Substitute Boyfriend (3 page)

Chapter Four

FRIDAY NIGHT.  HONESTLY, it was just another night to me.  Even during a regular semester, Friday nights merely meant I could sleep a little later the next day, but I’d been known to teach a Saturday morning class or two, so even that didn’t always hold true.

I wasn’t much of a dater, either, so it’s not like I was waiting to go out on the town.

Not much of a partier…so I wasn’t dying to get hammered.

Nope.  It was a typical night for me.  I’d been on campus that afternoon making sure I had everything ready to go for Monday, and then I’d gone by the gym for a workout, come home and showered,
then did a perfunctory cleaning of my apartment.

But all
of that was obligation, and I didn’t necessarily like any of it.

Finally, the time had come for me to sit down at my computer.  That was what had been calling my name all day—the book I’d been writing.  The characters had be
en chattering in my head nonstop and there was a scene I had to get down—a misunderstanding between the heroine and her possible soulmate, although if he was her soulmate was still in question till the end of the book.  She thought he was
the one
but she had her nagging doubts, and he was a notorious bad boy, so she could never be sure she could put all her faith in him.

So I had this argument to get down
on the page.  Certain words and phrases the two characters needed to say to each other had been rolling around in my brain.  There was a misunderstanding.  He didn’t get why she took things the wrong way, and she couldn’t communicate to him how his behavior often seemed like he was blowing her off.  I wanted them to reach a tentative draw—but with the heroine’s trust still hanging in the balance—and, as I wrote the scene that night, I knew that it would have to end in a hot can’t-resist-you sex scene.  They needed to kiss—I mean
fuck
—and make up.

I sat there at my desk, damn near eight o’clock, and questioned myself.  Had I written this scene to culminate in ravenous lovemaking simply because I had a
Ridley flame burning in my girl parts that I needed him to quench?

Yep, probably, and realizing that didn’t bother me one damn bit.

* * *

She looks at herself one last time in the mirror.  Yeah.  She looks damn good.  Her dark brown hair is pulled up and off her neck, and she imagines Ridley’s lips on the tender flesh there.  That skin might be exposed and vulnerable, but she knows she can trust him to treat her right.

She’s wearing a dress she hasn’t worn in years, because it has always felt a little too sexy for her, but it’s perfect for tonight—bright scarlet, ending just above her knee.  It’s made of a satiny fabric, and it hugs her every curve.  She doesn’t usually wear things like that because they draw a lot of attention…but tonight, attention is exactly what she wants.  She feels like Ridley doesn’t fully appreciate her and all she has to offer, and maybe if he sees her as he never has before, he will know he doesn’t want to let this amazing woman slip through his fingers.

But when she calls, he doesn’t answer his phone.  That makes her a little miffed. 
She texts him too and nothing.  Not a goddamned thing.  So she does what any sensible woman would do.  She decides to go to the bar where they’d met several months earlier.  She needs a drink or two to unwind and, maybe after she’s nice and relaxed, she can call Ridley again and see if he’s around and wants some company.

They don’t even have to do
it the way the characters need to in the book.  They can improvise.  She’s sure he’ll like that for a change.

She takes a cab downtown, because she knows she wants a couple of hard drinks.  No way should she try driving after that.

Yes, but she knows the real reason she’s going to “their” bar is because she’s hoping to run into Ridley, and the real reason she doesn’t drive is because she wants to go home with him…but she has her cover story firmly in place.  She’s been hurt by a few guys in the past, a lot of times because she’d laid it all out there and been vulnerable and they’d hurt her after she’d exposed herself like that.  She doesn’t want to do that again.  Thus, the cover story.  She can tell him she’s conducting research for her book, that she needs a new bar experience to do that, and how convenient that he just so happens to be there.

Only she has no fucking idea where Ridley is.  It’s wishful thinking on her part, hoping he’ll be there.

Her intuition must know, though, because as her eyes adjust to the cavernous place and she makes her way over to the bar proper, she sees that son of a bitch chatting with a blonde at the bar, his arm draped over her shoulders, whispering in her ear.

She can feel the adrenaline course through her body as her hands start to shake.  Her jaw is tense. 
Two breaths—that’s it.  Then she storms over to the bar and sits in the stool next to him.  The middle school kid in her wants to start screaming at him and pulling on the other woman’s hair, but she isn’t going to do that…especially since she’s sober and has no excuse.

Ridley is
rapt in the tramp whose ear he’s whispering in, but Beth orders a drink…and he still hasn’t looked over.  She isn’t shaking anymore but she feels like she’s going to vomit when she taps on his shoulder.

* * *

Okay, no, that’s not how it happened.  My writer’s mind was bound and determined to make it dramatic.  Truth is I
did
call and then text Ridley and then he called me back.  “Dammit, woman.  I am in the middle of something.  I can’t come over right now.”

So I was miffed.

No, I’d been scorned.

“Maybe later?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

So that was the first time Ridley had told me
no
flat out, and I was already dressed and ready to go.  I think he could hear the disappointment in my voice.  “I’m sorry, honey, but I already have plans.  I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay?”

I know he could hear the pout in my voice, and I just didn’t care.  There wasn’t much I could do about that, but I relented.  What else
could
I do?  But there was no way I was going to waste the effort I’d put into making myself look pretty—and maybe even sexy.  I wasn’t going to sit down at the computer and struggle to write after all that work.  I’d been thinking about Ridley and wanted to have sex with him without a goal or end product.  And I’d been hoping he would have liked that too…but there was no way I was going to stay home and sulk.  I wasn’t going to waste that dress, the makeup, the updo.  No way.  So I said something to let him know I’d live, but I wasn’t thrilled about it.  I’d have a drink or two, have a few admiring eyes on me making me feel good about myself, and
then
I’d come home and write.  Besides, I never knew what could fuel my writing.  Sometimes just something someone said or did, or the way they looked, or the quality of the air—I never knew what I would use in a book that started out as part of real life, but I wouldn’t get those experiences sitting at home, no matter what I did.

