Making It While Faking It Read online

  I close my eyes and purse my lips, keeping myself from rushing into his bedroom and pounding him with my fists. I’ve never felt so powerless. In my face—they’re screwing right in front of me. But damn it, I can’t stop them. I need money. I need Simon one hundred percent in my corner during negotiations with Jaycee. Damn it. This is why I hate Hollywood. That cheating bastard that I said I’d marry stands between me and the cash I need to keep my restaurant alive.

  “Oh yeah, baby,” he repeats in what I’m certain is an American accent.

  Does he fake his English accent? And if so, then Cherry must know the truth, because she doesn’t seem surprised by it.

  I take a swift step back and paste myself against the wall. I feel so stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the frustration of it, the powerlessness of it, makes me want to cry. But I don’t want to cry over the mockery Simon’s made of our relationship. He hasn’t broken my heart, but my ego is definitely bruised.

  What the hell, I mouth as I squeeze my temples. I have to get out of this godforsaken trailer. The heated air feels like it’s choking me. And with every thrust into Cherry Atwell’s eager vag, bile rises from my stomach into my throat, forcing me to swallow to keep from throwing up.

  I’m shaking all over, but my steps stay quiet as I tiptoe away from the offensive act, clutching my stomach again. I feel even sicker realizing that I’ll have to come back later and pretend as if I haven’t seen them together. However, after I persuade him to stand behind me as I hammer out a new deal with Jaycee, the shit will roll downhill and bury him alive. That, I promise.

  I release one shaky breath as I carefully open the door.

  “There she is!” Brandi, one of the likable PAs, says way too loudly. She’s never looked so wired, and it takes me a moment to fully focus and comprehend the reality of why.

  My jaw drops further. I’m aware that my feet should step over the threshold of Simon’s trailer. I should get out of the doorway. Otherwise, I risk them hearing us. But I can’t move an inch.

  “Dad?” My tight, dry throat is barely able to choke out the word.

  Even though tears stream from my eyes, I can see that my dad looks like the billions he’s worth in his expensive slacks, Italian leather shoes, and a black cashmere trench coat. Everything and everyone out here is covered in mud, grass, and pollen, but not him. He’s impeccable.

  He looks as if he’s about to say something until his eyebrows pull up and his glare rises above my head to stare daggers at something behind me.

  “Treasure? Doll? Did you knock?” Simon says using his English accent. His tone is lazy, like he’s trying to deceive me into believing that he’s been asleep and not banging Cherry Attwell.

  Tears produced by sheer anger blur my vision as I turn to face Simon. He’s a few feet behind me, standing as if he’s trying to guard the hallway.

  “What’s going on out there?” Cherry asks, appearing beside him, wrapped in nothing but a white sheet. Her barely visible feline smile is made just for me.

  Simon and I lock eyes. I’m reading something in them that I can’t quite figure out.

  “Um, well, okay,” Brandi says as if she’s found herself in a situation to which there is no real proper response to.

  Simon grumbles something indecipherable to Cherry, who immediately scurries away.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I rip myself from his touch and rush down the short set of stairs.

  My feet thump down the boardwalk and arrive in front of my dad, who is an immovable object. His familiar scent drifts over me, filling my eyes with more tears that I fight like hell to contain. And Leo hasn’t said anything yet. He’s just checking out the scene, for sure judging.

  I hear Simon’s trailer door close. He must’ve cowered in the face of my dad’s hawkish glower. I’m satisfied that my dad has intimidated him. But all I can do is clench my back teeth to keep my chin from quivering. I can’t even ask my dad the obvious question, which is, what is he doing here. Because if I do…

  Don’t cry, Treasure.

  Don’t you even think about it.

  Then, without saying anything at all, my dad wraps his arms around me, and for several seconds, being this close to his subtle and familiar apple-mint-vanilla-sandalwood scent makes me feel safe, secure, and—even though we haven’t been very close since he cut me off from the family’s money ten years ago—truly loved. So I release my tears with a shoulder-jerking, wet-face kind of ugly cry, knowing my dad just might make it all better.

