Page 6 of Fake Wife
I level him with a glare. “Yeah? Because you’ve done such a great job of taking care of the people you’re supposed to? Like Mom?”
His lips press into a thin line. Game, set, match, asshole.
My mom’s practically catatonic these days, spends most of her time alone in her bedroom, only coming out when my dad forces her to galas and company-sponsored events. When she does come out on her own, she’s typically drunk, and a nervous wreck she’ll somehow screw something up.
She used to be this woman with a gentle smile and a lyrical laugh.
Until neglect and lack of love and her husband’s disdain killed all her beauty.
Sure, on the outside she looks as beautiful as she always has, but it’s her inner beauty that’s been stomped and callously murdered without thought.
“Six months,” I state, and stand from the chair. I have to get out of this office before I punch my father in the face. Eleanor would probably love it if I did, though. “I’ll find a wife and get married in six months. I also want a copy of that will delivered to my place by the end of the day.”
“Absolutely Mr. Lane,” Merryweather says. He must be as crazy as Eleanor. He’s acting as if this is all perfectly natural and normal.
Hell, perhaps it is. This is no different from an arranged marriage, and at least I get to choose my bride. Perhaps among the wealthiest in the world, this is how marriage is discussed and determined.
It would explain so much about my dad.
I’m barely out of the high-rise where Merryweather’s office is before my phone is in my hand and I’ve got my buddy Trey on the line.
“Hey, dude. What’s going on? You done at the lawyer’s office?”
“I need a drink. Anywhere, but I need it now.”
His teasing immediately disappears. Trey and I have been friends since college, met at Stanford, were members of the rowing team. He’s the brother I always wanted. “What happened? Franklin being a dick?”
“Worse, actually. Where can we meet?”
“Pour on Fifth Street.”
A whiskey bar. Absolutely perfect. Who cares that it’s barely noon?
In less than twenty minutes, I’ve got a glass in my hand, Trey across the table from me, and he’s looking just as stunned as I am after I share all the details of the reading of Eleanor’s will.
“Well, fuck.” He tosses back his drink and sets it on the table. “What are you going to do?”
“Drink, but other than that, hell if I know.”
Eleanor brought up my playing the field because she doesn’t get how hard it is for a man like me to find someone who actually likesme.I’ve dated more socialites and daughters of the wealthy than I can count, and all of them typically have one hand on my dick and the other reaching for my black Amex.
Rich women are a pain in my ass. They’re more needy than tolerable, and more insecure than an abused dog.
Fuck. Maybe that’s been my problem. If I need to find someone I can stand living with for two years and get married, I have to find someone different.
I have to find someone normal.
—
We spend the next couple of hours at Pour. Trey’s a wickedly smart app developer and sets his own hours. Built and rough looking, he looks like he belongs inside a UFC cage, not behind a computer, creating new games for hours of mindless entertainment for the masses. The guy’s a self-made multimillionaire and actually likes the shit he does for a living.
Thankfully, since he can work whenever he wants, which is almost all the time because he’s a workaholic, he can also take the day off and spend it with me. After we left Eleanor’s funeral this morning, he’d headed back to his place to get work done on a new app he’s designing. I’m thankful as shit I’ve got the kind of friends who will drop everything and spend it getting wasted with me when I need them to.
Not that we’re drunk. After whiskey glass number two, we put the alcohol to the side, ordered some food, and have spent the last few hours talking about Eleanor, laughing at how crazy the old woman was, and how even more insane her will is.
To show his support, he’s spent the last twenty minutes creating a dating profile for me on several different sites and apps, including Tinder and one of his own: PerfectMate.
No thank you very much.
