The Stand-In Read online

  Slowly and sloppily, he wipes water from his eyes. At least he's waking up. Somewhat.

  “So, about that Uber. I'm ordering it. Where should it drop you off?”

  “Uber?” His eyes meet mine, and damn … maybe it doesn't matter if he's single. Or clean.

  “Yes, you were about to get yourself arrested. And possibly on the sex offender list. In case you didn't know, getting wasted and passing out under benches isn't a good idea.”

  His brows knit together, and he runs his hands through his dirty blonde hair. “Who are you?”

  “I already told you. I'm Tess. Some old guy almost beat the shit out of you because they thought you were a peeping Tom. Now … where should the Uber drop you off?” I pull my phone from my jeans.

  “What time is it? Hell, what day is it?”

  “It's February 26th.” I peek at my phone. “9:12.”

  “Oh, fuck. I'm late.” Hastily, he feels for his phone. “My phone. Fuck, where's my phone?”

  “Well, don't look at me. I just found you twenty minutes ago.”

  He closes his eyes. “And my wallet! They're both gone.”

  I shiver. “Look, I'm really sorry about both of those things, but it's thirty degrees and I'm cold-natured, and you really … really smell. Like, bad.”

  He peers at me. “Wait … did you kiss me?”

  My head juts back, and I laugh, my head dizzying. “Um, no. I don't even know you.”

  He pulls himself up, more alert and with clearer speech. “You did too.” He rubs his thumb across his lip and holds it up to show me the lipstick on his skin. “Talk about ending up on the sex offender list. Did you ask my per-mish-eon before you stole that kiss?”

  I hold up my hands. “Whoa, whoa, I didn't––”

  “I'm messing with you. I'm guessing there was a good reason, or maybe you just like smelly guys.”

  “I was saving your ass.”

  “I appreciate that. Seriously. Shit, I really need to go. Thank you for uh … saving my ass,” he says, then starts off.

  “Wait, I was going to get you an Uber!”

  He turns around, brushes off some dry puke from his shirt. “It's okay, I'll get there faster by running.”

  As if it's any of my business, I ask, “Where?”

  “My girlfriend asked me to move to New York with her last night. I said no.” My feet feel as if they sink into the ground as he continues. “I fucked up, and she left. I have to get to her apartment before she gets on that plane.”

  Poor guy got drunk because he had regret. Gorgeous and romantic. And he'll be taken again before I even have lunch today. Great.

  “Well, here.” I open my purse. Pull out a twenty and walk over to him. “Just in case she's gone … you can flag a cab.”

  He stares down at me for a long moment, then bites his lip and takes the money. “Thank you for this. Tara?”

  “Tess...” His head tilts, something sparkling in his eyes. He reaches out to touch my face, but he pulls back his hand. “Did you know some of the freckles on your left cheek look like a star?” I smile, caught off guard. No one has ever noticed that without it being pointed out to them, except for my mother. I only have freckles on my cheeks and nose, but a cluster of them resemble one of those tiny star stickers a teacher would place on your homework. Before I can answer, he squeezes my hands, hope filling his honey irises, then holds up the money and nods. “Thank you … Tess.”

  And then he's gone.

  2

  Chapter Two

  December 2018 –– Present Day

  Dammit. I hate cars. I hate them so freaking much. Have I mentioned I hate cars yet?

  Actually, no. I hate my car. It's a ten-year-old piece of cow shit.

  I pound the steering wheel a few times, as if the car will feel it. If it could feel it, I'd put dents all over it. Torture it nice and sadistically, because it has stranded me six times now, and all but one of those times has been an important day in my life. My sister's wedding was the worst. There was no time to put on my dress, no time to do my hair. Christine will forever have photos of beautiful lavender bridal gowns accented by moi in berry pink jeans and a low-cut top as she looks at the camera in masked horror with screaming eyes.