  What’s the Deal

  TREASURE GROVE

  Thankfully, my tiny trailer is mildly clean. I don’t think my dad cares how large my space is, but still, I want him to see that a small part of me has her shit together, and that is not what’s on display in this crappy trailer.

  “You can sit here,” I say, pulling out one of two hard black plastic chairs, which are partnered with a rickety card table. I spot my unmade bed and resist the urge to groan about not making it. I barely made it out of here and to the set on time this morning.

  My dad tilts his chin as if regarding me with concern as he lowers himself into the chair. He seems so tense and nervous as his probing eyes take in the space.

  Feeling his gaze sink through me, I fold my arms tighter against my chest, thinking maybe I understand why he’s looking at me that way. “I know the trailer is small. It’s just, I’m rarely in this thing. Just to sleep. I’m mostly on set.” I frame my lips into the fakest smile on earth, hiding the fact that this trailer and being on set make me feel as if I’m dying on the inside.

  “This is fine,” he says as he rolls his shoulders back to sit taller. But if it’s so fine, then why does he look so uneasy?

  Suddenly, it dawns on me that something could be very wrong. Swallowing a gasp, I press my hand snuggly over my heart to ask, “Is Mom okay?”

  Leo’s palm flies up. “Your mom is perfect.”

  “Okay then.” My tone connotes that I’m seeking an explanation as to why he’s in Iceland, which happens to be an ocean away from where he lives.

  His mouth twitches as he presses his lips. He’s definitely nervous. I would ask if Lynx is still in good health, but then, I would know if anything bad has happened to Lynx before he would. I’m Lynx’s emergency contact. I’m not even sure he and our dad are on speaking terms.

  With a sigh, Leo seems to relax a bit. Then he rubs his palms against his pants as his eyebrows bounce up and down. He’s acting exactly like he did before he told me he was cutting me off from the family riches.

  “I guess you want to know why I’m here,” he says.

  My chest tightens, and I nod stiffly. “Yeah. Why are you here?” Somehow, the volume of my voice feels inadequate, or maybe, I feel inadequate.

  My dad crosses his leg like he does when he’s about to talk business. So he’s here for business, and his visit isn’t personal. That’s almost a relief. “I have a proposition for you,” he says.

  I stand tall without uncrossing my arms. “Okay…” I say, sounding guarded.

  “You know the Lord family, don’t you?”

  The Lords? He means the family that’s been nothing but an enemy to our family ever since I could remember. However, as recently as five days ago, the bad blood may have been purged when my cousin Paisley became engaged to Hercules, the youngest Lord brother. And we both know that I had a fling with Orion once—well, twice—but Leo only knows about the one.

  However, the plot has definitely thickened. Like a shark smells blood in the water, I smell money in the air. But I keep a straight face. I don’t want my dad to know that my interest has been highly piqued.

  “Mm-hmm,” I say tightly then swallow.

  My dad makes a sudden move to take off his coat, leaving me wondering why in the hell he’s tiptoeing around whatever he’s here to say, which is totally out of character for him. Something has to be very wrong.

  My arms fall to my side as my heart constricts, and I say, “Dad. Is everything okay wit
h you?” Maybe he’s here to tell me has cancer or something. He would totally do that.

  “I’m fine,” he says, frowning as if his demise is the last thing I should suspect.

  “Okay then…” It’s time he gets on with it. The suspense is driving me crazy on the inside, so much so, that it feels like Simon’s infraction never even happened.

  Leo coolly lays his expensive coat over his lap. “I heard about what happened to you on set this morning.”

  I stiffen, wondering who told him. Was it Brandi? She can be a motormouth when she’s nervous. My dad makes everybody nervous.

  “If you’re putting yourself through this because you need money, then I might have a solution,” he says, recrossing his legs.

