Hoax Husband: A Hero Club Novel Read online

  “You know, pay someone to be your fake fiancée and then when we have the company, you can arrange a breakup. There is no stipulation against that.”

  I contemplate it for a second. It's not a bad idea. Okay, that's a lie. It's a fucking terrible idea, but at this point, it's all I’ve got.

  “Yeah, I could work that angle, but who? They would need to sign an NDA before I even brought it up, and not many would do that blindly.”

  “Money is a big motivator. All you need is someone desperate enough,” Graham points out.

  But I still can't think of anyone…except, maybe, I do know someone.

  “That face says I’m onto something,” Graham comments before standing. “I have to go and pick up Chloe. Call me and let me know what you figure out.”

  “Will do. Be sure to give Soraya a kiss for me.”

  “Fuck you, Asher. Keep your lips away from my woman.”

  I laugh at him and walk him out to the elevator. “I can't make any promises. One day she might finally see the error of her ways and declare her undying love for me.”

  “It's almost as if you like the idea of breathing through a tube,” he mutters as he enters the elevators.

  “For Soraya, it might be worth it.”

  He flips me off as the doors close, leaving me laughing as I head back to my office, but the joviality of the moment soon ends when I think about the call I’m about to make.

  Taking a deep breath, I dial the number and wait. “Dawn? Yeah, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Asher?” Soraya greets me with a smile as she swings the door open. I lean in and kiss her cheek before she lets me in, her long silky black hair tickling my face.

  I lift a strand and tug it gently. “I miss the color,” I tell her. “It's so much easier to read your moods when you dye it accordingly.”

  When I first met Soraya, the ends of her hair looked like they had been dipped in royal blue paint, which supposedly meant everything was good in her world. It was when she dyed the ends red you needed to be cautious and watch out for her fiery Italian temper.

  “Yeah, well, until this kid makes an appearance, it's au naturel for me, I’m afraid,” she says with a wink, rubbing a hand over her small bump. “Graham didn’t tell me you were coming over. Is everything okay?”

  “It was a last-minute decision. Nothing to worry about. Is Graham around?”

  “Sure. He’s in the kitchen with Chloe. Come on.”

  I follow behind her, heading toward the sound of laughter.

  “How’ve you been feeling, gorgeous?” I ask, flinging my arm around her shoulders as we walk into the kitchen, just to get a rise out of Graham.

  “Well, I have to pee every second of the day, I’ve thrown up four times, and my boobs are killing me,” she deadpans.

  “If you need someone to rub—”

  “Finish that sentence and die,” Graham growls, walking up to us and snatching a laughing Soraya into his arms.

  “Asher!” an excited little voice yells from behind him.

  I drop into a crouch just in time to catch a running Chloe. “Hey, short stuff. How you doing?”

  “I’m awesome. Daddy is going to paint my nails, and then if I’m good, he said I could paint his.”

  I look up at Graham and smirk. “Did he now?”

  “Why are you here?” he snaps at me, making me smile.

  “I have news regarding what we talked about earlier,” I hedge, standing back up.

  He looks at me for a moment before turning back to his girls. “Ladies, give me ten minutes, and I’ll be all yours.” He kisses Soraya then bends to ruffle Chloe’s hair.

  I follow him down the hall into his office at the back of the house. Once inside, I sit in one of the leather seats facing his large mahogany desk.

  “I’m assuming you’ve come up with a solution, since you’ve shown up here,” Graham deduces as he sits in his chair behind his desk.

  “I’m just making sure you’re delivering my kisses to Soraya.”

  “I don't even know why I’m friends with you.” He curses before pouring himself a drink without offering me one. “Tell me what you’ve come to say, then fuck off. I’m spending the rest of my day with my girls, and I don't want your ugly mug here, interfering with that.”

  I laugh, but sober up when I take a breath, delivering news that is sure to stun him. “I’ve found someone willing to play my fake fiancée,” I tell him without preamble.

