My Fearless Fake Fling

  My Fearless Fake Fling

  By: Sarah Zolton Arthur

  Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  All rights reserved. This book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  One:

  Two:

  Three:

  Four:

  Five:

  Six:

  The Jump

  Seven:

  Eight:

  Nine:

  Ten:

  Eleven:

  Twelve:

  Thirteen:

  Fourteen:

  Fifteen:

  The Fall

  Sixteen:

  Seventeen:

  Eighteen:

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Rise

  One:

  “I can’t do it!” I yelled against the rushing of air, making it hard to hear myself, let alone hoping for anyone else to hear me. The roar was deafening, my eardrums ready to explode at this elevation.

  “You sure?” asked my instructor, a sweet, pretty woman much braver than me. “I got you!” she yelled back.

  For my answer, I pressed my body against the solid wall of the plane, opposite the open space.

  “Whatever.” The other instructor, Lennon, grumbled loudly and leapt out through the door with his client strapped to his body, on the count of three.

  My instructor began to unstrap me, having her pinned between my tensed body and the cold metal wall, because how the other instructor and his client jumped, that was supposed to be how Lacy and I jumped before I chickened out yet again.

  The fourth time I’d paid to jump out of a plane. Zero times completed. Zero. Zip. Zilch.

  Once unhooked, and with the door shut, Lacy, able to talk quieter now, patted my arm. “It’s okay. We’ll get ’em next time.”

  I hated disappointing Lacy. And she didn’t have to tell me of her disappointment, no—the look on her face said it all. The same look she wore after failed jumps two and three as well.

  Apparently, not after jump one. She’d been used to people backing out on the first attempt. But I owned a special kind of cowardice. The outright humiliating kind. The kind that so stunted your life you felt like other people could pick up on it from just a glance. Average height, cute outfit, coward.

  Exactly as Brian had insinuated, well, it would be a year ago, now. A nice restaurant, wine, a beautiful night. I thought with the stage set, he’d been ready to propose. Instead, he’d crushed my future plans by breaking up with me. He’d been kind about it. At least, as kind as he could be under the circumstances. In his words, I’d grown boring. Set in my rituals. And he’d been right. I used to be a braver girl when we’d gotten together. I mean, I’d never been an adrenaline junkie or anything as extreme as that. Still, he knew the day it all stopped.

  Brian had been nice, and in the beginning, he’d tried to help me move on. But I’d become stunted. He’d said he had dreams of adventures the two of us would share together, but after two years, he realized that dream was never going to come true. So he had to change his dream. And although he still loved me, that new dream didn’t include me.

  Like an idiot, I held on to the hope that he’d change his mind, that his leaving was a chance for me to get my act together so we could continue on with our lives, but maybe I’d be able to get some of that old Kami back.

  Yeah, I held on to that hope until his facepage status update told his friends, which at least online I’d still been considered, that he’d sold off everything he could sell, turned in the keys to his apartment, and bought his ticket to Argentina. Brian had pretty much fallen off the social media radar after that, too busy backpacking across a country. As his ex, I no longer rated an email or phone call which sucked, because I still wanted to know how his travels were going.

  I heard from mutual friends, who did rate that call or email and felt like it had been long enough since our breakup to discuss Brian with me again, that he was happy. Met a girl from New Zealand not long after he landed, and they’d been adventuring together ever since.

  Once I heard about him leaving, I decided to try to regain my bravery. It took me until six weeks ago, when I heard about New Zealand girl, to actually act on said decision. Every pay period I plunked down my three hundred dollars determined that this would be the day.

  And I could post my video online for our mutual friends to tell Brian about. So he could see that if he’d only stuck it out a little longer…

  Not today.

  The plane glided along the runway, breaking. Lacy pulled the door open and stood aside for me to hop out once we’d come to a complete stop. Before I left, I turned to her. “See you in two weeks?” I offered.

  “Kami, I feel bad about taking your money. I think maybe we should part ways.”

  “No. I got this.”

  “I don’t think you do. I’m sorry.”

  So even my diving instructor broke up with me.

  Great. Just great.

  She took off walking toward the office and I followed a little slower to collect my purse and phone locked in one of the ten guest lockers. We branched off inside the building as she headed to restock the gear, and I stopped in front of the row of lockers to press my temporary code in to retrieve my belongings.

  My phone had been blowing up.

  Messages. Messages. So many messages alerted me this friend or that friend posted on another friend’s facepage. And they all said essentially the same thing: Congratulations, Brian and Kiki. Of course there were variations with more or less information.

  Times like these, I wished we didn’t share the same friends.

  I walked back to my car, opened the door to a what could only be considered a sweatbox instead of a front seat, and immediately started the air conditioner to cool it down. Being up in the sky kept me cool, all that wind blowing and high-altitude chill. Back down here on the ground, the weather app on my phone said we were hitting almost ninety. But I refused to complain because it wouldn’t be too long before all this glorious sun became a long, Michigan winter.