  I’m listening attentively as he goes on about bank regulations and interest paid on holdings. It’s all high, apparently. Operating the family bank, Grove Industrial Tech, and several other businesses as separate entities and treating them as such has been a nightmare. He mentions old-money sweetheart deals. Apparently, the Lords have some unique wealth maintenance privileges. My ears perk up higher when he says that Paisley’s engagement to Hercules Lord has put our family in a position to be granted entrance into what he calls “the land that flows with milk and honey.”

  I actually snicker at that. My dad smiles as if he enjoys lightening my mood. He actually used to make me laugh a lot before he dropped the bomb on me. We were close. I’m still baffled at why he so abruptly cut me off.

  He continues, mentioning the upcoming marriage between Paisley and Hercules, and he does so without grimacing. Interesting.

  “The assets between Xan and me are split fifty-fifty, and then we are executors of our children’s trusts.”

  I fidget nervously as I keep myself from screaming, “Why?” at the top of my lungs. Why in the hell do you keep me from what Grandfather made rightfully mine? All I want is my restaurant. Just a tiny bit of my inherited money will help me keep it alive. Given another opportunity, I will not make the same operational mistakes twice.

  My dad pauses to get a read on me. But I’m totally confused about why I should care about the family’s banking concerns, especially when I’ve been separated from the money.

  He coughs to clear his throat and then shimmies his back against the flimsy chair, which creaks. I’m embarrassed again. But he’s nervous. “However, if another Grove marries into the Lord family, then we will qualify for those inherited entitlements.”

  A lot of questions and few expletives are sprinting across my brain. Leo watches me as if he knows he has to give me time to think. In actuality, he hasn’t really asked me to do anything yet, but I think I know what he wants me to do.

  Shit.

  As I blink, my eyes get stuck closed for a few seconds. There’s no way this is really happening. Except it certainly is.

  “You want me to marry one of the Lord brothers?” A humorless laugh escapes me. It’s just so ridiculous and surreal.

  My dad’s thick eyebrows quirk up, and I know the answer to my question.

  “Am I being punked?” I ask for purposes of clarification, although I’ve never known Leo Grove to be a prankster.

  Leo looks confused. “Punked? What’s that?”

  Okay… so I’m not being punked. I barely shake my head. “It’s a TV show.”

  My dad shakes his head, grimacing. “Then, no, you’re not being punked.”

  My lips form an O and remain stuck in that shape. When I find my muscles and voice again, I say, “Then you’re serious.”

  Wearing a sober frown, my dad nods sharply.

  Holy shit. The craziness of what he’s asking makes me laugh. I picture the Lord brothers. I faintly recall what Achilles looks like. But Orion’s face pops up vividly as I recall how he dry humped my ass in public last Friday. Gross. After what he did to me, simply gross. Then there is Hercules, my cousin Paisley’s husband. Of course, he’s no option for me even if he’s the only Lord worth marrying. I’d rather tie the knot with Count Dracula, the Prince of Darkness, than either of the other two brothers. Okay… I finally stop laughing because dad hasn’t dropped his dead-serious expression.

  “It’ll only be for five years. There’s a loophole…” he says in the same tone he might use to order pizza.

  My legs turn to mush. “I have to sit.”

  I make it to the edge of my bed and plop down on top of the messy bedcovers.

  “And if you agree, your trust payments will be restored, of course.” My dad pulls himself up to sit higher. I can tell that he’s not too comfortable with what he’s proposing.

  But the scent of a far better opportunity than what I was going to propose to Jaycee snakes through the air.

  I swallow hard and focus intently on my dad. “Five years?” I try to picture all that I could do in those five years other than being married to a Lord brother that I’ll never love. Just as my cousin Paisley confirmed the Friday before last, after she learned I was engaged to Simon, my picker needs fixing. Five years to focus on my restaurant is just what I need right now. No relationships, just my restaurant.

  My dad’s eyes narrow just a tiny bit, and I wonder what’s behind the shrewd look he’s giving me. “Trust me, Treasure Chest, it won’t be that long.”

  I sense complications on the horizon. “Why not?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry.”