  Yes, this stupid car is going to be the death of me. Or maybe it means something insanely great is coming my way. That's what my mom will say when she finds out about this. But alas, my phone is dead, and the whole family is in Paris for Christmas on an all-expenses paid trip, courtesy of my sister's father-in-law. Ah, Paris … where I should be right now, had it not been for my boss demanding I stay behind to grope boobs. I should have quit right then. I mean, it's Paris! But then I'd be late on rent … at Christmas. And no one would hire me at Christmas. I'd have to tuck my tail between my legs and ask my parents for a loan. And to be honest … I'd rather touch boobs.

  I get out of the car, scream quietly, kick the tire for good measure, and then start walking to the gas station. I'll ask the clerk if I can use the phone to try Hailey, but she's probably cervix deep on her flavor of the week's Vag Rover.

  My fingers start to numb as I wait to cross the intersection. No snow. Can't even remember the last time Atlanta had a white Christmas, but there's plenty of ice, because we apparently need it. I blow into my hands, my teeth chattering as I watch the countdown until I can walk. Carefully, I make my way to the other side of the road, feet safely strolling across the parking lot when a voice stops me dead.

  “Yeah, Mom, I promise … I'm on my way … okay … love you, too, Ma … okay, gotta go … see you soon.”

  I'm frozen next to his car. I didn't even need to confirm it was him, because I knew it the second I heard that low rasp. It's been almost a year, I think, and I haven't forgotten his voice. And this is perfect! This is so perfect, because he can help me!

  He catches me staring as he replaces his gas cap. I don't look away, and he holds contact. After a moment, he asks, “Hi … can I help you?”

  “Yes!” I blurt, a stupid smile painting my face before I will it away. “You're, um...” and I stop, remembering what has nagged me for the last ten months. I never got his name. “You're that guy … remember me?”

  He peers at me before shaking his head. “No.”

  I don't want to seem like a freak who's been counting the days, so I fudge the time line. “You know … like six months ago. Well, maybe longer. It was winter. You were drunk out of your mind!”

  His eyes do circles in attempt to remember. “Sorry, I don't. I think you've got the wrong person.”

  Awkwardness feels awesome. Not. “You were under the bench. Remember?”

  “You know how many times I've gotten shit-faced in the last couple years?”

  I dismiss his question. “You were all upset about your girlfriend breaking up with you. And then I gave you twenty bucks, and you ran off to be her White Knight.”

  His eyes widen. “Ohhh … oh yeah. Sorry. You're uh … don't tell me.” He snaps his fingers. “Dammit, my brain...”

  “Tess,” I offer. Well, he didn't remember my name, but I never even got his, so maybe we’re even. I've dreamt about running into him again since that day. Stupidly, I fantasized about him getting around the block and turning around to come tell me he didn't need his girlfriend, that we had some brief yet undeniable electricity between us. I even waited on the stairs for ten or so minutes like a total idiot. Hailey laughed for days.

  “You really thought some random hot dude was gonna be like, 'Fuck you, girlfriend. Move to New York by yourself, because I just met this lady under a bench!'” she said.

  I realized it was mostly illogical, but it's like a celebrity crush. You'd move to a remote village in the Amazon if it meant you got to ride the anaconda every day.

  A woman on her cell phone with neon green hair blows her horn at me, so I step around the front of his silver Lexus SUV. “I could actually use your help this time.”

  “Oh, yeah? How so?” He opens his car door and gets in, all unint
erested, like a total douchebag, so I hold the door to prevent him from closing it.

  Briefly, I search the back seat. No sign of a relationship or anything in between. “My car … I broke down.”

  He starts his engine. His phone rings again. “One second...” he says, holding up his finger. “Hello? … Look, Mom, I'm never going to make it if you don't let me drive … canned yams … got it.” He rolls his eyes. “Okay love you too gotta go connection is going bad see you in a couple hours!” He takes a breath. Throws his phone onto the floorboard.

