The Lineup(96)

Knock them dead. Love you, kid.

Dad.

My eyes swim over the words, rereading the same sentence as if it’s not registering in my brain.

I still feel uncomfortable about you using him for the dinner, but as long as he’s in the know, that’s all that matters.

Using me?

Fake relationship?

What?

I shift on my feet, reading the email again. He must be mistaken. What we have isn’t fake. There’s nothing fake about our relationship. I’ve never felt something so real in my life.

But . . . what if . . .

No. I shake my head and step away from my computer, my mind reeling with every conversation I’ve had with Dottie.

This is real. Real for me, real for her.

Then again . . .

When did she talk to the Carltons about me? They’ve been on vacation for a while, so she must have told them before they left. When was that though? Shit, either way the timing doesn’t seem to work. Why would she tell her dad this was fake unless . . . it started that way?

Shit.

I wrack my brain, trying to figure out the timeline, tempted to go through her emails to help me but think better of it. I’m sure they aren’t ones she’d keep.

What about the enchilada fiasco night? She went to work that day pissed as shit at me. I didn’t think she’d come to dinner, and yet she showed up. But . . . she more than just showed up; she came on to me and hard. It was weird at the time, still fucking weird now that I think about it, but if she was desperate to seal the deal, I wouldn’t put it past her to do anything it takes.

Holy.

Fuck.

I step back again, both oven mitt hands on top of my head as I try to understand the implications of this.

Does she actually like me? Or has this all been a fucking game to her? Have I been a pawn in her life? Using me for sex and career gain?

I don’t want to believe it, but then again, I know the drive that hides behind those seductive eyes of hers.

I still feel uncomfortable about you using him.

Why would her dad say those specific words? “Using him.” He would only use that precise term if that’s what she told him.

My heart plummets to the floor, shattering right there on the spot as my breathing starts to pick up.

All the late-night conversations, the flirty smiles, the serious talk about belonging to one another . . . it was all a farce, a goddamn lie for her gain.

Fuck. It’s like Melissa all over again. I’d thought she was into me as well, but she’d been all over other guys at the same time. Why can women lie so easily? What do they really gain from being so . . . false?

“Fuck,” I say to myself just as a burning smell hits my nose.

I spin around only to find the oven bursting with a flaming ham.

“Ahh,” I scream as if my body was replaced with a ten-year-old girl’s. Flames crawl out of the oven and tickle the kitchen air as I dance around the tiled floor, arms flailing, trying to locate a fire extinguisher. “I’m going to die,” I say in the most dramatic voice ever heard. “Fire. It’s a fucking fire.” I jog in place, my cock and balls bouncing against my apron. “Charred to death naked. Ahhhhh.”

I bounce.

I dance.

I flail every limb of my body.

I pray to Jesus for indoor rain.

“It’s a goddamn inferno in here. This is how I die, naked, and—” I spot a red canister in the corner and quickly run to it.

Praise you, praise you!

I pull the metal clip, take the hose, and point it at the oven. Using my most efficient twinkle toes, I waltz around the kitchen, a fire extinguisher as my partner, hand and hose, and together we douse the fire until it’s completely out.

On a deep sigh, I relax my shoulders and stare at the charred ham.

Completely ruined.

All that hard work. All that prep. All that tasty, crispy smell.

Gone.

The email, the uncertainty, the ruined ham—the fact that I almost burned up in flames naked as the day I was born—it all comes crashing down on me, leaving me to sink to the floor into a pile of sodden emotions.

And even though the ham is the final kick to the crotch, that’s not what’s slowly draining the life from my body. That’s not what’s causing this ill feeling to bubble up inside me.

It’s the email.

The words “using him” flashing, making me feel like a complete idiot.

A lone tear falls down my cheek.

What’s bringing me the most grief? What I thought Dottie felt for me wasn’t really true.

I feel like a goddamn fool.

An idiot for thinking that this high-powered woman with work on her mind constantly could genuinely open her heart to me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my eye with my mitt-covered palm.

I take calming breaths and as air fills my lungs, anger filters into my veins. How many times has she told me I’m ridiculous? How often has she told me she should hate me but then said words to buffer the truth? I’m competitive by nature, but I’m not sticking around to attempt to win this. Win her. Because she doesn’t want to be won. At least, not by me.

Fuck this and fuck her.

I can’t be here any longer, and I sure as shit can’t be here when the Carltons arrive. No fucking way. Unlike a certain woman, I’m not a talented actor.

Standing, I toss the oven mitts to the ground and tear off my apron. Naked, I walk to Dottie’s bedroom and quickly put on my jeans and shirt. Without a word, I head to the living room and grab my shoes.