Just Fake It Page 4

  No, he’s more like . . . Charlie Sheen. Gross.

  Still, god. He’s hot. And successful. And he has a job for me.

  I shrug. “What do you want me to say?”

  “What did you think?”

  “I think, honestly, that you’re a little bit disgusting,” I say, smoothing the napkin out on my lap. “I understand why those men at Emblem were afraid of you. You’re close friends with the president of the studio. But you’re not a very nice person, are you?”

  He hitches a shoulder. “Maybe not.” His smile widens. “But you’re still not adverse to working for me.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary to like the person I work for.”

  He tents his fingers in front of him. “You might change your mind when you hear what I have in mind.”

  I gnash my teeth. I think I’ve waited long enough. Now, he’s just toying with me.

  “Can you please tell me what this job is?” I blurt, looking at Brandon, who’s yawning, a bleary look in his eyes. Remembering the chicken nuggets, I reach into my purse and hand one to him. He starts to nibble on it disinterestedly.

  Justin has a vaguely disgusted look on his face. “Fine,” he says. “I need you to be my wife.”

  I snap my eyes to his. “Wait. What?”

  “Not permanently, of course. And of course, not for real. But in case you didn’t notice, for the past year, I’ve been trying to repair my image. But none of it appears to be working. My image consultants say— “

  “Image consultants?” I almost burst out laughing. That’s so Hollywood, I can’t even wrap my head around it.

  He nods. “They’ve been saying a steady relationship would work wonders for me. I don’t do that shit. Never have. But for weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out how to pull this off. Then I walked into that diner and I saw you, and it clicked. You’re perfect.”

  “Perfect?” My stomach roils. This was just what Steven Long said to me, right before I had the rug pulled out from under my feet.

  He nods. “Plain. Sweet. Innocent. A face that I could see in a nun’s habit.”

  My jaw drops. Did he just call me plain? “You’re a dick.”

  He nods as if it’s a compliment. “Not just a steady relationship, but . . . a wife.” He raises both eyebrows as if it’s the greatest and most innovative idea this city ever saw. “A sweet, innocent girl with a cute little accent whose purity can’t help but rub off on me. I ran it past them, and they were all in. Seriously, you show up in your little braids, chewing on a piece of straw, and the press will eat this shit up.”

  “Braids? Straw?”

  “You know what I mean, Lee. A sweet little country-bumpkin.”

  Country bumpkin? Fucker. I mean, I guess I am plain. In Nebraska I was considered pretty, but here? Among all the lipo, boob implants, and botox? I’m practically invisible. That one night with Steven Long brought me down more than a few pegs. I’m not leading lady material; the best I can hope for is playing the dutiful, mousy housewife.

  I look over and Brandon, who has pulled his legs up to his chest and is now playing with a fork. “You’re telling me that you want to . . .” I can’t even get the words out. This is so wacked. “But what about . . .”

  “The kid is fine. In fact, it’s perfect. I can pretend to be a real family man, now. Just think of it. I was on the wrong track, and then I met the woman who turned my life around. She made me a better man. Turned my world around.” He taps twice, hard on his chest. “Gets you right here. Heartstrings, played like a violin.”

  Holy cow, this guy is an asshole. “Why?” is all I can get out.

  He drains his glass of beer and says, “Because in this business, there’s a Hollywood A-list. They’re the ones it’s an honor to work with. Who get the best studio perks. Who win the awards. If you ain’t on it, you hit a ceiling, and you can’t go any further. I’ve been smacking my head against that ceiling forever. I need to break through.”

  “I don’t understand. You act like every other Hollywood asshole out there. Are you telling me there are degrees of assholedom?” I ask, still hardly able to believe I’m having this conversation.

  He smiles, baring two perfect rows of white teeth, just like I expected. He’s still hot, but now he just looks like a smarmy little scumbag. “Because as far as Hollywood assholes go, I’m at the top of the list.” He points at me. “Only you can help me change that.”

  I look down at my lap. I’ve balled up my napkin in my white-knuckled fist. “Me? That’s not possible.”

