Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

Had he mentioned the money one more time it would have been so easy, soooo easy to refuse. But having him stand there like a big lump of sorry ass man, looking distressed and asking for my help jolts my cold, dead heart to life. I can hear the crack. I’m starting to break.

“Is that a yes? Your lips are movin’ but nothin’s coming out.” The twang is back.

Can you kill someone with a glare? “What exactly is your diabolical master plan?” I say, going with full-on scathing sarcasm.

“You come with me everywhere I go and pretend to be my girlfriend.”

“And I get?”

“Money and protection.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d joined the Cosa Nostra.”

His eyes narrow and magically he’s back to being his usual arrogant self. “You know what I mean.”

So I call his bluff. This should fix him. “It’ll cost you. I want to go back to to grad school and get a masters in child development. You can pay for all three years.”

“Done.” Not a blink. Not a blush. No hesitation whatsoever.

“You said that a little too quickly. Do you have any idea what kind of money we’re talking about?”

“’Bout three hundred grand?”

The thrill that chases up my spine at his words really is beneath me, shamefully so. Immediately, the pathetic me makes a pitch for him…

He did pay you a hundred thousand and put you up in a beautiful room when you had less than fifty bucks to your name. He pays for food and lets you use his car. He asked you nicely.

My standards have officially hit rock bottom.

“Please,” he says in a low, quiet voice. That one softly spoken word is my Achilles heel. My undoing. One look at the vulnerable anticipation on his face kills my resolve, the crack splitting wide open.

“You don’t have to pay me,” I groan.

“Take the money. I want to pay you.”

“I already have a sparkling reputation as a crook by proxy, I’d rather not add ‘paid escort’ under my name as well. We’ll try it your way, for a while. Who knows, maybe you’re right. But if any of this starts to go bad, I expect you to fix it.”

“You have my word. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

I look up in the silence and find his expression strangely serious. An ominous foreboding parks itself in my gut. However, I’ve just given him my word––all I have left of any value––and I intend to keep it. Let the doomsday countdown begin.

“He’s your boyfriend?” my mother screeches.

“Keep it down. I haven’t explained it to Sam yet.

Sam is still inside petting my cat, Dozer, and watching a rerun of Phineas and Ferb. Or what used to be my cat and is now my mother’s. That nasty beast took one look at me, turned tail, and plopped down on Sam’s lap, a big grin spreading across the latter’s face.

“But he’s a Titan,” my dear father shouts. Yes, he’s shouting. The man that barely made a peep when I explained that my husband had embezzled millions of dollars is close to shouting over an imaginary boyfriend because he plays for the other team. Head shaking, he tears his disbelieving gaze from me long enough to flip the burgers on the outdoor grill. Just now I notice that he’s wearing an apron. Across it, ‘Mr. Hot Stuff’ is written in flaming red letters.

“I said it’s a fake. We’re not dating. He’s not my boyfriend.” I’m almost shouting too now.

“He’s a fugazi?”

Gooood grief. “Yes, Dad.”

“Why would you do this? A fake boyfriend? Why would anyone want a fake boyfriend?” chimes in my mother again.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. “Nobody wants a fake boyfriend and I didn’t do anything, Mother.” Trying to convince my mother of that is going to be tough sledding. “Did you not listen? This was all Calvin’s idea…but the plan has merit.”

As much as I want to throw Calvin under the bus, I’m not going to. On the drive over, I thought and thought, and even if I still believe it’s too much risk for very little reward, for me that is, I have to admit that he’s much more media savvy than I am. He’s been in the public eye for most of his life. He should know about this stuff, right? Maybe this farce can clean up my image a bit. In other words, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m trusting him to know better. Trust. Yes, I’m using that word in the same sentence with someone of the male gender. This is a shocking turn of events. However, it’s not the gender I’m trusting, it’s the man.

“Can I tell the guys at work?” my father has the nerve to ask.

“I’d rather you didn’t. We’re not advertising it. I just thought you should know in case it got out.”

“What do we tell our friends?” My mother is truly at a loss. I almost feel bad for putting her through this, involving her in more of my personal drama. “I’m a very bad liar.”