Pump Fake Read online

  Out of the corner of my gaze, I see that Preston is holding a martini in one hand and striding over to shake Eli’s hand with the other. The older man is smiling, but there’s a disappointed gentleness to his expression that tells me he’s not happy with his player’s most recent scandal.

  I glance toward the French doors again to see who else has come home, and, ah, yes, it’s Lulu, who’s holding two martini glasses. She’s also eating Eli up with her gaze. Her silky blond hair tumbles over her shoulders so that the ends tickle her big fake bazoombas, and the sight of her almost makes me want to hide before she can make my figure suffer by comparison. A designer sheath clings to her slender body, and when she shifts her gaze from Eli to me, it’s almost as if she doesn’t see me.

  The next moment, she’s sashaying onto the patio. “Eli, honey! Miss me?”

  “In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been too busy raising hell to miss anyone.”

  For a moment, I’m deliriously happy that Eli didn’t cop to caring about Lulu one way or the other.

  She stops short of hugging him, basically because of the cocktails she’s holding but mostly because her father is guiding Eli away from the pool and toward some glass-topped furniture under the shade of an arbor. They walk right past me without any acknowledgment as I keep on scrubbing.

  Only Eli lifts an eyebrow at me as they pass, but I don’t react. I’m used to being ignored by them and others like them. They’re not even curious enough to speculate on the reason Eli had his shirt off out here with me—and why he still hasn’t put on that shirt.

  Not that I mind at all.

  After they sit down, Lulu gives a martini to Eli then sips from hers while standing with her back to me.

  “I’m not going to waste time, Eli,” Preston finally says. “Not when we both know why you’re here.”

  It sounds as if they’re going to have a private conversation with me around. But what’s new? This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard some juicy stuff from richies who think I don’t have ears.

  “Bad, bad Eli.” Lulu uses a teasing voice as she wags her finger at him.

  Her father sends her a loving yet impatient look before turning back to Eli. “Your issues are hurting the team and the league’s reputation. You need to clean up your act or we’ll be forced to cut you, son. In fact, one more screw up, no matter how tiny it is, will probably get you banned from the league for at least a year, if not for life. The team sure as hell doesn’t need that.”

  “We sure don’t,” Lulu baby talks.

  Eli has set down his drink on the nearest table. He doesn’t respond to her flirting. Preston doesn’t react to it either, while lowering his voice and leaning toward his player.

  “Now, you know I personally have a great fondness for you,” he says. “Hell, we’ve got a lot of similarities, so I get where you’re coming from. I really do.”

  I nearly bust out laughing. Randal Preston is comparing himself to Eli? The man hasn’t seen a gym in decades, if ever. He’s also got a trophy wife to cater to as well as a bitchy, superficial daughter, so his playboy years are long gone. He and Eli have about as much in common as LeBron James and Dick Cheney.

  Somehow I keep my poker face and scrub away.

  Eli hasn’t said a word. I wonder if he’s even forgotten I’m here, if I’ve disappeared for him, too. It sure didn’t take long for that to happen.

  “Eli, baby,” Lulu says, sidling over to him. “You have to stop being such a naughty lil’ big boy.” She traces a finger over his bare shoulder.

  I tighten my jaw. I haven’t known him for more than five minutes and I’ve already realized that his life isn’t just a bunch of fun and games. His life seems complicated, even if he tries to pretend otherwise.

  Preston turns to his daughter. “Sweetheart, how about you go inside and try on some of those lovely dresses I bought for you? You can show them off to us in fifteen minutes.”

  “But Daddy…”

  “I don’t want you involved with this, my darling.”

  She pouts her way out of the arbor as the sound of my brush scrubs the air with even more tension.

  While Preston waits for Lulu to leave and close the French doors behind her, Eli stares at the ground. There’s a look on his face that makes me wonder why he hasn’t demanded that I follow Lulu out. Maybe he also doesn’t think I have ears. Maybe he’s beyond caring if I do.