  With the cool air blowing on me from the vent, I decided to torture myself a bit further and see what kind of ring he’d bought her.

  No, I wasn’t proud to admit that when I found out about New Zealand Kiki, I’d done some internet stalking, and her instaphoto page she’d left open to the public. I pressed the app button, waiting for it to load completely. Then I typed in her name. The first picture to load was a picture of her outstretched left hand sporting a giant teardrop diamond.

  Very pretty. I always knew Brian would have good taste.

  Not sure of the protocol here, did I leave a comment of congratulations to show no hard feelings? She’d written a caption beneath the picture: One and a half years together and he finally proposed.

  Wait. That could not be right.

  He’d only known her for a little less than a year. A year and a half ago, he’d still been with me.

  Confused, I scrolled down to read some of the comments. One of them from Deirdre, a girl I considered a close friend: Congratulations, Kiki! I know it had to be hard to wait for him to dump crazy Kami, but it was worth the wait.

  Dump crazy Kami?

  So it wasn’t a typo. They’d really been together a year and a half.

  The rapid blinking, which usually worked to stave off unwanted tears, helped not one bit. Tears rimmed my eyes and began to spill faster than I could wipe them away.

  There, feeling more stupid than hurt, I sat sobbing my eyes out like a total loser as the parking lot emptied around me.

  “I need a drink.” Only the empty car heard me lamenting on how my whole life had been a lie. How many other friends knew about Brian cheating?

  At a time like this, it would’ve been nice to have tiny windshield wipers for my eyes as I backed out of my spot.

  On the street, just past the airfield, I almost passed the turn into an old dive bar. The sign read Smokey’s. It looked grimy and sad. Exactly what I needed to get through the rest of the day because I couldn’t handle happy drunks. Not now. I needed people who had given up on life. People who the brightest part of their day came at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

  Slamming on the brakes, I made a quick turn into the lot, found a space, and shut the car off. Only four other cars and two bikes sat parked in the lot with me.

  When I walked in, heads tilted up momentarily, eyes squinted at me, then those same heads dropped back to their glasses.

  The grimy exterior perfectly matched the grubby atmosphere inside, along with the one waitress working. She looked as haggard as the outside of the building. Overly skinny, but not toned, she approached my table and stood there with her hip cocked, not speaking a word to me.

  Apparently, the half a minute I took to decide on my drink was a half a minute too long for her. “Come on, blondie. I don’t got all day.” She griped in a voice of pure gravel. I looked up to give her my order, noticing she missed both of her top and one of her bottom front teeth. The hand holding two empty glasses from a neighboring table had ye
llowed fingers. Obviously, her dominant hand, the one she held her cigarettes with.

  Her unnatural dye job needed a touchup. At least an inch of gray roots showed. That color red didn’t fit her skin tone. Since I worked as a stylist, I felt pretty confident in my assessment.

  “Gin and tonic,” I ordered.

  Now, I didn’t particularly care for the taste of gin, but I remembered being told that it would get you drunk pretty quickly, and I desperately needed dunk and quick.

  Before she left, I amended my order. “Make it two.”

  It wasn’t but a minute later when she came back with my two gin and tonics. I slammed the first one like I’d slammed back a shot to get the alcohol infused into my system as fast as possible.

  I needed not to feel. What I didn’t need was for the other skydive instructor to pull out the chair next to mine and plop down into it.

  Not for the first time, I noticed how incredibly handsome he looked both in and out of a jumpsuit. More than hot, although he had that going for him too. Thick, brown, wavy hair just long enough to run fingers through and enjoy it. Crystal blue eyes. Depthless crystal blue eyes a girl could spend her life gazing into, a strong square jaw and a dimple peeking out from the corner of his cocky smirk. Not to mention his killer ‘I jump out of airplanes for a living’ body. Though I felt kind of meh about that. Brian had the same kind of killer bod, and look where that got me.

  “Done staring?” he asked—no, that wasn’t right. He mused, as if any part of him being here tonight of all nights could possibly be construed as funny.

  “Pardon?” I did ask, jolted out of my hot guy trance.

  “Heard Lacy dumped you.”

  Clearly, he’d sat down to be a donkey’s butt. Yes, I’d been a coward once again. Didn’t mean he had to rub my face in it. Which meant in lieu of answering, I sipped on my drink, wearing my most rueful face. But only partly due to his presence. The other part because I really detested the taste of gin. No matter. He didn’t take my rueful face as the unspoken request I meant it to be—to go away.

  “Appears she has a conscience. I don’t have that problem and would be more than happy to be your new jump instructor.” He used air quotes when he said “jump instructor.” Then he took a drink of what smelled strongly of whiskey. “We can even meet here, eliminate the pilot fee.” He snickered into his glass.

  “No one invited you to sit, so you can go at any time.”

  Right then my phone took the opportunity to ping with a text from Deirdre, the girl I thought was my friend.

