The Decoy Girlfriend(17)
—
Taft’s so recognizable that he blows past the bouncer at the club, swapping the sticky press of humidity for the air-conditioned tundra inside. He can feel a hundred hungry eyes on the back of his neck as he enters, heading straight for the bar.
He hesitates a moment when the bartender approaches, a stunning redhead wearing a my pronouns are they/them pin and the same classically timeless black-and-white blazer and shirt combo as he is, in line with the club’s mandatory dress code.
His father’s voice rings in his ears: Real men drink whisky.
Fuck it. He orders a Tom Collins.
It goes down like a fizzy, grown-up lemonade, and he gestures for a second one before he realizes Mandi is a solid ten minutes late. And since she considers showing up ten minutes early as being right on time, something’s up. He scans the club, and for just a moment he thinks that he spots her in a group of women. His brow furrows in concentration, but his line of sight is swiftly blocked by grinding bodies.
“Thanks,” he says distractedly to the bartender when they slide his drink over.
He checks his wrist again; his manager got him a black Zenith watch for his twenty-sixth birthday after he landed the Banshee movie with Mandi. When he’d looked up the cost, his heart almost popped out of his chest like a cartoon character. But he had to admit, there’s something powerful about a good-looking watch; Bruce Wayne could wear it all day in the boardroom and when he transitioned into busting bad guys.
Taft doesn’t feel powerful now. Just a little forlorn, claustrophobic in this loud, pulsating club, skin flushed from gin. The event at Books & Brambles probably ended about an hour ago, he estimates. Did Freya search the crowd for his face? Or had she known what he hadn’t yet—that he wouldn’t show up tonight after all? No, of course not. That’s . . . preposterous.
He sighs and downs what remains of his Tom Collins. It’s a good thing Freya’s recognition earlier jolted him out of the fantasy he was indulging in, that he could unashamedly flirt with her without the repercussions that came with being part of his world.
If he did anything to jeopardize the success of the movie—which apparently hinged on everyone shipping “Raft” (his and Mandi’s celebrity portmanteau for Roy and Taft, thanks to several fans showing up on set to scream, “We will go down with this Raft!” during the third season)—his team and Mandi’s would both fight to the death for the right to kill him.
He knows Mandi wouldn’t lead the charge, but he also knows she needs the good publicity as much as he does. Just as he’s about to text her, his phone lights up in his hand. Her name flashes on the screen and he answers at once.
“And the day keeps getting weirder!” she shrieks in his ear.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“So apparently,” she says, voice thick with sarcasm he knows isn’t aimed at him, “I was already let in half an hour ago. They think this is some hoax and I’m impersonating myself.”
“What?” He cups his palm over the phone. “I don’t think I heard you.”
He could have sworn she said— But that can’t be right.
“I’m out front. With everyone else.” Her voice lowers. “I’m afraid these unfeeling creeps in line will start filming this any second. It’s so embarrassing. Please come get me.”
“I’m on my way.” He slips through the sea of sweaty grinding bodies like an eel.
No one tries to stop him as he makes his way back to the entrance, though he does get several appreciative glances from all genders. If anything, his recognizability has increased since he started sporting the silver. The premature grays are another thing he gets from his mother, along with her taste for fruity umbrella-topped cocktails and her love of reading, yet more things his dad doesn’t relate to.
That’s when he sees her, in a slinky red cutout dress that shows off tantalizing glimpses of bare skin. Sexy enough for the club but still tasteful, showing off an open back and a long neck adorned with a dainty gold choker.
His brow furrows. Didn’t Mandi say she was stuck in line?
Her earrings catch the light as she turns, their eyes meeting across the room. Long legs, nude pumps. Wholly and completely, she dazzles him.
Taft freezes. He’s never had this reaction to Mandi before.
His phone goes off in a frenzy of beeps.
Mandi: Hurryyyyy
Mandi: Where are you?
Mandi: I SWEAR, IF THIS ENDS UP ON TMZ . . .
Mandi: WHOEVER’S FUCKING WITH ME, THEIR HEAD WILL ROLL.
Whoever the mirage in red is, she’s not Mandi.
Feeling returns to his limbs as her earlier words come back to him: impersonating myself.
His head shoots up, clocking the girl in the red dress. Her face blanches into an Oh shit expression when she notices him. Definitely not Mandi, Taft decides. She would never let her mouth drop in horror like that, not even in her early acting days, when she was doing too much work with her face.
The Mandi look-alike sticks around long enough to murmur something to the people she’s with, and then with one last panicked look over her shoulder at him, she makes a break for it.
Without even thinking twice, Taft takes off in pursuit.
Because here’s the thing: like all the characters he’s played, Taft always gets the girl.