Just Be Her Read online

  George had been with my family since he was a teenager. Before I even started school, he had a summer job on the vineyard doing manual labor. My father saw something in him, and over the years, George became his most trusted employee.

  Now George was my right-hand man. Other than my own mother, there was no one I trusted more.

  After a beat of silence, I came to a decision. “Can you please pull the car around?”

  “No problem. Where to?” he asked, already heading for the door.

  “The Cottonmouth Inn.” I nodded and took a deep breath. At the very least, I still needed to speak with her, and I couldn’t sit around doing nothing any longer.

  Three

  Toni

  That bitch had been calling and texting me all damn day. Was I curious about why we looked identical? Of course! But I wasn’t willing to deal with the shitstorm that would come from digging into it. I just wanted to be left alone, but this woman was like a damn dog with a bone. It was like she was outraged that someone dared walk around with her face. I was half expecting her to show up with a bag of doorknobs to “fix” it for me.

  I was so distracted the previous night I didn’t even get a little drunk, didn’t take any hot losers to bed, didn’t even wake up feeling like shit. It was kind of a nice change, and I found myself with hours to kill before my shift.

  I threw my hair up—I hadn’t washed it in three days—and headed out. I got a po’ boy for lunch and sat in the park. As I patted every dog that came past, I found myself wondering what my life would’ve been like had my parents not both died within a year of each other.

  Mom died from cancer in my senior year of high school. I’d been looking at colleges, getting good grades . . . and then I wasn’t. Then I was driving to appointments and counting pills and holding her hand as she died, and I cried and cried.

  We were in so much debt from her medical bills I had to get a job, not that I would’ve been accepted to any college with the way my grades had tanked. Then Dad got in a car wreck and, a week later, got a really bad infection no amount of drugs could fight, leaving me a nineteen-year-old orphan.

  I sold our home, and it was just enough to cover the mortgage and all the medical bills. With the little left over, I got as far away from all that pain as possible. I packed my shit, got on a bus to New Orleans, and never looked back. I stopped replying to my friends’ messages, and they stopped calling.

  I just wanted to start over, go somewhere no one knew me. I didn’t want to stay in that town and be the local sob story for the rest of my life.

  I was in my second week in New Orleans and running out of money when I stumbled on the Cottonmouth Inn. It was actually Ren’s music that drew me in. He was doing a cover of “Dead Inside” by Muse, and my feet took me through the door without even thinking about it.

  It turned out to be the last song of their set, and I was disproportionately upset I couldn’t listen to more of their music—at the time, I didn’t know he was a giant jerk. After weeks of not being able to get a job or a place to live, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I sat down at the bar, ordered a beer, and started crying.

  That was the first and last time I poured my heart out to Andre. He’d played the silent bartender role perfectly, wiping glasses and listening to every sad detail. I didn’t know what the fuck about my homeless, penniless, blubbering self had screamed “stellar employee and tenant material,” but he’d hired me and offered me the apartment on the spot.

  Eight years later, I still worked for him.

  A Dalmatian ran up and startled me out of my memories, his long snout demanding pats. I indulged him until his human whistled and the good boy rushed to his side.

  Then I remembered why I didn’t spend a lot of time taking it easy. I much preferred the partying, drinking, meaningless sex, getting up just in time to get to work, and keeping myself busy. It kept me from thinking about my dead parents and dead dreams. What was the point of making myself depressed when there was nothing I could do about it?

  Frustrated with myself for letting the emotion make my throat tight, I pushed up and walked out of the park. It was stinking hot, the sun beating down and the humidity unbearable in the late afternoon, but I decided to walk back. It would be good to focus on my body for a while.

  As I exited the park, I spotted a man leaning against a familiar expensive black car, eating chips and staring right at me. At first I hoped it was just a coincidence, but he didn’t even remotely hide the fact he was watching me.

  I glared at him as I got closer. Unless I wanted to walk all the way around the park, I had no choice but to walk past him. I hoped my “fuck off” look would be enough to make him fuck off.

  As I approached, he finished his snack, licked his fingers, and scrunched up the empty bag. He rapped on the blacked-out window and folded his hands in front of himself, giving me an almost mocking smile.

  I picked up my pace. If I made it past before she got out of the car . . .

  “Toni.” The door swung open and there she was, blocking my path, her silky hair falling over her shoulder, her linen shorts and sleeveless shirt impeccable.

  “Why?” I looked to the sky and groaned, then narrowed my eyes at the man who was clearly the silhouette from the previous night—George, she’d called him. “How the fuck did you even find me?” For all they knew, I was just a patron at the Cottonmouth.

  “Never lost you.” He shrugged.

  Son of a bitch. He must’ve had someone watching me this entire time. “That’s stalking.”

  He grinned, not denying or confirming my accusation. Crafty son of a bitch.

  “It really is not my intention to frighten you.” Alexandria drew my attention back to her. She stood tall, her shoulders back, but her hand wringing gave her nerves away. “I’m just running out of time, and you weren’t returning my calls.”

  “Generally, when someone ignores your calls, it means they don’t want to speak to you. No means no, Alex. And I’m not scared.” I folded my arms and scowled.