  “Jesus, that was quick, anyone I know?”

  “Dawn, actually.”

  “Dawn, as in your father's ex-wife?” he spits out in shock.

  “One and the same,” I confirm.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Possibly, but I want this fucking deal, and if that means putting up with Dawn for a while, then so be it.”

  “You’re insane. I don't think this is what Peterson meant when he said that family is important. Nowhere in that speech did he mention fucking your stepmother.”

  “I’m not gonna fuck her. Jesus, give me some credit. Besides, she isn’t my stepmother anymore.”

  “Credit? You’re talking about getting engaged to one of your father's vapid vipers.”

  “Fake engaged. And my father keeps his weddings low key, usually marrying them abroad probably already planning the anticipated divorce before their wedding night is even over. Most people won't have a clue who she is, and it isn’t like Dawn and Peterson are going to get together for a chat, now, is it?”

  “She can't be trusted. You must know that.”

  “Oh, I do, but if there is one thing she cares about, it’s money. With my father not supporting her anymore, she won't do anything to risk losing what I can offer her.”

  “Christ, Asher, this has bad idea written all over it, but I can see you’re serious about this.”

  “I am, and once she’s signed the NDA, I’ll get back to you with all the details. I’ve got it under control. Trust me, it will work.”

  Famous last words.

  Six

  Linda

  The picture begins to form. Swirls of black, hues of gray and silver, and slashes of purple. Abstract and yet unmistakable in its essence. A woman in shadows, her head bowed, her whole body bent and heavy with grief as she cries. Her tears are rivers of rainbow colors.

  I sit up straight and stretch my back, working out the kink in my neck where I have been leaning over the canvas for the last few hours. Night has fallen, my rumbling stomach reminding me I’ve worked through dinner once again.

  Standing up, I stare at the picture, happy with the way it has turned out, and move to the block of windows to close the drapes. My gaze drops to two teenagers chatting on the corner, glancing around, not being particularly discreet, before shaking hands with each other. Of course, they aren’t making friends, just exchanging cash for drugs before they both go off in separate directions.

  Lovely.

  I close the drapes and head to the kitchen area, rummaging around in the fridge for something to eat that requires minimal effort. Grabbing the milk, I decide cereal is the way to go. I snag the frosted flakes from the top of the fridge, pour some into a clean bowl from the drainer, and add a huge glug of milk before sitting at one of the two breakfast stools at the counter.

  My life has drastically changed in the last year. Some of those changes are for the better, some are for the worse. Either way, I have never felt so free. I live in a not so great part of town, in a not so great open plan studio apartment, but it’s all mine, and I get to be exactly who I want to be while I am here.

  My mousy brown hair is now a riot of rainbow colors and my array of tattoos are proudly on display in my black tank top. I have on short red shorts with the words bite me printed on the ass, and over-the-knee, black and white striped socks.

  I look like a rebellious co-ed and not at all like the professional woman I once masqueraded as to keep my stepfather happy.

  Needless to say, that isn’t something I need to worry abou
t anymore. I tried to explain to him that my boss was an asshole who had fired me unfairly, but he wouldn’t hear it, assuming it was my behavior that warranted my firing. He then proceeded to tell me all the areas in which I was failing life, so I decided I’d simply had enough.

  It hasn’t always been this way between us. Not when my mother was still here. My mother was a famous sculptor who was tragically murdered after attracting the attention of an overzealous stalker. Now my only link left to her is the man who took on the role of my father when I was still an infant.

  The problem is, he blames my mother's artistic passion for her death. He spent years after she was gone trying to stamp out the same traits he saw in me in a misguided way to keep me safe. All he succeeded in doing was splintering our relationship, the cracks in the foundations widening under his expectations until the chasm between us became too wide to bridge.

  Trying to be the woman he wants me to be left me feeling like I was living a half-life. I moved out of his house and haven’t seen or heard from him since.

