Their Paid Girl

Their Paid Girl - Part 11

          Joel looked downright aggrieved.

          “Shawna,” Adam surprised me by saying. Startled, I looked away from my examination of Brock and snapped my head in his direction.

          I got a full blast of his good looks, and felt the familiar heady sensation I got whenever he was making me uncomfortable. His deep blue gaze bore into mine, a fringe of black hair falling into his eyes.

          His expression wasn’t teasing or smirking or even cocky. He was serious. “I hired you to make a scene,” he said slowly, watching me to make sure I caught every word. Joel was staring at me, too.

          “I need you to be rude. In fact, go beyond rude – be as offensive, unpleasant and hateful as you can be. Ignore the awkwardness at first – it’ll all come naturally to you.”

          “But, why?” I echoed Brock’s intelligent query. I was far too bewildered to acknowledge the casual dig at my personality in the last little bit.

          I’d been asked to be rude on dates before – once, because the guy wanted to show his parents that there are a lot worse girls out there than tattooed hippie wannabes. After I was done with them, he fully had his parents’ blessing to go out with the girl they hadn’t approved of in the beginning – but that was before they’d met me.

          But I hadn’t been that bad. No, I’d just talked a lot about myself, been arrogant and snobbish until they couldn’t stand the sight of me and were openly begging their son never to bring me to their home again. After all, I had been proof enough that looks weren’t everything – they couldn’t bear having me around for the rest of their lives, and the hippie girl seemed like one of God’s own angels after my little show.

          But this felt different; judging by Adam’s intense gaze, this would be above and beyond my normal job description. Suddenly, practice sounded like a pretty darn good idea after all. Who knew what Adam really wanted from me?

          “Fine,” I said cautiously, returning his stare.

          “Good,” he clenched his jaw. “Let’s begin – skip the greeting-at-the-door part. Let’s pretend we just sat down for dinner, and we’re waiting for the food to be brought out. I’m my father, Joel’s my mother, and Brock, you’re me.”

          Brock nodded seriously.

          “Roberts, you’re you, and may God be with you on that one.”

          I scowled.

          “So,” Adam suddenly launched ahead, in a voice deeper, calmer and more mature than his usual tone. “Son, how are your studies going?”

          It took awhile for Brock to realize the question was directed at him. “Uhh...” he stammered, “Good.”

          Adam levelled a stern gaze at him. “I’d never say that to my father’s face, dude, good or not. You have to act like me.”

          “Right,” Brock agreed quickly, and I was surprised to see a fine film of sweat on his forehead. Was he nervous about this? He was taking this fake date far too seriously.

          “Son?” Adam prompted. “How’s the college life?”

          “Banging,” Brock replied, and Adam grinned approvingly before becoming his father once more.

          “And who is this young lady?”

          Brock turned to look at me, smiling gently, before remembering he was Adam. Brock did a surprisingly good impression of Adam’s self-satisfied smirk.