Fake Fiancée(19)

Max

THE NEXT WEEKEND I WAS trying to hunt down my fake girlfriend. Without luck.

I parked my black 750 Harley in the detached garage next to my house. An over-the-top gift from my dad, the bike had been a reward for the prep school football state championship I’d won my senior year. Of course, we’d been to state three years in a row, but that last year had been mine. I’m not being cocky when I say that sportscasters and colleges had been talking about me being great since I was fourteen and how I had an arm like a bullet. I inherited it from the jerk who’d provided sperm for me, but I’d also honed my skill with drills and training. And the Heisman, that gnawing need that drove me? I wanted it because it was the one thing my father hadn’t been able to get when he was a college quarterback. Yeah, take that, dickhead.

My dislike for my father started the day my mom delivered me during the ice storm of ’95. A bleak day in December, Atlanta had woken to thousands of branches and power lines covered with ice. The city came to a virtual standstill, and my mom’s water broke right in the middle of it. Somehow she got herself in her car to drive to the hospital, but then skidded on a patch of ice and hit a tree.

Where was my dad? Screwing a groupie.

A stranger helped my mom give birth in the front seat of her Mercedes. From that day on, she said I was a fighter.

When she finally got ahold of my dad, a woman answered his phone. She told me that had been the beginning of the end for her, yet she never could bring herself to divorce the bastard.

When I was a kid, he’d show up periodically at our house, get back with my mom, then a month later she’d read about him having an affair with some country singer or model. He was a narcissistic bastard who only cared about himself, and I hated him most days.

I pushed the past out of my mind as I planted my ass on the stoop. I’d been cruising the streets looking for Sunny for an hour but hadn’t found her. And her house was still dark. She said she had to work at the library this evening, but it closed at nine. It was after ten.

How was she getting home?

Fuck. I should have taken care of this already. She was my responsibility.

I’d given her rides to class on the days we had class together, and she was catching a ride with a friend on the other days—with whom, I had no idea. Which reminded me that we really needed to sit down and go over each other’s history just in case we got asked any hard questions.

I’d sent her a text a couple of hours ago to see if she needed a ride, but she hadn’t responded. Calls had gone straight to voicemail.

Why was I worried? She was an adult. She could take care of herself.

But . . .

But today was weird. I’d wanted her to be home when the bus had rolled in from our away victory against number fifteen Florida. It had been a Saturday night ESPN game, and dammit, I’d wanted to tell her about it. I’d thrown for three hundred and ten and rushed for one twenty, shredding their over-ranked defense. Stellar game. When I woke up in the hotel this morning, the sportscasters were talking about me and the H word.

I’d barely seen her this past week. School and practice had both been intense, and my bed had been my best friend. Our little agreement was working well for me. Bianca was ignoring me, and groupies hadn’t shown up at the house to hound me. I was golden.

Yet a chill went down my spine—something was about to change. Somehow.

Tate popped his head out the door. “Dude. You want a beer?”

I nodded.

He came out a few minutes later, sat next to me on the stoop, and handed me a Newcastle. “Waiting on your girlfriend?”

I flipped him off.

One of the only people I trusted in this world, he knew the low-down on the agreement between me and Sunny. He’d laughed his ass off when I told him.

See. He didn’t get it. My determination. My grit. My willingness to do whatever it took.

I took the beer, twisted off the top, and took a swig. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Tate’s eyes squinted like they did when he was thinking. “I hope this plan doesn’t blow up in your face, mate. There’s a lot of shite that can go wrong. If the media finds out you’re just doing it for the hype . . .”

I ignored that. No one was going to find out.

Sunny was good at keeping her distance from me, even though I’d catch her in class sending me these weird little glances, an expression on her face as if I was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out. But those walls . . . man, she had built them high and tight. She’d been dead serious about not getting involved with me. Which was fine. That’s what I wanted too.

My cock didn’t agree. I was in a dry spell. It had been several weeks since I’d hooked up with anyone. I hoped I’d be able to last . . .

Tate turned his beer up and took a drink. “You don’t really know her, though. She could be a nutcase or after your money—”

“I do know her.”

“You just met. How can you be so sure?”

I couldn’t explain how achingly familiar she was. Sometimes, you just knew when someone was good, and my gut sensed we had affinity. I liked her. She didn’t care who I was and she sure as hell didn’t want to jump in my bed and get pregnant for a paycheck.

Just then the glare of a car’s headlights swung into her driveway—a Jeep. The vehicle came to a halt and Sunny exited the passenger side. Bart got out of the driver’s side to walk her to the front door. He helped her with her backpack when it slipped down her shoulder.