  “Sure it is. Kind of like how Robert Downey Jr. stopped being a joke and now he’s one of the ‘in-crowd’ in Hollywood. Hollywood has a very short memory when it comes to these things. Trust me.”

  Yeah, right. Trust a guy who is considered THE asshole of Hollywood. I’ve done that before with a man who was actually considered to be very well respected in the industry, and look where it got me. Plus, playing this man’s wife for even a few months sounds absolutely . . . ludicrous. What would that even entail? I could just see myself, prancing around his billion-dollar mansion in an apron, making a casserole.

  Brandon’s eyes droop shut, and he starts to lay his head on the tablecloth. I push away from the table. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to— “

  “A million dollars.”

  I freeze. “What?”

  “You heard me. A million dollars for four months of work. That’s what I pay.”

  My eyes bulge. “You’re not serious. You’re out of your mind.”

  “You’re not the first to tell me that.” He crosses his thick arms in front of him and leans back in his chair. “The award nomination season starts in a few weeks. All you’d be expected to do is stay at my house. Come with me to a bunch of events. Tell people that you’re my wife. And then, after the season is over, you’re free.”

  I narrow my eyes. That sounds too easy. “That’s it?”

  “Sex can be involved, if you’d like,” he says, running his tongue along his top teeth. “You’re not my type, but you’re cute. I have no objections.”

  I scowl at him. I’m sure his type is a freaking porn star. Gross.

  I gnaw on my cheek. A million dollars. A million fucking dollars. “But why me? You can find someone to play your wife anywhere.”

  He grins. “They’re all fake, Lee. If I show up with one of them, it won’t have the same effect. You’re the first woman I’ve met who looks like she could make me be a better person. Who appears way too wholesome to lie.”

  I look over at Brandon. “First of all, don’t call me Lee. And secondly . . .”

  “The kid can come, too. I’ll hire a nanny. Okay?”

  He makes it seem so easy. “But it would just be attending events, right? I mean, I don’t want Brandon to be confused that I . . . that we . . .”

  “Well. You might have to pretend you like me. Hold my hand? But okay, I get it. Only when the kid isn’t around. All right?”

  “No. I mean, how do you expect this deception to work? What do I tell my family? My friends?”

  Not that I have much of either of those.

  “Tell them as little as possible. Remember, it’s only until March.”

  He extends a hand across the table to me, his eyes glinting.

  Ava always used to say I was too rash. That I didn’t think things through enough. She was the careful one, the planner. I always thought that if I’d been more like Ava, who planned for years before starting college at UCLA, maybe I wouldn’t have wound up penniless in L.A., with a kid to support.

  I probably should be thinking this through a little more.

  But it only takes a blink of a thought of the barely two-hundred dollars I have to my name to convince me.

  Fuck it. Even if he screws me over big time, I have little to lose. Things can’t get much worse than they are right now. I reach over, but stop before my fingers can graze his. “I need half the money up front.”

  I expect him to balk, but he doesn’t. “I’ll have it wi
red into your account tonight.”

  There’s nothing stopping me from saying yes. Even though it feels like I’m losing something important to me, I’m not sure what. My dignity’s already been dragged through the mud. So I shake his hand. His grip is strong and warm and somehow, even though every part of me is repulsed by this man, I still feel an electric reaction deep within my sex. Dammit. “Deal.”

  And egotistical asshole that he is, he gives me a satisfied nod, like he knew I’d accept all along. He points to the menu. “Order what you want, Mrs. Avignon. Nothing but the best for my wife.”

  Ugh. His wife. Maybe if he wasn’t so utterly smarmy, that’d be a nice proposition. “Aren’t you eating?”

  He shakes his head, holds up his glass and motions to the waiter. “Nah. I prefer to take my meals this way.”

  I wait for the smile or laugh or some indication he’s joking, but there isn’t one. Oh, god. What have I gotten myself into? Married to an egotistical asshole alcoholic Hollywood type. Even if it’s just pretend. If they could see me now, my parents would absolutely flip.