  “Eli,” Preston says. “Let’s talk about a serious proposition.”

  Eli’s gaze still bores into the ground.

  “You need a significant PR makeover, son, and I’ve got an idea about how to do that.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Good,” Preston says. “I’m glad you have a clear head about this, because ever since your latest incident, no one will touch you with a ten-foot pole. This time you crossed a line with the public.”

  It seems as if Eli is about to interrupt him, but Preston holds up a finger. “No one will endorse you now because of the lifestyle and morals clause that’s included in your contracts. And what’s more troubling is that those high-profile brands that have brought you so much cash and clout are dropping you like you’re a disease. That’s not good for the team’s image either.”

  Now Eli’s jaw clenches.

  “Luckily,” Preston says, “I believe this can be fixed with an extreme maneuver.”

  “You think so?” Eli’s tone is curious but not hopeful.

  “I know so.”

  “Well, what if I say to hell with all this.” Now he’s just bitter. “I am who I am, and fuck change.”

  Preston sighs. “That’s the rebel in you talking.”

  When Eli goes totally quiet, I don’t dare look at him. I don’t even scrub or make a sound.

  “You’re a better man than anyone knows,” Preston says quietly. “And even though you seem to get a rise out of making everyone think otherwise, you want to make your team proud, make me proud…make your father proud.”

  Eli only chuffs. I don’t know if that means he knows Preston is right or if there’s something deeper going on.

  “Now, just listen to me.” Preston pats Eli’s knee. “That’s all I’m asking you to do. Got it?”

  Silence.

  Then the older man continues. “I think a fake girlfriend would fix this.”

  I sneak another glance out of the corner of my eye to see that Eli has dragged his gaze up from the ground to stare at Preston now.

  “Of course I’m speaking of a fake fiancé, to be precise,” Preston says. “Someone clean cut and wholesome to help you repair your tattered image. A PR makeover, if you will.”

  “Bullshit.” Eli stands and seems about to walk away, but then he pauses and says, “My on-field talents can do the talking for me, Randal.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Preston leans back in his chair, resting his hands on his belly. “You’ve cost the team a lot of money, and it’s beyond time to make up for it, son.”

  At the steel in his voice, even I take a second look at the businessman. Dick Cheney indeed.

  Eli’s own voice is just as cutting. “And who would this girl in question be? Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Why, Lulu, of course.”

  I think I throw up a little in my mouth. Jealousy surges through me at the thought of Eli being with Lulu when I have no true chance with someone like him. Everything just seems so easy for people like her. A life of luxury, a house like this…and a superstar I can’t seem to take my eyes off of.

  All hers for the taking.

  And does she appreciate any of it?

  Of course not.

  But Eli is shaking his head. “Randal, even if I were considering this ridiculous idea, don’t you think people would be suspicious of the connection? She’s your daughter and very convenient. Also, if I’m seen dating some very wealthy girl, it might make people despise me all the more.”

  That’s right, Eli. Tell him.

  “But,” he says, “if I were
to get ‘engaged’ to a regular girl, that would get people’s attention in a good way. That’s if I even considered doing something as fucked up and ridiculous as getting a fake fiancé.”

  Preston nods. “I suppose so. But where would you find that kind of girl?”

  As Eli turns to look at me with a tight smile, I realize that I’m not so invisible to him after all.

  Chapter 3

  “I already have someone in mind for a fake fiancé,” Eli says, nodding in my direction.

  This time, instead of fading into the scenery, I actually feel as if I’m on the open range. Eli’s eyes are getting hungrier and hungrier as he keeps looking at me.

  But he can’t really mean this. He can’t be getting on board with Preston’s insane plan, and surely he can’t be suggesting that I, a girl he’s only just met, a maid who’s even now on her hands and knees, could possibly be taken seriously as his fiancé.

  Preston is looking my way, too. His face reflects the shock of realizing that I’ve been in his esteemed presence this entire time; it’s actually the same surprise I’m feeling at being nominated as the Magically Life-Changing Girlfriend.

