“So you have matching tattoos that you got while you were experiencing one of the most magical kisses of your life?” Amy was so delighted that she actually stepped on a wildflower, something that would normally never occur under even the most dire of circumstances. Although it was entirely possible that doing a postmortem on a fake date being passed off as the beginning of a relationship—while hiking, not a strong suit of Greta’s to begin with—did qualify as dire circumstances.
“Basically, yes,” Greta had to admit. She picked her way over some branches on the trail.
“You have matching tattoos. That you got on your first real date. It’s too fast.” Summer seemed decidedly less enthusiastic.
Greta couldn’t tell which one she preferred.
“I want what you have. I want that.” Amy spun around just like Sister Maria in the Austrian Alps, the jacket tied around her waist flaring around her. Just like, except that they were in the Golden Gate rec area, and no one had ever accused Amy of being a nun.
“You want Britney Spears and Kevin Federline, circa 2004?” Summer stopped Amy’s spinning and scooted her diminutive friend back onto the path.
“Oh, come on, Summer. It’s not like that.” Greta couldn’t exactly tell her friend what it was like, though. The first rule of Fake Date was that you couldn’t talk about Fake Date.
“It isn’t like that, Summer, it’s beautiful. It’s love. And Jon is hardly a K-Fed. Wait—he isn’t, right?” Amy was skipping now.
“Ha, no. He isn’t. But ‘love’ might be a little premature, Ames. It was just our first date, after all.” If she didn’t say “real” or “fake”, just “date”, it wasn’t really like she was lying to her best friends in the world, right? She was going with that.
“Love is premature, but matching wrist tattoos isn’t? This is moving way too fast.” Summer’s eyes were going to get stuck up there if she kept rolling them that hard.
“Says the girl with loads of tattoos!” Greta protested.
“Says the girl who just got her first tattoo on her first date.” Summer stopped walking and crossed her arms.
“Well, I ship it,” said Amy.
“Of course you do,” the other two said in unison. Summer didn’t giggle about it the way Greta did. She was making her mom face.
“What?” Greta asked. “I know you think we’re moving pretty fast. It was just that it was more spontaneous than anything. And you guys know how bad I am at spontaneity.” They were nodding at this. Okay. “Maybe he’s bringing out a new side out of me. Wasn’t that the point of picking each other’s dates? Finding people to bring out the best in each other?”
“I just remember the last time you got carried away by a guy after the first date.” Oh. Oh God. There was really no way to explain to Summer how trying to psych out her fake date was like a thousand percent different than falling for a tumbling dickweed like Oliver. The man hadn’t even returned her first edition of Ender’s Game, her favorite science fiction book. Who did that?
Point was, Greta was at a bit of a loss as to how best explain herself. She couldn’t exactly comfort Summer or simmer Amy down with the fact that she wasn’t actually dating Jon.
“Look, guys. I know it’s either completely bizarre or utterly romantic, depending which of you I’m addressing, but you have to trust me that it’s going just exactly as planned.” There, another not-lie. She was discovering she was scarily good at half truths.
“Laugh at me all you want, Greta, but I see that spark between you. I think the tattoos are going to be a grandkids story. Besides, in these days of dating sites and swiping right on hookup apps, how often do you hear a story about a truly memorable first date? Guys don’t ask you out the old fashioned way anymore, and like, no one does flowers. I think Jon sounds like a gentleman. He’s not moving too fast.”
Despite herself, Greta felt slightly swayed by Amy’s declaration. Maybe not a gentleman, but there was something refreshing about going on an adventure with a date. Not that she’d been doing much dating herself, but she did hear a lot of stories at these unending weddings about couples who met drunk in an elevator, or started out as hookups, or liked each other’s fanfic online.
Well, the fanfic thing was fine, actually.
But what she was thinking originally was that though she didn’t believe in love herself, she did love a good love story. And she definitely preferred the swashbuckling adventure kind to the ‘don’t tell my mom we met on a sex site’ type.
