Page 38 of Boyfriend Maintenance

As I sit down next to him, my phone alerts me to a voicemail. My god, that’s either a long-ass message or I missed the first alert.

Kevin notices and looks down at my phone but then focuses back on the game.

I snag up my phone and shove it in my pocket.

He lets it go for a few minutes, longer than I expected.

“So, how's that going? Your fake girlfriend?” he asks between mouthfuls of salsa-covered chips.

I grunt.

“That great, huh? Is she a total bitch?”

“Watch it,” I nearly growl.

He pulls his eyes from the television and leans away from me. “Duuude. What? We haven’t talked about it in a while. I thought you said she was some stuck-up rich chick.”

I shake myself out of it, he doesn’t deserve my foul mood. “No, it’s fine. It's just, she isn’t a bitch.”

He eyes me before shrugging a nonverbal “alright” and turning back to the game.

“So, things are good or bad with her, Emmy, right?” He keeps his focus on the game.

“Emmy.” Just saying her name makes my body heat up with thoughts of last night. Shit, last night, the sex was so fucking good. “No, things are over with her.”

“Huh.” He cocks his head, giving me the side-eye.

I’m leaning back into the couch with my arms crossed.

The broadcast jumps into its first commercial break. Kevin faces me, studying me while he drinks his beer, slowly. I ignore him. He doesn’t let up. I press my lips together and then chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from engaging him.

I can feel his stare and it’s really starting to grate on my nerves.

“Oh my god, what?” I snap.

“Nothing.” He shrugs and turns back to the television.

“What do you mean nothing? You’re giving me the look, and I don’t appreciate it.” I twist my upper body to face him.

“What look?”

“Thelook. You know, the one Mom gave us growing up when she wanted us to spill our guts.”

He nods in acknowledgement. “Oh, that one. Yeah, I’m familiar.” He dunks a chip in the jar of salsa. I just stare at him. “You know, now that you mention it, you do seem like you need to get something off your chest. So, what’s up?”

I glare at him.

“What’s going on with Emmy that has your panties in such a twist?”

“She’s been lying to me,” I grunt.

“Shit, man, about what?” He’s giving me his full attention, the little punk pulled one over on me.

“About the fact that she has no money.” His eyebrows shoot straight up so I correct myself, “As in, she isn’t rich. She has money, she works and pays her bills, but she’s just solid middle class.”

“How does she not have money? Isn’t her dad some rich fuck who plays with makeup?”

I roll my eyes. Clearly, he only listens to half of what I say. “No, he runs and owns King Cosmetics. And she walked away from it. A few years ago. She wanted to live her own life, one without the expectations and duties that come with having that kind of cash.”

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