  Yet something rebels inside of me at his disbelief. I might not be a polished socialite, but I’ve got a few things going for me, like the scholarship I was awarded and my ambition to be a doctor someday, my loyalty to the people I love and my ability to work hard.

  Eli still has me in his sights as he gets up and steps toward the edge of the arbor then braces his hand against a wooden pole.

  Even though I’m pretty sure he’s only mocking Preston and throwing this idea back in his employer’s face, he seems adamant about what he says next.

  “Now that I think about it, this really would make for a great story, Randal.”

  The old man waves me off with his hand. “No one would believe that pairing for a second.”

  Well, kiss my ass, sir. But I can’t risk insulting a client with that kind of attitude. The cost of business is my pride.

  Besides, Preston is right about no one believing this.

  “I appreciate your sense of humor,” I say to Eli, “but I’d never make that kind of agreement with anyone.”

  “You wouldn’t?” Eli asks with a devilish slant to his smile. He’s probably remembering how I told him that I really need this job.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Most importantly, you don’t know anything about me—including whether or not I’d be the kind of fake girlfriend you’re looking for.”

  “See, Randal,” Eli says, never taking his piercing gaze off me, “she’s got spirit. The press likes that kind of attitude, and she’s wholesome enough to get away with it. She’s got a lot of All-American energy to her.”

  Is he just trying to piss off Preston even more? Because it seems to be working. The older man is burning a hole through me with his eyes, assessing me.

  Preston slides a glance at Eli then back at me again. “The two of you certainly do have some kind of chemistry at work.”

  That’s when I realize that this is not a good thing, because what his daughter Lulu wants, she probably gets—and I’m suddenly standing in the way of her path to Eli.

  “Girl,” Preston says to me. “What’re you doing out here eavesdropping anyway?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was just finishing up.”

  The words are acrid on my tongue, even though I try to make them honeyed.

  “Everything looks fine out here.” Preston actually snaps his fingers in my direction and points toward the outside spa building. “The bathmats need cleaning. Get on that.”

  Anger burns up my skin, but I don’t argue, even if I’ve got a whole lot of nasty, mildew-filled joy in my near future. This is for you Mom and Dad, I think as I stand and grab my pail and brush. Then, staring straight ahead, I leave. I can’t even look at Eli—not after the way I was just dressed down. The superstar jerk is probably laughing after shoving me into such a ridiculous spotlight with the fake fiancé suggestion, and after I’m gone, Eli will no doubt tell Preston to screw off with the whole idea then go out to some bar to stir up another scandal, just because it’s in his nature.

  As I round the corner toward the side entrance reserved for the help, I tell myself I don’t feel a trickle of forbidden heat down my back, as if he’s watching me go.

  I feel nothing but the chip on my shoulder.

  I clean the heavy, water-logged bathmats, which includes hefting them up and dumping them in buckets of cleaning solution, then wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. Every time I tackle a mat, I think of a new, bitter comeback for Randal Preston.

  Take this mat, roll it up, and sit on it, you cretin.

  Find someone else to eradicate your athlete’s foot, Jabba.

  But after lifting bathmats for a few minutes, exhaustion and disgust overwhelm my fantasies of snarky comebacks. Instead, I fall into a self-pitying mood, wondering how exactly I got here.

  I should be at college right now, like other people my age. I got the scholarship, I did everything right. But here I am. Stuck.

  I know it’s not my mother’s fault that she got sick. But part of me blames her anyway, if not for falling ill, then for telling me that by working hard in school I would eventually break free of the kind of life my parents have had to endure.

  All those motivational speeches she gave me when I was growing up feel like lies now.

  Instead of putting my education on hold because of my mom’s Parkinson’s, I should be at a great college, getting an education, then getting ready to go out tonight for a cheap beer with the friends I would’ve made there. And in that alternate life, I would’ve at least had the possibility of real work that actually pays something more than peanuts.

  Something that garners self-respect…

  Instead, I’m cleaning rich peoples’ smelly bathmats.