So maybe, in the back of my mind, I went to
our bar
because I had good memories of Ridley, but this writer knows herself.  She just doesn’t like to admit it out loud.  I went there hoping to find him.  I wasn’t a fucking idiot.  I knew Ridley would have preferred calling the shots in our relationship, and if he would have come around other times, I wouldn’t have turned him down, but I did know that, much as he liked the sex, he felt like a dog on a chain.  I didn’t know what else to do about that, especially since I’d mentioned on more than one occasion that I’d be quite happy to spend other time together.  I often got the feeling he wasn’t interested in going there.

But I knew that bar was a favorite hangout of Ridley’s.  After all, that’s where he and I had met.  I wondered if I’d find him by himself, nursing a beer, watching ESPN or whatever bullshit the bar would have playing on one of their big screens, or if I’d find him with some of his buddies, maybe shooting some pool.

I never suspected—although I suppose I should have—but I
never
suspected I’d find him cheating.

Okay, so maybe
cheating
is too strong a word, because we weren’t officially dating.

And maybe he was just flirting, but he was awfully close and snuggly up to that blonde at the bar.  His lips were in her hair
next to her ear as he said something to her.  Yeah, it wasn’t the best-lit building on the block, but I could see enough.  The bar was backlit and allowed me to see that there was hardly any light coming through the gap between their bodies.

I felt that huge, green
monster welling up inside me, but I felt like everything I saw changed to a red hue as my insides filled with rage.  The entire bar seemed to reflect the color of my dress.

I knew then that I was far too emotional, so I took several deep breaths.  What was really strange?  It was like there were no other people in the bar.  All I could see were Ridley and that woman, and everything was going in slow motion.  Once my heart rate was closer to normal, I started walking toward the bar.  I sensed a guy to my right approaching me, but I didn’t even turn my head.  I couldn’t be distracted, not when my pretend boyfriend was considering cheating on me.

I kept it together, though.  I sat next to him on his left side, but his body was turned to the right, all his attention on the blonde.  I couldn’t think if I wanted to simply sit there and see if he’d even notice me or if I wanted to tap him on the shoulder.  The bartender fetched me a shot of whiskey, and I downed it and
still
no notice from Ridley.  Nothing.

One more shot, and then I found a little courage.

The little devil on my shoulder made me consider texting him and telling him to look to his left.  But that would be stupid, and there’d be no guarantee he’d check his phone before checking out.

And, for some reason, I needed to be acknowledged.  So I took a deep breath and tapped on his shoulder.  I didn’t want to see him
,
my man
, kiss her so I had to do what I was going to do and leave.

He didn’t turn at first.

Then, apparently, he told the blonde something like “Just a minute” or “Hold on; I have a gnat to attend to,” because he
did
turn.  He didn’t even look surprised to see me.  I think that’s what hurt the most—that he didn’t even seem to give a shit.  His voice was calm, too.  Not raised at all, and that told me just as much as well.  If he’d cared about me at all, he would have been emotional…right?

“Liz, what are you doing here?”

Yeah, and add to it that he never got the clue that I preferred to be called
Beth
by my friends.  Maybe
that
should have been my first clue.  Guess I had it coming.  “I needed a drink.  But I think the better question is what are
you
doing here?”

He blinked once and his eyes changed.  No, he wasn’t angry.  He was looking at me as though I were a poor, mentally challenged stranger he’d stumbled upon by happenstance.  “I told you I had plans, didn’t I?”

Well, yeah, okay…technically, he had.  Yes, he had said that, those exact words, in fact, but somehow that hadn’t translated into picking up some other woman.

Oh, no.  Was I letting the disappointment and the hurt cloud my face?  Could he see it?  Oh, God, I was going to need lots more to drink.

First, though, I had to find a way out of this. What I wanted to do was tell him he was a lying, cheating, scumbag motherfucker.  The problem with that, though, was that we had never said we were in a committed relationship.  Even had I thought that maybe I wanted Ridley around to be more than as just a pretend boyfriend, we hadn’t taken that step.

Hell, we weren’t even fuck buddies.

I would call him when I needed him around, and he’d be there soon after.

Maybe he was feeling used and abused and wanted something more too.

Oh, no.  Wait a minute.  I wasn’t going to turn the tables around on myself.  I had suggested it a couple of times, and Ridley had blown me off, and I’d settled back down, knowing he was right.  We weren’t right for each other, not by any measuring stick.  Still…he could have made that clear, couldn’t he?

The other reason I wasn’t going to make a scene—aside from still having my wits about me; I hadn’t consumed nearly enough alcohol for that—was that I was a college professor, and lots of people in my town knew that.  I couldn’t get away with being a crazy woman.  I was expected to be dignified.

Ha.

That still wouldn’t stop me from doing what I felt like I needed to do.  My face was already condensed into an angry ball of fire, and there was no stopping it.  My finger was already poking his chest.  How that had happened before my brain had fully engaged, I have no idea.  But there I was, getting ready to read him the riot act.  “Plans, huh?  Woman plans?  Would have been nice if you’d decided to share them with me, pal.”

His eyes lit up.  “Seriously?  Threesome?”

I scoffed.  What a fucking idiot.  “You pig.”  I stood up, wishing I had something clever to say.  I knew how that would work—my writer’s brain would think of the perfect line later on, something I’d use in a book
someday.