” 
“Just a couple. One when I needed someone for a business dinner, and another when I was just horny as hell. You wouldn’t believe what I did with that guy,” she said, humming. “He was so huge I could hardly—”
“Stop. I don’t want to know. Just send me the info.” She loved nothing more than sharing the details of her, um, rendezvous.
“Only if you promise to tell me everything,” she said. “I mean pinky swear, got me?”
“Hen, there won’t be anything to tell. He’s just gonna be my date for my sister’s wedding.”
Yeah, right.
* * *