  Dirty, grossed out, and humiliated by the way those major league assholes treated me, I push aside the unfairness of it all. Even if I’m down in the dumps, life could be worse.

  And my mother, despite her condition, gets up everyday with a positive outlook. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and start learning from her attitude.

  So I carry on and do what I always do—promise myself that, this time next year, I’ll be at school with Mom cheering me on.

  When I finish in the spa, I go to the outside shower down the hill near the parking garage. It’s for the help to use, and it’s primitive, but after I strip off my grungy clothes and get inside, the cool water beats down on my skin. The midday sun pours over me, too, and I allow myself one more decadent, princess-y moment before I have to leave.

  Water…it almost feels like it’s the pool’s waterfall sluicing over me as I stand beneath it.

  Come on, Jenna. Get wet with me.

  In my fantasy, I hear Eli’s low voice. I push back my steeped hair, and now I feel like if I open my eyes I will see him in front of me again. I imagine we’re both back in that pool. Water laps at his hard abs, and below the surface, a blurred glimpse tells me that he really didn’t put on a bathing suit. His ravenous gaze skims over me, and I realize that I’m not wearing my suit, either.

  Get wet with me…

  I keep standing beneath the shower’s pulse of water, smoothing my hands down my throat, then my breasts. As I circle my fingertips around my nipples, I feel Eli’s hot, intense fantasy gaze all over my skin. Excitement hardens my nipples, electrifying every nerve until my flesh burns.

  I slip my fingers over my stomach, my belly, between my legs. Get wet with me… And that’s just what I am—wet and slick at the mere thought of being in a pool with Eli Brennan, a man who mortified me today. A man I should forget about…

  Frustrated by the reality of the situation, I turn off the water, then yank my towel off its hook nearby. As I dry myself, it’s as if I’m sloughing away Eli for good.

  Maybe I’ll always dream about those heart-joltingly flirtatious few minutes when he came on to me, but it’s back
to real life now.

  I fetch my duffel from a locker, put on my panties, and then toss my bra back into my bag since it’s too hot for one. I wear a cool, sleeveless white blouse and a short, airy skirt plus a pair of decent flip-flops I got on sale last week. Then I leave the shower, intending to walk through the sweltering heat and down the hill to the nearest bus stop.

  But I’m not alone. A shiny red Ferrari is parked nearby, under the shade of a palm tree, and the man who’s leaning against it moves away from his car when he sees me. Before I can even wonder how long Eli has been out here, he speaks.

  “Jenna—”

  I hold up my hand, anxiety turning to frustration. “Don’t tell me. You’re here to mock me some more. Save it. I’ve had a real long day, so can we just skip to the part where I feel humiliated and you raise your martini to a job well done?”

  He starts to talk again, but I beat him to it.

  “Listen, I know you only wanted to throw that stupid fake fiancée idea back in Preston’s face by making it sound as preposterous as possible, but maybe you could have used someone else instead of trying to humiliate me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to humiliate you, Jenna.”

  For a moment, I actually believe him. He seems sincere, with a stray lock of hair covering part of his brow. His eyes don’t even have that naughty glint; there’s a shadow there instead.

  Then suddenly, gracefully, he moves toward the passenger door, opens it.

  A voice in my head says, your chariot awaits, madam.

  I only raise my eyebrow at him.

  “Let me make everything up to you by taking you out for a burger at the Hula Shack,” he says.

  It’s the hippest place around, just off the Strip, known for having amazing, belly-pleasing food. There’re always lines out the door for their burgers and shakes.

  I cross my arms over my chest, my duffel bag dangling from a hand. I really should say a quick, firm no. I don’t quite trust him. Also, he’s so…so him. Famous, gorgeous, as fast as a red Ferrari. And I’m…me.

  Maybe that’s what’s turning me on—his obliviousness to the differences between us. Whatever it is, my belly is full of butterflies, and their wings are brushing against me even farther below, tickling my clit, fluttering heat through my every cell.