  I clear my throat. “Anyway, my car broke down, so … here I am.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” His eyes glow as brightly as they did that day, only this time they don't look so friendly. But at least he doesn't smell. Bad, anyway. He actually smells quite good. Like Trident gum and shoe polish with a hint of gasoline.

  I grind my teeth. “Um, well, I was hoping you could maybe give me a ride home?”

  “Did you hear that phone call? Yeah, that crazy lady screaming on the other end is my mother. If I don't show up at her door by seven, she'll send out a search team. Don't you have a cell phone? Use it. Nice seeing you...”

  With that, he closes the door and drives to the edge of the lot, his turn signal on, ready to pull onto the road once the cars at the light move. What a jerk. And after I put my job on the line and helped him! No way am I letting him leave me here like this! And I want my twenty dollars back. No wonder his girlfriend told him she was moving to New York. It was probably the only way she knew how to get away from him!

  I curl my fists and run to his car. Knock on the window. He stares straight ahead, his head not moving to acknowledge me. I keep knocking. “Hey!” Still nothing. Finally, I scream, people turning our way.

  Quickly, he rolls down the window. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I helped you. The least you can do is call my friend for me. My phone is dead.” I hold it up, showing him.

  “They have a phone in the gas station. So do all these other people, I'm sure.”

  “Oh, yeah? And you also have one. And you owe me.”

  “Owe you? So, when you helped me, you only did so because you wanted something in return?”

  “Don't twist my words. Just one phone call. That's it.”

  He looks me straight in the eyes and says, “No.”

  “I'll scream again.”

  His jaw clenches. “Fine. One call. Get in.”

  I walk around and settle in the passenger seat, and as he passes me his phone, I say, “You know … I liked you much better when you were drunk.”

  “I liked you much better when you were outside.”

  I dial Hailey, but it goes straight to voicemail. Impatiently, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, so I hang up without leaving a message.

  “Okay, you had your one call,” he says. “I really have to go now.”

  Tears well in my eyes, and my face begins to screw up into an emotional mess. The day after Christmas, and I'm broken down, a dead phone, and sitting in the car of someone I'd like to dropkick in the face. “Okay. I guess I'll just go in there and hope someone will call me an Uber. Or you could...”

  “I could do a lot of things. But you know what your problem is? You think that because you're pretty, someone should go out of their way for you.”

  “You think I'm pretty?” Never has a desperate question sounded so spiteful, and I'm glad for it, because he doesn't need to know how hot I think he is. “How is returning a favor going out of your way? I didn't have to help you.”

  “I barely even remember you. As you said, I was 'drunk out of my mind,' and then I got even more drunk after the fact.”

  I'm quiet for a second as I realize. “She left without you, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry. But anyway, how is returning a favor going out of your way? I didn't have to help you. If you think about it, you're now indebted to me.”

  “Okay. Okay, you win.”

  “Does that mean you'll call me an Uber?”

  “It means I'll drop you off at your house. Since I'm so indebted.”

  3

  Chapter Three

  Frantically, I search for my keys in my purse for the fifth time. “I don't know. I guess I left them in the car.” I tent my hands over my mouth. “Can we go back?”

  “Are you serious? Go back? No. I don't have time to take you all the way back to your car and come all the way back here. I HAVE TO BE IN CHATTANOOGA BY SEVEN!”

  I sigh and zip up my purse. “I understand. Well … thank you for the ride, asshole.”

  “Excuse me?” he says, leaning my way as I slam the door in his face.

  “You heard me! Asshole!”

  Whew. That felt good. I don't even look back to watch him peal out of the driveway. Thirty minutes later, I'm a human ice sculpture on the porch, two failed attempts at breaking in, and three failed attempts at catching any of my neighbors when his car reappears. Oh, shit. He's come back to kill me. This is one of those episodes of Dateline where the woman thought she liked the man until she realizes what a nut he is and wishes she'd never met him.