So this was fine, doing what she’d done. She did get a sweet new piece of artwork out of it, which made her look a bit swashbuckling herself, she rather thought.
“Yeah, but.” Of course Summer couldn’t let that lie. “Remember her first date with Oliver? They had one of those magical all-night adventures you usually only hear about in novels. Their car broke down, they slow-danced on the side of the road. They hiked to a speakeasy, and invented a drink that got put on the menu.”
Greta’s stomach started to hurt. How dare he, all over again. They’d had such potential.
“They made out next to a fountain, and he sang to her before finally cabbing their separate ways.”
“It was an epic first date, especially considering the ending. Who knew he had it in him?” Amy agreed. “So?”
“So, imagine if there was a tattoo reminding her of it. On her wrist.” Summer started hiking again.
“Oh,” said Amy. “Hm.”
“Oh, fuck,” said Greta. “We moved too fast.”
* * *
“Right, then, I suppose there is something to be said for that,” Jon told Greta. “Perhaps it was a bit fast, but I feel I ought to remind you that it was your idea.”
Crap. It had been her idea. Although he was the one who copied her design, she hadn’t suggested that. She opened her mouth to remind him, but closed it again as he smiled at her. This wasn’t exactly the time and place for an argument, and the words she had planned jumbled in her head at the sight of that crooked incisor anyway.
“Champagne?” she asked brightly, then snagged a couple flutes from a nearby table. She took a large swig of one as she passed him the other. Champagne was a kind way to describe the aggressively sweet carbonated wine they were serving.
“Thank you.” The look on his face after he took a sip mirrored her own. But his was really cute. God, could he rock a suit, too. She needed to stop ogling him, but it was hard. “Well, I suppose it’s in the spirit of a fundraiser to demonstrate how little one can afford, eh?”
Greta laughed, and then felt immediately guilty. The Green Guerillas, Amy’s radical environmental non-profit, really couldn’t afford that much. She gazed around the room, at the crepe paper and homemade poster decorations. It was like the world’s shittiest prom, except if getting elected queen meant highlighting the worst animal abuse.
“Hey, it’s a good cause, okay?” She didn’t want him to think they’d be one of those couples whispering little snarky comments in each other’s ears. Well, for one, they still weren’t a couple. Never going to be, she meant. Oops. And for another, they were here to support her friend. If mocking was to be done, it should be done in one’s own head, not aloud.
Like siblings, you were only allowed to make fun of each other. Outsiders couldn’t do it. It was the code of friendship.
God, it felt good to laugh at this fundraiser, though. Greta downed her flute, grimaced, and grabbed another. Free bad booze meant you could get comfortably tipsy without worrying your check wasn’t large enough. She allowed herself a long, judging look around the room. Nope, no big checks here.
Although that was a little sad. Bob probably spent more at Whole Foods in a week than this place earned in a month. And though some of their campaigns were slightly terrifying, most of them were entirely well-meaning.
“So, my date, tell me. What exactly is your pet cause? Everyone must have one, after all,” Jon said. He adjusted his tie, and she had to stop herself forcibly from staring.
“The Comic Book Legal Defense Fund,” she answered promptly. “And you?”
“The Amy Winehouse Foundation,” he answered just as quickly. “Has anyone ever told you that you—”
“Frequently. What does her foundation do?”
“Tries to keep disadvantaged kids away from drugs and alcohol by getting them involved in music. Bit of a pet cause, innit?” He wasn’t looking at her.
“Oh?” She realized that besides the few tidbits she’d gleaned at lunch the other day, she actually knew next to nothing about the guy she was “dating”. Except for how nicely he filled out a button-down. Which wasn’t insignificant. She had good taste in fake-dates.
“Grew up in council housing. Not a very nice place. Loads of my mates from childhood starting using or selling. I was always too busy mucking about with my keyboard, or mum’s guitar. If I hadn’t grown up around music, things might have turned out quite a bit differently for me as well. I still meet people like that, in the industry. Coke habits that started as teenagers, drinking they learned at the same time. You look at them and you just know they’ll be gone as fast as they appeared on the scene.” He was quiet again.