  Chapter 5

  “I can’t talk right now, Ava,” I say into the phone as I finish packing up my suitcase with clothes for Brandon and me. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  “So . . . are you saying you don’t want me to come babysit this week at all?” She sounds hurt. “What about finding a job?”

  “I might,” I lie. I can’t very well tell her I’m going off to a Hollywood producer’s mansion to pretend to be his wife. If that ever gets back to my parents, they’ll think I’ve gone off the deep end. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “But what about— “

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  I hang up and look around the room. There’s nothing else here that I need to bring. I smile at Brandon, who is playing with his race cars, using the pattern on the threadbare woven rug as a track. “Ready, sweetheart?”

  He stumbles to his feet and takes my hand. I roll the suitcase outside, and as I’m standing on the balcony, locking the door, Maude peeks out from the apartment next door. She squints at the car that Justin sent for me.

  It’s a fucking stretch limo.

  “I think a movie star must have gotten lost,” she says. Then her eyes trail down to my suitcase. “Are you moving out?”

  I shake my head. “That car’s for me. I’m going on a . . . vacation,” I lie, handing her an envelope. “This is a check for the next four months’ rent. I’ll be back.”

  She eyes the envelope suspiciously before taking it. I can see a thousand questions bubbling in her mind, getting ready to pour out. I don’t want to be forced to answer a single one.

  So I blurt, “Hope you’re feeling better?”

  She sighs. “Oh. It’s painful. But yes, I’m much better today. Did you . . . win the lottery?”

  I shake my head and wheel the suitcase toward the stairs. Deflect, deflect, deflect. “That’s good to hear. Thanks, Maude. See you soon.”

  “Have a good vacation,” she finally says, turning to go back inside. I sigh with relief. I’m glad I don’t have a lot of friends. Lying to Ava and Maude was hard enough as it was. And am I going to be filmed, appearing at events with Justin? Isn’t that going to give something away?

  The stretch limo could fit me and about eighteen other people. The driver introduces himself as Logan, Mr. Avignon’s private chauffer, and tells me to help myself to anything in the back. The limo is stocked with a full bar and enough snack foods to feed a person for years. I decline at first, but then Brandon starts to whine so I open up a package of Cheez-Its for him. So I open up a bottle of FIJI water for myself.

  We drive deeper and deeper into Hollywood Hills, through neighborhoods with sprawling mansions I haven’t seen since I first moved to California. I gape at the size of some of the estates, set way back on the road, with gates of elaborate iron scrollwork. When two of those gates open up and the driver eases the car into driveway, I nearly flatten my nose against the glass and drool like some child who just saw a toy she desperately wants in a store window. The place is huge—a sprawling, Spanish-style home of buttery stucco and a burnt orange, terra cotta tile roof. There are cypress trees dotting a perfectly manicured lawn. The driver pulls into a circular shaped drive and stops right in front of the front door.

  By then, my jaw is on the floor. I knew his home would be amazing. But nothing quite prepared me for how beautiful it is in person.

  Logan opens the door for me. “Home sweet home for you,” he says with a tip of his hat. “At least until March.”

  I take a deep breath and help Brandon out of the car. “Are we gonna live here, Mommy?” he asks, confused.

  I nod, hoping Justin won’t be too worked up about Brandon. He hasn’t paid him a lick of notice yet, except during our long dinner, when Brandon inevitably started to whine. The look on his face had been borderline annoyance, but he hadn’t said anything. I’d told myself that if Justin snaps at Brandon for leaving his toys everywhere or making too much noise or just being a kid, I’d leave. Anywhere Brandon isn’t wanted is someplace I don’t want to be, no matter how much money is thrown at me.

  Then Logan leads me up the stairs and opens the door to the foyer. And right then, I realize that Brandon leaving a few toy cars out is not going to be a problem at all.

  I look around, stunned.

  This is a grown-up’s house?

