Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

“How does it feel?” She’s chomping on a celery stick and I can see a Bloody Mary on the counter. What the hell is she drinking that for so early? It’s barely five o’clock.

“It feels good. I also want to throw up.”

“Aww, you’re a bitty baby business owner now.” She hesitates to chew. “Can I have a job?”

I roll my eyes and grab my bag, checking to see that all the lights are off. “You have a history degree.”

“So? I like decorating.”

I fumble with everything in my arms and hands, including my phone, as I make for the front door and push it open. Close it behind me, the key in my hand sliding into the lock.

One turn to the left and it’s secure.

“Hold on a second, I’m going to pause you while I get a car.” It takes me two seconds then I’m back. “Done.” I sit on the steps of my new place, thinking if the whole business tanks, I could probably live in my office and save myself a second rent payment. Ha.

Cough.

Just kidding—that’s illegal.

“You had your meeting with that Noah guy today, yeah? Have I mentioned how hot he is?”

Only 40 billion times. “Yeah, I sure did.” I gaze down the street, wondering how much to tell her about Noah. The real Noah, not the one pretending to be him. The hot asshole whom I could not stand versus the quiet, melancholy version who wanted me to feel a certain way about the whole thing.

What did he want me to say?

I thought about it the entire way to my meeting this afternoon and couldn’t come up with anything. It’s almost as if he was disappointed I wouldn’t get confrontational.

So strange and perplexing.

“What’s wrong?” Claire is the most insightful one of my friends. We weren’t roommates freshman year and when most of the friends I had made that year were moving out of the dorms, my parents wouldn’t let me live in off-campus housing.

So, by luck of the draw, I landed with Claire and we’ve been inseparable since. She came as a package deal, complete with Emily, Gretchen, and two Katys—one with a ‘y’ and one with an ‘ie’. We don’t see them as much since both of them moved out of Illinois after graduating, wanting to be closer to where they grew up.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Ugh, why did I just say that? It’s always a dead giveaway that something is wrong.

“What happened?”

It’s like she has this sixth sense. It used to drive me insane, her innate ability to find shit out, but now I’m relieved I can just say what’s on my mind and stop pretending.

“Noah isn’t who he says he is. Yes, he had the money to buy the baseball cards from me, but the guy who picked them up—the guy you met at Rent? That was not Noah.”

“WHAT?” Her eyes cannot get any bigger and I stand as the small, gray, compact car that’s taking me to my apartment slows in front of the curb. I bound down the stairs, lugging my purse, laptop bag, and documents folder, phone tucked under my chin.

“You Miranda?”

I’m already pulling the back door open. “Yup.”

Slide in. Buckle the seatbelt.

He begins driving and I hold the phone in front of my face again so Claire can see me. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. You were saying?” Now she has a meat stick between her lips.

“Did you eat dinner?”

“Don’t change the subject. Noah isn’t Noah, he’s someone else—go.”

“Anyway, the guy I was talking to at the club this past weekend—the guy by the bar, whom I felt compelled to hug—”

“Whoa whoa whoa you never told me you hugged him. Why did you hug him?”

“Duh.” I roll my eyes and run a hand through my hair, exhausted. “He needed it. He’s pretty grouchy.”

“So you just go around hugging strangers now?”

I felt like I was getting to know him!

“People were doing more than just hugging in that club, let’s be honest. That was child’s play compared to what some people were doing.”

I see the driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, his bushy brows raised. Dammit.

“Anyway, you hugged. Was it full frontal?”

I laugh, and the driver laughs, despite himself and the fact that he should be minding his own business.

“Yes? Yeah, I think it was. Maybe that’s what freaked him out.”

“How did he freak out? Did he get hard?”

“No, Claire, he did not get hard—he got gone.”

“Eh?” Claire does this Canadian schtick when she’s confused, and she’s doing it now, accent and all. Ridiculous.

“I know. It was weird. I hugged him, he left, end of story. Except…” My voice trails off, like I’m addressing a group gathered ’round a campfire, regaling them with my horror story. “He wasn’t who he seemed to be.”

“Who did he seem to be?”

“Claire! Focus.” Sheesh, it’s impossible storytelling with her around. “Today I met him because I needed…” I look up and lock eyes with the driver again—I’m not about to tell him I went to make a drop and collect twenty grand. He’d either rob me blind or drive straight to the police station. “To give him that thing he needed.”