Greta studied his profile carefully. That was interesting. Growing up poor and giving back to make sure other kids had the same chance to get out? She supposed it was fairly gentlemanly of him. There had to be a catch somewhere, though. There always was. No one could be that perfect.
Her train of thought was derailed by the dull clinking of a plastic spoon tapping on a plastic champagne flute.
“If you’ll get seated, we’ll show our film now. We think it highlights some important issues we’d like to continue working on with your generous support. Thanks.” Amy’s boss was as eloquent as ever. They found folding chairs next to each other in the last row, next to Summer. His thigh brushed hers as they sat, which affected her more than she thought it really ought to have. Well, fine, he was hot, it was okay if her body responded. Although she hoped he didn’t notice how hard her nipples suddenly were.
The lights dimmed, and the title of the documentary appeared on the makeshift fabric screen. “Frackland”. Amy’d had a brief affair with the filmmaker, so at this point Greta figured she had every talking point in the movie memorized. Basically, while the rest of the world was worrying about fracking’s effects on humans, this dude was documenting the effects on native flora and fauna.
Definitely a good film the first time around. However, Amy had played it on repeat during her short-lived fascination with the narrator/director/producer/sound tech/lighting guy/composer/host.
Greta shifted uncomfortably in the metal chair. If she’d paid the least amount of attention to the evite, she’d have known this would happen and worn pants. Instead, she’d worn one of her signature short vintage dresses and now the backs of her thighs were melding to the chair. She wiggled again.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. She bent down and peeked inside, trying not to disturb anyone around her.
You look beautiful, btw. I hadn’t told you.
She straightened up and looked sharply to her left. Jon’s eyes were straight ahead, but his phone was in his lap and he was smiling impertinently.
Well. She did. She’d spent a good hour working on her hair and makeup. Not because he’d see her, of course, even in her head she hastened to add that. No, it was because these pics would be all over Facebook soon enough, and she wanted to look cute. That was all. Buzz. She leaned down again.
What are we doing after this?
Greta’s smile now matched his. She hadn’t exactly bothered to mention the real-date plans to him. She moved her purse to her lap to text him back.
Roller skating.
She almost felt guilty over the look of excitement on his face. Almost. Because what she still hadn’t mentioned was that it wasn’t just roller-skating. It was Mina’s ninth birthday party. Miraculously, Bob had decided to hire a party planner to put it together instead of announcing that Greta would be putting it together last minute, as she’d expected.
Even though she wasn’t technically working, she’d still feel like a heel if she missed it. But then—Greta swigged the last of her bubbly—children’s birthday parties were notoriously obnoxious, so she wouldn’t feel bad showing up with a bit of a buzz either. Or bad about bringing Jon to a guaranteed cock-block. And the fact that it got her out of the end of the fundraiser was icing.
* * *
So that was what her Cheshire-cat grin was about, Jon thought as he surveyed the rink full of screaming little girls. Greta was such a little firecracker. A good girl, though, he could twig. You could always tell what sort a person was by the company they kept.
Anyways, he was breaking down her walls, he could tell. She wasn’t glaring at his innuendos anymore, she was suppressing little smiles. And she might pretend it was fake all she wanted, she’d already introduced him to all her friends and to her surrogate family. Although judging by the weird vibe between the dad and Greta, he’d wager only Mina was truly family to her.
It would be his second winning bet of the month.
Mina skated by, and he waved. It made his wrist itch. She giggled and said something to the girl she was linked-arms with. The other girl’s whole head turned round to stare as she rounded the rink. She broke from Mina to link and gossip with another friend.
So word was out that Greta had a boyfriend. He allowed himself a little smirk. She could fight this all she wanted, once everyone referred to him as that, she’d inevitably come around. Especially once he made her … come around, so to speak. He glanced over as she was lacing up the beige rental skates. Yeah, he was going to do wonderful things to her.