  “Aren’t you even a little curious about why we—” She cut herself off as a woman walked past with a stroller, waiting until she was out of earshot before leaning forward to finish her question. “ . . . have the same face?”

  “No,” I declared.

  She gave me a skeptical look. “Really?”

  “Yes. No. Look, yes, it’s weird, but I don’t need any drama in my life. And this”—I gestured in her general direction—“reeks of drama.”

  She watched me for a moment. “OK, fine. You don’t want drama. I get it. What about money?”

  “Money? What about money?” Was she trying to pay me off? Make me go away? She was stupider than I thought. All I’d been trying to do was get the fuck away from her.

  “I’d like to offer you a substantial amount. And all you have to do is dress nicer and cuss less for a few weeks. You never have to see me again after that.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with what I’m wearing?” I looked down at the ripped jean shorts and the T-shirt with a skeleton hand giving the middle finger.

  “Can we please discuss this in the car?” She held her arms away from her body, as if she didn’t like her own skin touching the pristine fabric. “It’s unbearably hot.”

  “I don’t know you.” I took an exaggerated step back. “I’m not getting into a car with you.”

  “Toni. Please.” The way she looked at me reminded me of the moment we first met. It was raw, desperate. She was breathing hard, not just from the heat but from another impending panic attack. Most of all she looked genuinely sad.

  And because I’m a fucking idiot, I rolled my eyes, pushed past her, and got into the car. She rushed in after me, and we were on the move before I could say “leather interior.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief at the air-conditioned comfort before speaking. “OK. Tell me what you want so I can knock it back and we can be done with this.”

  I turned to her, then reeled back.
/>   Her face was inches from mine, her eyes squinting. “Remarkable.” She studied me as if she were looking in the mirror trying to find blackheads. “It’s like looking in the mirror,” she said, echoing my thoughts.

  “Lady, you’re creeping me the fuck out.”

  “Right.” She coughed and backed away to a more respectable distance. “As I said, I have a proposition. I’d like you to take my place for one month, assume my identity. At the end of the month, I’ll be married and come into quite a bit of money, and I’ll pay you handsomely for your time. Also, I’ll need a sample of your saliva.”

  “Jesus.” I pressed my back against the door, getting as far away from her as possible. “Lube me up before you shove something that big up my—”

  “Toni!” She actually clutched her pearls, her eyes going wide.

  Despite the bizarre-as-fuck situation, I couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of me. After a moment, she cracked a smile too, and then we were both having a good laugh in the back of the most expensive car I’d ever touched. Hers was a little more reserved than mine, but even our laughs were the same.

  “This is insane.” I tried to reason with her. “Why would you want to do this?”

  All the humor left her face. “I have my reasons.”

  “You can’t expect me to just jump into your life without knowing what I’m getting myself into.”

  “So you’re considering it.” Her eyes lit up again.

  “No . . .”

  She ignored me. “OK, yes, you’re right. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. The main point is that I’m getting married soon, and I just want . . . a break. A month to just not be me for a while, to not feel the immense pressure I’m under.”

  I could relate to not wanting to think about heavy shit. “You want me to plan your wedding?”

  “No.” She waved her hand. “It’s all organized. I just want you to spend the month with my fiancé and his family at their property just outside the city. You’ll hardly see them. They’re busy.”

  “What the fuck? Are you insane? Don’t you think he’d notice? He’ll take one look at me and know it’s not you.”

  “No, he won’t. We’ve never met.”

  “Who’s never met?”

  “My fiancé and I.”

  “You’re marrying someone you’ve never met?”

  “It’s complicated.” She sighed.

  “Yeah! Exactly the kind of complicated I’m trying to avoid.”

  “Look, it’s more of a business deal—a quid pro quo situation. He needs a wife to inherit his father’s company. I need his money to pay off some debts. Like I said, he won’t know you’re not me, and he won’t care that you’re not spending much time with him. You can just take a month off. There’s a pool and a chef on call and every luxury you could think of. And if you like activities, there’s a tennis court and stables.”

  The mention of “stables” had me actually considering this. I loved horses. Bitch had to tell me about the horses. “You’re telling me you’re about to enter a marriage of convenience with a super-rich guy who has multiple horses on his giant property? What century are we in? Did I hit my head and fall into a fucking Regency romance novel?”

  She laughed again. “It’s more common than you might think.”

  “Rich people, man . . .” I muttered. “Even if I entertain this idea, I can’t just disappear from my life for a month. I have a job, a . . . uh . . . rent to pay, and . . .” I was struggling to think of things I couldn’t walk away from. “My point is, at the end of this, I need to be able to come back to work, and there’s no way Andre will let me just take a month off.”

  “Oh, that’s not going to be a problem.” She smiled, as if she had everything figured out. “While you’re pretending to be me, I’ll pretend to be you. I’ll do your job and . . . whatnot. The only snag may be that your friends will probably realize I’m not you. So maybe we should let them in on it.”