  I’m very well versed in the tone he just used. He’s saying, don’t ask me anymore questions, because the answer is not yours to have. It’s been a long time since he’s taken that tone with me, and hearing it still unsettles me. It’s almost mafioso, like his dirty dealing is not for my delicate ears.

  “One hundred fifty-three million dollars will be transferred into your account after you sign the contract,” he says to cover the silence that has fallen between us. It’s like he’s using money as bait to lure his prey back to the trap.

  It’s working. I slam my palms down hard on the mattress to brace myself. “One hundred fifty-three million dollars?” I’m winded just from saying that.

  My dad’s nod is sharp and short.

  Body overheating, I tug at the collar of my fur dress. I had forgotten that I was still wearing this ridiculous costume. I want to rip it off, but I also want to scream at my dad. I mean… is that how much of my money he’s been keeping from me? I’ve been struggling to make ends meet, doing whatever it takes. And I’m not rich girl whining either. I put every single dime I had left into my restaurant. But all this time, the money I needed has been sitting in a bank account, and I couldn’t have it just because my dad said no.

  Suddenly, my head feels like it’s lodged between the tongs of a nutcracker. I squeeze my temples to relieve the tightness. “I can’t believe you,” I blurt. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

  “I figured you might feel that I have no right to ask for your help.”

  I jerk my had back as I scoff. “We’re calling it ‘help’? No, you’re not helping me, Dad. You’re helping yourself. And you’ve been holding my money for all these years. All of that money!” Fingers stiff, I’m throttling my hands in frustration. I can’t believe him.

  “Treasure Chest, I did it for your own good. And look at you”—he gives this cruddy trailer a once-over—“you’re thriving.”

  My laugh is dark. “What?” I continue laughing because what he said was pure comedy. “You call this thriving?” I throw my hands up wildly, inviting him to get a good look at how I’m living. “I can’t act my way out of a paper bag, Dad. I’ve been trying though and making a fool of myself while doing it. But I need the money.”

  My mouth is stuck open. What more can I say? I don’t want to full-on complain about being broke. In actuality, I survived pretty okay until I bought the restaurant. And I love my restaurant even if it’s breaking me faster than a speeding bullet. Pretty soon, I won’t have a dime to my name.

  He’s nodding as if he understands why I’m so overcharged. “Do you remember the Bessers?”

  The Bess
ers? Who the hell are they? And why is he asking me about them? No one comes to mind, so I swiftly shake my head, agitated.

  “Bryce Besser’s grandfather was one of our early investors. You met Bryce and his three daughters. But you were probably too young to remember them.” Knitting his eyebrows together thoughtfully, my dad raises a finger. “One of the girls broke something of yours. It made you cry.”

  Now I remember. “Oh yes.” Three very scary little faces populate my memory. Even though I can’t fully recall what they looked like, I can recall every bit of how they made me feel. “Those girls,” I say as if I’m barfing the words. “They were awful. They broke the jewelry box Grandma gave me.”

  My dad nods as if he’s recalling how I cried to my mom, who held me. She took me out for ice cream and a movie to help me feel better. When we returned home later that evening, much to my relief, the girls were gone.

  My dad says that Bryce Besser died in March of the same year he stopped my trust payments. The daughters, who had nothing going for themselves, never knew that Bryce had lost all the family wealth. He’d been living on an over-bloated stipend handed to him by his father’s company’s board of directors. The board had taken pity on Bryce and paid him a heavy monthly salary, which was enough to keep up his lifestyle. After the father passed, the stipend stopped. His daughters and wife were left with hardly anything to live on.

  “Those girls had no survival instincts to make it on their own. Sweetheart, I felt you were heading down that same path. We’d given you too much. Your mom had to be convinced, but she eventually said she trusted me. But look at you,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s presenting me to the world. “You’ve been tried and tested. You’re doing what needs to be done to get what you want out of life. I see that you hate being here. But you’re here, doing what needs to be done to ensure your success. I’m proud of you, Treasure Chest—very proud of you.”

  “Don’t take any credit for me.” My words come out sharper than a razor’s edge.