His gaze travelled up her impossibly perfect legs, showed off in that short dress, to her belted waist. It lingered for a moment too long on the rounded tops of her creamy breasts before moving up to admire her—oh. Busted.
See, right there, she didn’t even look mad, although Jon could tell she was trying. Yeah, it just took a little extra time, but now things were going according to his plan.
Mina and yet another kid skidded to a stop on the carpet before the bench he and Greta were on. This was it, then, she was going to have to admit to Mina and her hundred tiny friends that she like-liked Jon and that she was totally gonna get kissing cooties.
“Is it true? I told Mina she was a liar,” demanded the small girl, fists on hips. Why was she looking at him?
“It’s true,” he responded, confused. She gaped at him, and skated off. Next thing he knew, he was surrounded by a small mob of girls and several mothers as well. Greta must have been single for a very long time to get this sort of response.
He flashed them his best million-dollar smile, and held his arm out to Greta.
“You’re really DJ Force?” asked one of the moms. Oh. That was not exactly where he thought this was going. Still a quite strange sensation to be recognized, and this was not exactly the crowd he expected it from either.
“Oh, yes, he is.” It was Greta’s turn to flash her pearly whites. Fine then. If she thought he was going to be thrown off by some fans on wheels, well. She hadn’t truly seen him in his element.
“Mina, love, where are you?” He pulled her to the front. She was absolutely glowing with pride. “Since someone didn’t tell me it was your birthday—” he turned to narrow his eyes and received an innocent shrug—“I didn’t bring you a present. Give me a moment, then?”
He glided over to the DJ, a teenager who instantly vacated the booth and pulled out his cell phone to record the goings-on.
Jon adjusted the microphone. “Mina?”
He queued up his big single, the one from the Thirst Competition soundtrack that he’d done with CeAnna, and turned off the vocals. Holding his hand out to help the child into his booth, he announced, “The birthday girl!”
As everyone cheered, she donned a very serious expression and then proceeded to rock the hell out of the vocals.
Well color me impressed. The kid could really go places with a set of pipes like that.
“It’s hard to believe I had any part in making her,” came a voice from Jon’s left. He glanced over and was startled to see Bob had let his phone drop to stare at his daughter sashaying and singing. “Her mother used to sing just like that. And she’s the spitting image … it’s hard to even look at her a lot of days without seeing my wife.”
Jon didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry for your loss, mate.” The other man shook his head a little.
“Well, everyone’s got to go sometime, right? Excuse me, I’m going to take this.” Bob pressed the phone to his ear again and walked off, looking rather relieved at the interruption. Jon had the impression he hadn’t quite meant to say all of that.
But speaking of impressions. He glanced over at the bench he’d left Greta next to. She was still there, but instead of smiling at the parent crowd, she was gazing back at him. With a fairly adoring expression, if he was reading it right. Which he totally was. He sped it up, and—
Beat drop.
Mina carried on without a second’s hesitation, finishing out and then seguing right into the next track, one originally recorded with male vocals.
Greta was still giving him The Eye. Oh yeah. They were totally doing it tonight.
* * *
“We are not doing it tonight!” Greta panted in between the kind of all-encompassing kisses where no one can stop moving their hands over the other and neither can catch their breath and people with more talent than she had wrote songs about. “At least not in the alley behind the skating rink.”
“Who ever said anything about doing it in an alley?” Jon said, reasonably. And yet she knew that’s what he was hoping for. Not because she was psychic, but because he was hard and continually trying to hoist her dress up. Not a tough extrapolation, even for someone as bad at math as she.
“Yeah, you’re doing that thing again,” she reminded him. He broke away from her lips and stared hungrily into her eyes.
“I am certain I don’t know what you’re talking about, love.” His voice was lilting and accented and goddamnit she definitely kissed him first that time because goddamnit it really wasn’t fair that he’d speak to her like that and give Mina the best present ever and just—arg. Greta hated the spotlight more than anything, but definitely that had to be the most exciting moment for a little girl more used to being overlooked.