  With a sigh at my wayward thoughts, I toss my bowl in the sink and head to the bathroom for a shower, refusing to let myself ruin my one night off this week by feeling morose.

  I currently work as a bartender at the recently opened bar, Illusions. It is a movie-themed bar and, as tacky as that sounds, it somehow isn’t. Tony, the owner, has managed to keep it classy and draws in clients far wealthier than a bar like this would usually attract.

  The waitstaff all wear tuxedos—well, kind of. The men wear the black shoes, pants, and the bow tie, but they go shirtless, flashing ripped and toned stomachs, making women drool and men envious. The women wear fitted white shirts with bow-ties at the neck, and instead of pants, they wear black, high-waisted spanks that show ample butt cheek and an unobscured view of the black stockings with the seam running up the back of the leg. Completing the sultry look, they all wear torturous six-inch black stilettos.

  I’m in complete awe of those women. They manage to glide around the room effortlessly in those things when I would be whimpering in the corner after an hour.

  The bar staff, myself included, dress as movie stars, and I’ll admit some of them look uncannily like the person they were impersonating.

  My hair and tattoos, as my stepfather has pointed out many times, could be a deterrent when it came to employment. Tony, however, took one look at me and hired me on the spot to play the part of Harley Quinn, and I have to admit, it’s fun.

  And about as far away as you can get from secretary to the pompous ass Graham Morgan.

  I dry off and slip into an oversized white t-shirt and snuggle down onto the ratty sofa with my big fluffy purple blanket and channel surf for a while, finally settling on a rerun of Friends. I only make it five minutes into the program before my eyes get heavy and I drift off to sleep.

  “Tell me what you want,” he orders, thrusting inside me.

  “Harder,” I implore.

  He doesn’t make me beg, hammering in and out of me at a dizzying speed that leaves me gasping for breath as I arch up into him.

  “Come now,” he roars, so I do.

  I come so hard, I swear I can hear colors.

  “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, making my eyes open to find him trailing kisses over the ink on my shoulder.

  I startle awake, my body flushed with arousal as I struggle to break free from the heat of my dream.

  “Stupid freaking traitorous body,” I scold myself as I stumble into the kitchen area and grab a glass of cold water, hoping to cool off my libido.

  I hate myself a little more every time I dream of that man.

  A man who played with my body like a toy before tossing me aside.

  I refuse to let my brain think of him during the daylight hours, but it seems I have no control over my dreams.

  Seven

  Asher

  “Tell me you’re joking,” I say into the phone in shock.

  “I wish I could, but I spoke to Steve myself. The guy was a little embarrassed at having been caught out, but he was pretty forthcoming about the whole thing,” I hear Graham answer before he pulls the phone away from his mouth and yells something at his current secretary.

  “Peterson’s lawyers finding out that Steve hired an escort to pose as his fiancée is going to make them even more cautious with the remaining applicants. Peterson has seen me around with Soraya. He has even met her a time or two at one function or another. He, along with everyone else, knows what went down with regards to Chloe, and now with Soraya unmistakably pregnant, well, he won't care that we aren’t married yet. After all, I’d marry her tomorrow, but she doesn’t want to waddle down the aisle. Her words.” He chuckles. “My point is, you turn up at these events alone. Thankfully, you don’t have a reputation as a playboy, or this would already have been game over, but he will still see you as being too motivated by money.”

  “I am motivated by money, for fuck’s sake,” I gripe. Who isn’t?

  “We all are, my friend,” he agrees. “My point is, his lawyers aren’t going to believe you if all of a sudden you produce a fiancée. They’ll be suspicious and check her out. The last thing you want is them reporting back to Peterson that your fiancée is also your ex-stepmother.”

  “Shit,” I curse.

  “What? That didn’t sound like shit, time to back out. That sounded like shit, I’m about to make a horrible decision,” Graham states warily.