  I look around for any sign of joggers or baby pushers and see nothing. Not one damn body walking around this neighborhood. Don't people like freezing weather? I can't see him, and his car pulls to a stop in the driveway and doesn't move. What is he doing? I swallow, then decide I won't let him intimidate me like this. I stomp down the stairs, doing my best to sport a menacing look on my face, when my boot gives. A long, slow, ungraceful dance, arms flailing, hips moving as if I'm trying to Hula Hoop before my other boot betrays me as well. Down, down, down I go until my tail bone hits ice on the lip of the second step, and I'm sliding … bump, bump, bump, bump, until I'm flat on my ass, splayed out at the bottom.

  So menacing...

  Then again, stupidity can be really scary.

  The sound of a car door as I stare at the sky. “Holy shit. Are you okay?”

  And there he is. Honey-eyed devil standing over me with a set of keys.

  “Ow,” is all I can mutter.

  “I brought your keys,” he says, hand reaching out to help me up.

  “I see that. Thank you.” When I'm vertical again, I take the keys from him, and wonder how much more disastrous this could actually get, but I'm thankful it's almost over.

  “I should help you inside.”

  “Oh, now you want to be nice?”

  “You damn near died walking down the steps. If I let you walk up them alone, that's like voluntary manslaughter. I don't want that on my conscience.”

  My eyes flit to his. “You mean you have one?”

  He smiles. Inside, he pauses in the doorway as I'm still wincing from the pain. “Well, I'd better get going.”

  “Yes, you should. Sorry I made you late.”

  Our eyes lock, and if he were to smile at me again, I just might want to kiss him a second time. But whatever happened between him and New York girl has clearly soured him to women. I think. Heck, for all I know, he could have another girlfriend now.

  “Don't worry about it. Like you said, I....” His eyes drift to my living room.

  “What?”

  “Why do you still have presents?”

  “Huh?”

  “Under the tree. Christmas was yesterday.”

  “I told you. My family's in Paris. I'm solo this year.”

  “No boyfriend, fiancé, husband?”

  “Well, you just covered all the bases … and no. None of those things. It's just me, myself, and I this season.” I shrug. “I know, it's kind of depressing. But I've got Netflix, and I've got ice cream.”

  “Why didn't you go to Paris?”

  “My boss is the devil, that's why.”

  “What job could be so important that you have to miss Paris? You a nurse or something?”

  “In my dreams, I'm director at Pink Line––a charity that helps young mothers around the world. In real life? Lingerie peddler.” r />
  His lips turn into a grin. “Interesting.”

  I blush. “Don't get any ideas. I wear granny panties.”

  He tilts his head. “Why Pink Line?”

  The familiar sting when I answer, “My cousin got pregnant as a teen. Didn't tell anyone. She ended up having a stillborn she named Maggie. She still hasn't forgiven herself. It was really tough on the whole family.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.” I perk myself up. “Anyway, I've always wanted to work there and help other women who might be in similar situations get medical care and emotional support––especially ones who live in impoverished countries.”

  “A very noble cause.” He brings his thumb to his chin. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “I'm thinking.” I see a plan weaving in his eyes. “I know the founder of Pink Line––Eleanor Fitzgerald. I went to college with her grandson.”

  “Liar.”

  “I'm serious. And I have an idea.”

  “And that is?”

  “Come with me. To my parents' house.”

  “Um, why?” My heart begins to thump rapidly. Maybe I was right. This really could be some Dateline shit.

  “Because you want to help me again.”

  “I do?”

  “You do. Don't you?”

  I shift on my feet. “Well, I don't know. What kind of help?”

  “You're alone. For the holidays. And I won't be. You can come along and pretend to be my new girlfriend. I'll tell my mom all about our fake relationship before we get there so there won't be any surprises.”

  “And why would I do that? And what is the point? Sounds pretty creepy and dishonest.”