  Oh, I can see the bones of what would be a very majestic, refined mansion. A stone fireplace stretching several stories. A sweeping marble staircase. A giant wrought-iron chandelier. But the effect is ruined by everything else. The walls are covered with horror movie posters depicting grotesque scenes or bimbos baring too much skin, mid-scream. The great room has no furniture but a giant sectional, a bunch of arcade video games and pinball machines, and a huge air-hockey machine. I take a few more steps in and . . . is that a trampoline? In the living room?

  Oh my gosh. I stumbled into the movie set for Big.

  “Good, you made it,” a voice calls from far away. I look up to see him standing on a balcony, wearing a dark helmet and carrying at . . . skateboard? He heads down the stairs, his brow all sweaty, matting his dark hair to his forehead, and that’s when I see that it is, indeed, a skateboard. “I was just finishing up a workout.”

  I stare at him. “You have a skate park in your house?”

  He nods. “Was a pool. But I modified it. I skate more than I swim. Plus, there’s a pool out back.” He tosses his skateboard on the ground and starts to rip off his gloves. “Come on into the kitchen. I think June made lunch.”

  I look at my suitcase, which Logan has brought in, then at Brandon, who’s staring wide-eyed around the place. Justin still has yet to acknowledge him. “What about—“

  “Leave that here. I’ll have Logan bring it up later.”

  I follow him to a massive kitchen with marble and sparkling white appliances. The only thing I notice is a massive recycling bin full of empty liquor bottles. He opens double doors to a giant dining room with a table that’s bigger than my entire apartment. The table is set for two.

  He rubs his jaw. “Shit. Forgot the kid.” He looks around, then calls out, “JUNE!”

  A moment later, a woman responds, “Yes, Justin?” A stout, older Hispanic woman in a long ponytail appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “I made your favorite.”

  “Yeah,” he grumbles. “Well, we need another place setting. For the kid.”

  “Oh!” She smiles down at him. “And what might your name be?”

  Brandon hides behind my legs.

  “He’s Brandon,” I say. “He’s a little shy.”

  I sit him down as June scurries away to get another plate, and say, “I thought you took all your meals from a bottle.”

  He smirks at me. “I was kidding. What, do they not joke where you’re from?”

  Some joke. He had proceeded to get so plastered last night that he started to slur his word
s. Then he’d actually begun flirting with a waitress, in front of me. I’d made my exit, explaining I had to get Brandon to bed, after I finished my meal, before things could get really messy. “Oh, they do. But where I come from, jokes are usually funny.”

  He raises any eyebrow, amused. “Where do you come from, sweetheart?”

  He takes a seat at the head of the table, and I sit catty-corner to him. “Nebraska.”

  He laughs like I just told the funniest joke ever.

  I fail to see the humor. “What?”

  “I don’t know. I thought they only had cows in Nebraska. Does that make you a milkmaid? I’m telling you, you need braids.”

  Oblivious to the annoyance on my face, he continues on.

  “So wait, you came here, hoping to become a star?” When I don’t answer, he laughs harder, slapping the table. “Hell, you’re a Hollywood cliché if ever I heard one.”

  I snort. “So are you. Hollywood Ego. You grew up here, right?”

  He nods. “Hollywood born and bred. My parents were both actors. You’ve probably heard of them.”

  I have. I know all about his family, thanks to my marathon googling session. His mother, Cherry Woods, is a femme fatale of eighties movies, famous for her low, sexy voice, and phenomenal body, which she bared onscreen often. She had three husbands, which wasn’t nearly as impressive as Justin’s father, Lucas Avignon, who had eight wives, Cherry being the last of them, and was known for being the big, tough cowboy in westerns, before dying of lung cancer a few years after Justin was born. Justin probably has half-siblings all over this town. I roll my eyes. “Figures. Explains why you’re so out-of-touch with the real world.”

  “I’ll have you know I know plenty about the real world,” he says. “Enough to understand that Hollywood is far and away the center of civilization. Look around you, sweetheart. I have everything a man can want, and not because of my parents. I’ve gotten it all by making shit up. I’m living the American dream. Don’t feel bitter just because you had the same dream and it didn’t work out for you.”

  I scowl at him. I think I hate him. Why did I agree to this, again?