  I snorted. “Don’t worry. No one will suspect a thing. We just need to put some makeup on you, get you comfortable with the word cunt, and you’ll be fine. I’m not that close to Andre, and he’s the only one who sees me every day.”

  She nodded, but her lips kept twitching up into a smile.

  I narrowed my eyes. Then, as I realized I was helping her plan this insanity, I huffed. “What the fuck am I saying? No. I can’t do this. It’s too weird. Pull over.”

  For the first time, I looked out the window. We were in the French Quarter somewhere—the traffic was worse, and there were people everywhere. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the buildings.

  “No!” She grabbed my arm. “George, keep driving.” She spoke with so much urgency you would’ve thought we were in a high-speed car chase, not crawling along a traffic-clogged street. I could’ve probably opened the door and just stepped out.

  I looked at her fingers wrapped around my arm, then arched my eyebrow at her.

  “Please,” she begged again. “I need this.”

  “Nah, man. It’s not worth it.” I removed her hands from my arm and turned toward the door.

  “Fifty thousand dollars!” she yelled.

  My eyes widened, and I slowly turned to face her again. “Fifty grand?”

  “A hundred,” she rushed out.

  “Whoa.” For a moment we just stared at each other. That was tuition and rent money. I could go to college. Maybe my dreams weren’t as dead as I thought . . .

  I chewed on my lip. “Fuck. OK.”

  She threw her arms around my neck and started sobbing. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  “A hundred grand, apparently.” I patted her on the back awkwardly.

  George pulled the car up outside a five-star hotel. There was a fucking fountain in the circular drive, along with half a dozen other ridiculously expensive cars.

  A fancy hotel guy rushed over, and Alexandria pulled away and quickly wiped her face, smoothing down invisible wrinkles in her shirt.

  “Stay in the car.” Suddenly she was whispering. “It’s better if you come up with George through the parking garage. In case someone sees.”

  I frowned, questioning my rash decision. She was paranoid. Paranoid could be dangerous. But before I could raise any concerns, she was out of the car, and George was pulling away.

  “OK then. Guess I’ll come through the servants’ entrance.” I rolled my eyes.

  George chuckled. “She’s not like that. But a certain level of discretion is necessary if you want this to work. You may want to call and let Andre know you won’t be able to work tonight.”

  “What? Why?” I leaned forward. “Wait. How did you know I was working to—right, the stalking.”

  “The thorough investigation,” he argued. “And it’s going to take some time to make sure you’re both ready to take on each other’s roles. We only have until tomorrow morning.”

  “Whatever.” I pulled my phone out and called Andre.

  “What do you mean you ain’t coming to work?” he growled, but he didn’t even miss a beat before asking the next question. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I promise. I just have to take care of something. It’s really important. I just . . . can’t talk about it.” I cringed, my eyes meeting George’s in the rearview. He shook his head as he pulled into a spot and killed the engine.

  “Toni . . .” Andre’s voice was both questioning and reprimanding. He didn’t like this. I wasn’t sure I liked it either. Maybe that’s why I was struggling to lie to him.

  “Come on. Just . . . do me a solid and let this one go. It’s important, and it won’t happen again. I’ll be back tomorrow, I swear.” I brought it home by doing something I never did—plead. “Please, Andre.”

  He sighed, and I knew I had him. “Fine.”

  I ended the call, and George and I headed up to Alexandria’s room.

  In the elevator, George turned to me. “For someone with so much attitude, you’re a shitty liar. You�
�re going to have to up your game.”

  In place of an answer, I just flipped him off.

  Four

  Alex

  Toni took three steps into the room and paused, her eyes going wide. The suite was luxurious, swathed in dark velvet and imported marble, the view of New Orleans spectacular. “Your hotel room is bigger than my apartment.”

  “That’s as good a place to start as any,” I said. “Please, sit. Tell me about where you live. What I can expect.” I gestured to the couch, and she finally shook herself out of her shock and moved to join me. George settled into the chair at the desk.

  “What do you wanna know?” Toni practically fell into the cushions, slumping against the back before yawning without covering her mouth.

  I looked down at myself. I was sitting on the edge of the cushion, my back straight, knees together. I looked over my shoulder at George. He was silently laughing.

  “Tell me how to get inside, I guess? What does it look like? Where do I go? Where do you keep things?” As I spoke, I maneuvered myself until I was leaning back on the couch, my knees open, my shoulders hunched. It felt . . . unnatural.

  She frowned. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Trying to sit like you?” I didn’t quite know what to do with my hands, moving them from the couch to my lap to over my head.

  Toni burst out laughing. She sat up and faced me. “Stop trying to force it. We look exactly the same. A little black eyeliner and a little more relaxed and no one will even notice. You just need to . . . how are you reclined on the world’s softest couch and you look that stiff?”

  I frowned. I felt stiff. I was trying too hard. Taking a deep breath, I rolled my shoulders and let myself sink into the couch. I supposed I’d need to start using more colorful language too. Not that I was opposed to cursing, necessarily. I just found myself in situations where I had to speak politely and professionally most of the time; it wasn’t part of my vernacular. But there was no time like the present. “This is a pretty fucking soft couch.”