The Real Deal

And loyalty trumps everything, so I’ll get the money for her.

“What about you? You good? Are you working?” I ask him, urgency in my voice.

“I’m great. I’m with my woman,” he says, and I hear Lacey whine, “C’mon, babe, dance with me like you used to.”

And that’s all she wrote. My brother is powerless before this woman. She’s his Achilles’ heel. My father suffered from the same condition. Too much love for one woman. That’s what I need to shore up against.

“I gotta go, bro. Come see me soon.” He hangs up.

I stare at the disconnected call as a familiar emptiness tunnels through me over money. There are so many romanticized notions claiming it’s not what humans need. That money blackens your heart. But I dare anyone to say that money can’t buy happiness. If you can say that and believe it, you’re either poor or rich.

For the rest of us, money is everything.

It’s life, it’s food, it’s freedom.

As I flop back on the bed, I wonder what it would be like to have enough money that you could siphon some off to hire someone to play your pretend suitor for a reunion.

I don’t have a clue.

The things I want to do are shoved so far under the bed, in a corner, somewhere else, that sometimes it’s hard to remember what I once wanted out of life. I never aspired to be an actor, and I’m one only in the broadest definition of the word, since I happen to be outrageously good at role-playing. Mostly, I’m a bartender. And I’m an occasional dog-food tester. I’m also a former teddy bear surgeon, a softball coach, an essay writer for hire, and for one glorious month last year, I was a professional sleeper. That was the best job ever, getting paid by a market researcher to test beds for “nappability.” The trouble was, it ended far too soon. I was promised mystery shopping and mattress testing and all sorts of better-paying gigs by the chick who ran the market research firm.

Then she yanked those out from under me.

But acting? You won’t find me auditioning for CSI or the next Broadway musical. Nothing I told April was technically a lie. I do act. Just not in traditional ways. I’m like the person in the park shouting at pigeons for improv, only being a boyfriend-for-hire pays better.

I realize I didn’t even ask what April does for a living.

I curse out loud.

It’s not like me to forget to get to know someone. I’ll do better tomorrow on the train ride to Connecticut.

I have a woman to get to know and a job to do.





Chapter Seven

April

The first night

I sink into the royal blue high-backed upholstered chair, groaning happily. “Oh my God, this chair is to die for,” I say, wiggling around in it.

Theo grins as he tucks our suitcases in the overhead. “Glad you like the train, cupcake. I’m surprised you didn’t want the motorcycle option, though.”

“Two-plus hours on a bike?” I shake my head. “No thanks.” I hold out my arms in front of me, mimicking gripping the handlebars. “After five minutes of that, I’d be like this.” I flop my head to one side, shut my eyes, and pretend to snore.

Theo laughs, and when I open my eyes, he leans in close to me. “You got the position wrong. Your hands would be here.” He reaches for my hands and sets them on his waist. My throat goes dry. I like the way he feels. I wonder if he likes my hands on him. I don’t know the answer, so I let go, folding them in my lap.

“Well, then. That might make me miss the snarling leopard a tiny bit more. Do you really have a bike with a snarling leopard on it?”

“As advertised.”

I glance around, enjoying our digs. Bikes might be sexy in theory, but trains are sexy for real. “Train travel is so romantic, don’t you think? Like in the movies.” The reel plays. “I want to travel across Europe on a train someday. Wear a jewel-colored dress, long white gloves.” I stretch my arms in front of me, threading on my imaginary gloves. “And my hair twisted in a silver clip.” My hand goes to my hair, loosely coiling it. He watches me with avid interest. “I’ll go down to the dining car, a waiter in a tuxedo will greet me and say ‘Good Evening, Ms. Hamilton.’ They’ll serve champagne and caviar.”

He laughs. “Do you actually like caviar?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have a theory.”

“I like theories. Tell me.”

He parks a big hand on the back of his chair, looking down at me. “I don’t think anyone actually likes caviar. It’s turned into a word that signifies fancy shit. But who likes caviar?” He sits now, moving with a kind of graceful ease. His long legs stretch out in front of him, and he turns to face me. “Am I right? Do you actually like caviar?”

I feign shame as a pin-striped man takes the seat in front of us. “You know, maybe I don’t. Maybe I’ve been tricked all these years by the movies. Maybe I have this whole elaborate fantasy of champagne and caviar when I actually detest it. Dear Lord, Watson. You’ve exposed all my truths.”

A laugh bursts from his lips. It’s rich and rumbly, and I like the sound. It’s the sound of him enjoying this gig with me. It’s reassuring to know I picked well, and that we’ll be able to pull this off, return to New York, and continue on with our merry lives, no one the wiser. He quickly collects himself. “Here’s another thing, cupcake,” he says in that gritty voice of his as a mom scoots by in the aisle, her hands tucked into the paws of twin redheaded sprites in summer sundresses. “What are these romantic train movies you’re watching?”

I arch a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Most train movies are about death and destruction. Murder on the Orient Express. Not entirely a romantic notion of train travel. Throw Momma from the Train. More murder. Girl on the Train. That movie is like Murphy’s Law. Everything that could go wrong went wrong on a train.”

I consider this, quirking my lips as I try to unearth a truly uplifting flick to fit the one in my mind’s eye. Most of the movie train romances are also bittersweet, so those don’t fit. “What about The Polar Express?”

“That movie’s just creepy. Everyone looks like a talking mannequin.”

I huff. “Fine, fine. You’ve just shattered all my illusions about trains being romantic. You’re not going to push me from the train, are you?”

“You’re not going to push me, are you?”

“I suppose I will refrain.”

“Merci,” he says in a deliciously French voice.

I wiggle an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve got a whole closetful of accents available upon request. Tell me more.”

“I can be British if you wish,” he says, speaking like an Englishman. “Irish might be just your speed, too.” My eyes widen because he says that in a perfect lilt. “If you want me go down under, Australian’s an option,” he says, sliding into the sexy twang of that country. He rattles off more, demonstrating each. “American South for you, darlin’. California surfer if you want to hang loose. French might be to your liking, mademoiselle.”

“Wow.”

“I’m not done.” He pins me with an intense look. “I’ve also mastered Fake French.”

I laugh. “What in the ever-loving hell is Fake French?”

“It entails a hell of a lot of Pepé Le Pew attitude when saying things like ‘Zees ees deesgusting’ if a waiter served, say, soggy nachos. In a pinch, Fake French can also be achieved with a combination of words like je de ne peu pas voulez vous avec ce soir bonjour.”

I laugh even more. “I like your Fake French. I’m tempted to order up a serving of Theo Banks, the snooty Fake Frenchman.”

“But that’s not all,” he says, and his voice goes deep and dark. So deep, in fact, that I shudder. It’s familiar, and as fearsome as it was when it was first heard in movie theaters in 1977. “April, I am your boyfriend.”

He says it in a dead-on Darth Vader tone.

I shove his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He shifts once more, turning on Kermit the Frog’s earnest nasal tone. “It’s not easy being green.”

“You’re kind of a scary chameleon.” The train doors swoosh shut.