  Hey, Kam. Got some news, think you need to hear.

  The traitor. Why in the world would she text me? Just to get her jollies? Rub it in crazy Kami’s face and report back to New Zealand Kiki?

  So much betrayal swirling around, those damn tears started falling again—and in front of that donkey’s butt to boot.

  Ugh, I should’ve stayed in bed this morning.

  “I can’t do this.” I admitted my feelings, slammed back the last of my drink, swiped my phone from the table, and pushed back my chair to stand.

  The tears rolled harder now. A downpour.

  “What the hell did that text say?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Never mind. I’m a coward, a loser. We all know, the whole fricking world knows. I’m a coward and a loser. Don’t worry. You won’t see me again.”

  “Hey. Stop.” He shot his hand out to catch my wrist, holding tight, despite me pulling hard at his hand to get him to release me. “Kami. Stop.”

  For some reason hearing him use my name made me not only stop trying to loosen his hold, but sit back down in my seat, too. I didn’t even know he’d learned my name.

  “What’d the text say?” he asked again. Too stunned to answer, I pushed my phone at him to read.

  “That’s not so bad… unless… you already know what she wants to tell you, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “But it’s worse than that.” Then, to this virtual stranger, I launched into my tale of woe, from the breakup with Brian to finding Deirdre’s comment.

  He looked understanding, enough that I let my guard down. Today, of all days, I should have known better than to let my guard down.

  The rat grabbed my phone and texted her back.

  From my phone: I already know. He’s a cheater. You’re a traitor and I couldn’t give two shites about either of you.

  My first thought was he even made it sound as if I’d sent the text, avoiding the swears. I typically tried not to swear. Everyone who knew me knew I didn’t like the swears. But that only lasted a moment, because then I remembered to be mortified.

  “What are you doing?” I screamed, straining to snatch my phone back. He, of course, being larger, broader of shoulder, with a wider arm span, kept me from reaching it.

  To my surprise, she came back right away: Kami, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  To which he replied: Listen, my boyfriend is here. I have to go.

  Too late, because it happened after he hit send, I managed to snag the phone back.

  “What are you doing?” I repeated myself, hissing instead of screaming. I was livid and clearly the screaming did no good. “I don’t have a boyfriend. We know too many of the same people. Now she’s going to see me as not just a coward loser, but a desperate, lying coward loser.” The last part wasn’t hissed because once the reality sunk in, my sadness and embarrassment replaced my anger.

  He folded his hand over mine. “Listen, I have a month before I have to leave. I’ll pretend to be your boyfriend. We’ll take some pictures. You can post them.”

  “It won’t work. Deirdre lives in town. She sees your face, she’ll remember it. What happens when she sees you out cavorting with other women? It would make me even more pathetic than I am now.”

  “It’s only a month. I just won’t date anyone until I have to leave.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is simple, Kami. I got you into this mess. Let me help you out of it.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I’m not the jackass you think I am.”

  “I don’t think—” I started. He gave me The Look. That would be, the no-bullcrap look. “No, you’re right. I’ve pretty much thought of you as a donkey’s butt since the first day I showed up to jump.”

  The funny thing was he laughed and didn’t look at all offended.

  Deirdre predictably texted back: Boyfriend? What boyfriend?

  “Ready?” my new fake boyfriend asked. “Our first official selfie as a couple.”

  Before I even had the chance to check for puffy eyes or fix my hair, he tugged my chair closer to his, draped his arm around my shoulder, angled his body to achieve maximum torso contact as he leaned his head in to look more intimate than friendly, and used his other hand to take our picture with my phone.

  “Wow, I’m quite the photographer,” he said, then flipped the phone around for me to see, laughing outright at my reaction.

  Because my eyes, in fact, looked puffy, although my hair looked okay. He typed in the caption: Len bought me skydiving lessons to help me get over my fears.

  He sent it. Then he powered off my phone and handed it back.

  “Why’d you shut it off?” My mind still tried to reconcile the total one-eighty he’d pulled from the man who’d sat down maybe fifteen minutes ago to the man sitting there now.

  Len shrugged. “She’s going to have a lot of questions, which it’ll kill you to ignore. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “What do you know about my fears?”

  “Nothing, but what you’ve said, what I’ve observed. The ex said you were boring, wouldn’t go on adventures, and you’ve tried four different times to dive but backed out. Not to mention, you keep calling yourself a coward. Doesn’t take a genius.”

  Well, since he’d been so forthcoming with his other answers, I decided to ask a more personal question. One that a girlfriend would know, one that I’d wondered about since I’d first met him six weeks ago. “Why Lenin? Was your mom a fan of the Bolsheviks?”

  He’d been laughing at me here and there since first sitting down at my table, so this one shouldn’t have affected me any differently, but as it sounded totally different from the others, it did. A deep, rumbling laugh sounding like it rose up from the pit of his belly. “Lennon, not Lenin. My mother was and remains a fan of The Beatles.”