“That thing. Where what you say. And do. Don’t equal out.” She was panting, and no longer quite as concerned about making her point than she was about enjoying this very hot alley make-out session.
Her palms were on his scruff and his tongue was inside of her teeth. Holy shit she was dizzy. Was it possible she was still tipsy? No. This was all the effects of kissing Jon Hargrave. Who knew DJ Force could have so much control over her? Almost as if he was using the Force himself—no. This is no time to let your nerdgirl out. Just enjoy the moment.
Her tongue rasped against his, and then he pulled back and nipped her slightly. She delved back for more as his hands tangled in her hair, and more again as her own slid up his back. Her fingers tangled in his shaggy blonde locks, while the other hands’ nails sank into his muscular delts. Ugh, his muscles were so tight, ridiculously so for a man who made his living with a turntable. He must work out. She never knew why women went in for that look until now.
Her fingers kneaded into him. It was almost like a collapse, the way he just surrendered to her. It was so sexy, even though she knew it probably had a lot more to do with the fact that he likely had massive knots than that he’d been somehow waiting for the right girl to touch him in the right way.
Jon rewarded her with his thumbs on her nipples, hands down the top of her dress, those record-spinning callouses roughing her up and causing her nipples to react almost violently. He pinched just a little and she gave a little mew.
She arched into his lips, just as he bent to gently lick her breasts. It sent a thrill down her back, and she pushed further into him. His mouth closed over one dusky pink nipple and tugged with his whole being. She actually would have used the word “squee” to describe the noise she made. Jiminy.
His tongue traced circles around first one and then the other. Greta’s breasts felt heavy in his mouth, his hands increasing pressure everywhere his mouth wasn’t. It sent bolts of lightning straight down her body, and she could feel herself getting wet. Since when had foreplay been so sexy?
It was not like Greta had experienced foreplay since like—high school. That was basically depressing too, though, because who leaves foreplay behind with high school? Evidently she did. Besides Oliver, she could count on one hand the men who’d brought her to orgasm. Okay. Full disclosure. Oliver was the only man who’d ever given her an orgasm. In retrospect, that probably explained much of her attachment to him.
Goddamnit, all over again. That was embarrassing even in her head. She pushed Jon off. His head moved back from her chest, his eyes moved up to study hers. Why couldn’t she resist that stare? With a moan, she stopped resisting.
His all-knowing fingers moved down the backs of her thighs and her back sank into the bricks of the alley wall. This time when Jon lifted the skirt of her dress, she didn’t fight him. Nor did she resist when he pulled her lacey boyshorts down, and she definitely, definitely did not make a move to stop him when he flattened his tongue against her and began to lick.
Wow. He didn’t dance around, he went straight for her core, applying pressure and heat. Greta put her hand over her mouth to keep from moaning aloud. Her breath caught as he flicked over her clit.
She pushed her palms into the wall to brace herself, and hitched a leg over his shoulder. He worked his way from her entrance up to the base of her soft curls, using one hand to spread her further open. Her head lolled back as he drew circles around the spot she wanted him most.
Slowly, he drew her all the way into his mouth, sucking gently. Her legs were shaking with the force of holding back her orgasm. When he slipped a finger inside her, she stiffened, ready to come. He pulled out, holding her off for just a moment. His tongue moved faster over the sensitive nerves, and she felt his finger back inside. And another.
Greta clenched around him and came like fireworks, biting down on her hand but failing to keep all the noise inside. At least it was muffled. She could hardly catch her breath as he eased out of her, dropping one last kiss that made her gasp.
“Ssh, ssh, love,” Jon laughed. “Can’t be caught doing it in an alley behind the skating rink.” She should have been annoyed—it was his idea after all—but she wasn’t even sure she could continue standing, much less argue.
If this was not doing it tonight, she could live with that.
She bent down to pull up her panties when a scuffling noise from the end of the alley made her stomach drop.
There, backlit from the streetlights, stood the DJ from inside. Complete with his camera phone in hand.
Oh my God. I have a sex tape.