You've Got Fail(4)

Angry Glarer took his place, crowding me. “What do you think you’re doing?” His dark blue eyes tried to convey menace, but he seemed more like an angry, sexy teddy bear than a frightening aggressor. And the glasses definitely gave him a Clark Kent flair. Angry, sexy, nerdy teddy bear.

“What do you mean, Sparky?” I opted for my innocent bystander routine. “I think you have me confused with someone else.” I took a few steps away, but Angry Glarer stayed on my heels. Had I stolen something from him recently? I couldn’t recall his face.

“Cut the shit.” He grabbed my elbow and whirled me around. “You’re pretending to be Scarlet Rocket,” he whisper-yelled.

“What?” I cocked my head at him. “No, I’m not.”

“You’ve been telling people that you write the Scarlet Rocket blog!” His voice rose, but he quieted when some of the people near us began to stare. “And you’re a liar.”

I sipped my champagne as he huffed, his clean-shaven jaw marred with random nicks from what appeared to be a hasty shaving job. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the coat mismatched to his gray pants, and his shoes were far too shiny for this event. In short, he was a mess, but I couldn’t deny he was a handsome one. Stony blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a decent build—if he cleaned up a little, he’d leave Todd in the dust.

Todd. My fingers itched for his wallet, but I wouldn’t be able to make a move on it tonight. He was gone, and instead, I had Angry Glarer in my face. But maybe I could make up for the loss with whatever this guy had in his pockets.

“Well?” He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I tried a sweet tone. “Look, Sparky—”

“Stop calling me Sparky. My name’s Willis.”

“Sure. I go to parties sometimes, okay? My name happens to be Scarlet Rocket. It’s not my fault if people think that I write your blog or whatever it is you’re saying.” I blinked a few times, waving my fake lashes around like white flags as the lies rolled off my tongue.

He scoffed. “Your name is Scarlet Rocket?”

“Yes.” I turned to peruse the painting beside us. A man rode a woman from behind, the look on her face one of raw ecstasy.

“Show me your ID.” He held his hand out.

“What do you think of this painting?” I waved my champagne flute at it.

His eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t come here for art. I came here for you.”

“Just tell me what you think of the painting, and then I’ll show you my ID.” I had no ID, but he didn’t need to know that. A little sexual misdirection, and I’d be out of this jam in no time.

He glanced at the art, then did a double-take. His eyes widened. “What the hell kind of gallery is this?”

“It’s sex. Couldn’t you tell from the name?”

“I wasn’t thinking about the name. I was thinking about catching the jerk who was pretending to be me.”

Ah ha. He was the real Scarlet Rocket…or as real as possible, since “she” was a “he.” I should have been walking away from him right then, but instead I asked, “You write the Scarlet Rocket blog?”

He glanced around, as if afraid someone was listening. “Not that it matters, but yes.”

“I knew it.” I grinned and finished off my champagne.

“Knew what?” He stole another glance at the risqué canvas.

“That the blog writer was a man.”

He blanched, the color leaching from his smooth cheeks. “How could you tell?”

“Relax. Only a handful of people would be able to tell. I just happen to be one of them.”

“How?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t come here for this. Stop telling people you’re Scarlet Rocket.”

“Why?”

He sputtered, his words jumbling together. “Because it’s a lie and you’re a liar and it isn’t right.”

“Feeling threatened, Sparky?” I returned to the sexual distraction part of my plan. “Oh, look at that one.” I pointed to a painting in the corner at his back.

“I’m not falling for that.”

“For what?” I stepped around him and inspected the canvas. A man smiled from between a woman’s legs, her pert nipples the focal point of his gaze.

He followed my stare. “Oh.”

“He seems happy to be there. And those nips could cut glass.”

His eyebrows lifted in agreement. “Yeah, they coul—” He shook his head hard. “No, stop trying to distract me. You have to promise me that you will stop pretending to be Scarlet Rocket.” His angry whisper cut through the air.

I rolled my eyes. “Why?”

“I already told you. Because it’s a lie.”

“So what?”

“Well, that’s not right.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“Isn’t you calling your blog Scarlet Rocket and pretending you’re a woman a lie?”

He stared at a spot above my head, the cogs in his mind working up an answer. I didn’t care. I just wanted to know what he had in his wallet.

“Look.” I walked around him and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “It doesn’t matter. I can go by another name if it makes you feel better.” Pressing into him, I slipped his wallet from his pocket and stowed it in my clutch.