  “Probably because I am. Let me get back to you. I need to talk to someone first.” I hang up before he can question me more because if he does, I know I’ll stop what I’m about to do.

  I dial another number before I can talk some sense into myself.

  “Hey, Baxter, it's Asher. I need a favor.”

  “You know, considering you pay me the big bucks, I should be smiling right now, but for some reason, your tone has me somewhat concerned,” he comments dryly.

  “I need to get married. Something quick, the courthouse is fine. Can you take care of everything so all I have to do is turn up and sign?”

  “Erm…yeah. Wow, of course, that's not a problem. I’m heading over that way later anyway so I can pick up the forms and drop them over this evening for you to start filling them out, but you’ll have to complete them at the courthouse.”

  “That would be great. Can you run a search on her too, make sure no flags pop up?”

  “Sure, but Asher, what's going on?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “All right,” He agrees reluctantly. “What’s your fiancée’s name?”

  “Dawn Larson,” I tell him, and hang up before he starts firing questions at me.

  I debate on calling Dawn and asking her, but I already know what her answer will be, even if her price will go up.

  Having her as a fiancée will make them look into her, but having her as a wife should shut that down straight away. After all, who in their right mind would marry someone just to close a business deal?

  Well, apart from me, that is.

  I won’t call Dawn until Baxter gets back to me. It would be just my luck she’d agree to marry me only to find a collection of designer skeletons hanging in her closet.

  The rest of the day drags as I war with myself over my decision. I know it's crazy, there is no other way to describe it, but I want that resort badly enough to do just about anything, which includes a marriage of convenience with one of my father's exes.

  When six o'clock rolls around, I look up when a knock on the door shows Rosa with Baxter just behind her.

  “Mr. Sloan, Mr. Jones is here. Is there anything else you need from me before I head out?” she asks, ushering Baxter in and pointing at one of the two seats facing my desk.

  “No, thank you, Rosa. That will be all.”

  She nods and leaves, closing the door to my office behind her.

  “Hey, Baxter. Thanks for doing this for me on such short notice.”

  He waves me off like it's no big deal when we both kno
w I’m a pain in the ass. “It's fine. I have everything you need here. As I said before, you can fill most of it out at home.”

  “Any red flags?” I ask without beating around the bush.

  “You mean other than the fact that your soon-to-be wife is the recently divorced wife of your father, no,” he answers sardonically. “Just make sure she takes her divorce papers with her to the courthouse when you complete the forms. That, and your annulment ones. You can’t progress forward without them,” he tells me, and I nod, but then stop.

  “Annulment papers?” I question, confused.

  “Yes, annulment papers. You can’t get married without proving you aren't already.”

  My frown deepens as I wonder when Baxter started drinking.

  “Baxter, I’m not married and never have been, and as my attorney, I’m pretty sure you’re aware of that.”

  He stares at me as if waiting for the punchline, but when it doesn’t come, it's his turn to frown. He places his briefcase on my desk and opens it, pulling out a stack of papers, the top one a marriage certificate, which I assume for a moment is Dawn’s until I see the signatures.

  “Well, according to this, you did indeed get married, and if you don't have annulment papers, you are still very much married.”

  My blood runs cold. “What the fuck? How did you find these?” I ask because these have to be fake, an elaborate hoax of some kind.

  “When you told me Dawn’s name, I recognized it, but couldn’t place where from so I ran it in conjunction with yours to see where your paths crossed and boom, there it was, dated a little over a year ago, in Las Vegas.

  “Vegas? Holy fuck!” I collapse back into my chair, flashes of that night and the woman with the tattoos score across my brain.

  I’m married? Then a grin spreads across my face at how perfect this is.

  I’m married.

  Graham just stares at me in shock before roaring with laughter.

  “Fucking hell. Only you, Asher, only you,” he eventually says after he calms down. He is sitting in the seat Baxter occupied last night, clearly finding the whole thing far more amusing than me.