Page 5 of Playing Hardball
He has a small beard on his chin and he seems really nice. I remember he was the one who showed me to the room where I promptly fell asleep yesterday. I had been so exhausted. He hands one of the passports to me at the back and the other to the man beside me.
I open mine first, sure that a fake name is going to be staring back at me. Sure enough, there is a fake name. My first name, Kimberly is still there but my last name has changed. It’s West now. Kimberly West. I wonder what made them choose it. I glance at the man beside me, curious to finally learn his name. When I look at him though, his brow is furrowed in confusion. He rips my passport out of my hand and places it beside his, comparing the two.
The name on his passport is Wesley West. My first thought is that he definitely doesn’t look like a Wesley. My second thought is that we have the same last name. Oh no.
“Why the fuck do we have the same last name?” he asks angrily. The man driving smirks.
“Because you’re going to be married in Iowa. Didn’t Thomas tell you?” he asks. He looks utterly amused.
“What do you mean by married?” he asks flatly like he can’t comprehend what his friend is saying.
“I mean, the both of you are going to be acting as a married couple in Iowa,” he explains.
He’s obviously enjoying this. The fact that he’s enjoying it amuses me as well. That is, until the grumpy guy turns to glare at me. If looks could kill, I would be six feet under. Geez, why does he hate me so much?
“I had no idea until just now,” I tell him, raising my hands in surrender. He doesn’t stop glaring.
“Seriously. I knew nothing,” I reiterate.
He sighs, before turning away from me and slouching. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He’s gorgeous. The fact that he’s so handsome is what’s making the fact that he hates me sting so much. He’s got dark hair that’s short on either side and full on top. His cheekbones are prominent and sharply cut like ice, and his eyes have a vivid green sheen. He’s really tall. I’m prettysure he’s way taller than 6 feet. He looks young, although my bet is he only looks it. I suspect he’s at least 40. He’s wearing a black turtle neck shirt that hugs his well-defined muscles and makes his arms look huge. Even with my side-eye peripheral assessment, I can tell he’s incredibly sexy. The only turn-off about him is the perpetual frown on his face.
The rest of the ride is spent in silence. After his friend drops us off, we head over to the checkpoint. While we wait in line, I tap him from behind.
“What should I call you?” I ask him.
His green eyes bore into mine. He thinks about it for a moment before answering.
“Wesley,” he says before turning around.
I tap him again.
“What?” he asks irritated.
“That’s not your real name,” I say.
He raises a dark eyebrow. “Says who?”
“It’s not your real name,” I repeat stubbornly. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“I’m under no obligation to tell you my real name. Now I’d appreciate it if you would please not talk to me. At all.”
He turns back to face the front and that ends the conversation. I settle for watching other people until our flight is called. Before boarding the plane, I think to myself that this is another fresh start for me. I even have a fake husband. I just hope I don’t mess it up.
One hour into the flight and I’m nudging Wesley awake. One thing about me is that I’m terrible at staying silent. It feels unnatural not saying anything to this man accompanying me. As always he looks irritated but I don’t feel bad. I’m sure he wasn’t really asleep. His eyes were closed but his body was tense. Very unlike a person fast asleep.
“What now?” he asks with a groan.
“I’m bored.”
“Why should I care if you’re bored or not?” he asks in a flat tone.
I shrug.
“Why should you care if I die or not? Because you have to and it’s your job.”
The lines on his forehead deepen.
“So I should care if you’re bored because it’s your job or my job?”
