The Decoy Read online

  The Decoy

  By S.E. Rose

  Copyright © 2019 S. E. Rose

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.seroseauthor.com

  Cover design by Cover Me, Darling

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book contains descriptions of adult relationships and derogatory language. If such things offend you, this book is not for you. The book is intended for mature readers.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Wedding Party

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by S.E. Rose

  To Nick (A.K.A. Tio Peaches) who sat in a hot tub in Mexico with me while we sipped champagne, watched the ocean, and outlined this story. You’ve been my partner in crime for over half my life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way!

  Chapter 1

  Reagan

  I stare at my phone, blinking in disbelief.

  Grant: Free trip to Mexico-Call me!

  I press call, and he picks up immediately.

  “You in?” he asks.

  “Explain yourself!” I state.

  “What’s to explain? You are hereby cordially invited on a free all-expenses-paid trip to Mexico,” he replies.

  “Grant,” I groan.

  “I need you,” he whines.

  “You need me,” I repeat in a mocking tone.

  “Yes!” he exclaims.

  “Seriously, what’s the dealio?” I prod.

  Grant sighs a serious sigh.

  “Is everything OK?” I ask, frowning. Grant Pierce is my best friend. I’ve known him since the very first day of college when he sat down next to me in my lit class and said that he hoped we would read all of Jane Austen’s books. He’s been making me laugh ever since, but Grant can also be serious, and I have a feeling this may be one of those times.

  “My grandmother is going to be at my cousin’s wedding. Remember when I decided not to talk with my family for like six weeks? Well, I guess all those texts from my parents to call them were sort of important. Had I known grandmother was going to be there, I would have given you more advance notice,” he explains. And now I understand.

  “You need a decoy,” I state.

  “Yes,” he replies.

  Grant’s grandmother is the most conservative, small-minded woman on the face of the planet. His sister, Beth, married Thomas Johnson, a successful African-American doctor, and she was promptly disowned by her grandmother and cut out of her will. Grant’s grandfather, who died when he was younger, owned one of the largest shipping companies in the world. He left his estate to his wife, with small amounts going to each child and grandchild. But, Eunice Pierce, Grant’s grandmother, now controls the family’s money and if you cross her, then forget it, no inheritance for you. So, the fact that Grant prefers men, is sort of a major problem for him. His cousin, Lee Pierce, is getting married at an all-inclusive swanky resort in Playa del Carmen. His grandmother, of course, doesn’t approve of the location, but her son insists she attend, and since Lee’s future wife, Maggie Payne, is the daughter of Jonathan Payne, owner of the third largest media conglomerate in the world, she was more inclined to “slum it” than she otherwise would have been.

  “Fine,” I concede. “When and where exactly?”

  “You’re a lifesaver! You know the drill. We’re still off again, on again dating. We’re obviously on again, and you are fairly certain you’ll make partner this year,” he says.

  “Oh really?” I say sarcastically.

  “Reagan, just stick with the story, OK?” he pleads.

  “Begging is beneath you,” I point out.

  He sighs.

  “Fine, when do we leave?” I ask again.

  “Uh, in two days,” he says quietly.

  “You have got to be kidding me? Two fucking days?!” I scream. “Have you lost your effing mind? I can’t just take off starting in two days!”

  “Oh, come on, you can. You have that new law clerk. It’ll be fine,” he says.

  I groan. “I really want to kill you right now.”

  “You love me,” he says.

  “Yes, but right now, I don’t like you.”

  “Fair enough. That’ll actually work perfectly since you know we’re practically like an old, married couple,” he says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Stop rolling your eyes,” he chides, knowing me so well he can guess my actions. “I’ll come over after work and help you pack.”

  I roll my eyes again. “Fine. But you owe me, Grant Pierce!” I warn.

  “Love ya,” he says and hangs up before I can offer up another warning about this trip.

  Grant has been using me as his “decoy” since our sophomore year of college. I work because I come from a respectable upper-middle-class family and my grandfather was a partner in a big New York City law firm. So, of course, Eunice Pierce thinks I’m the shit. Plus, I check off her perfect wife boxes apparently, or at least Grant has told me this. I play tennis and golf. I’m petite but not too short. I have good bone structure, whatever the hell that means. I eat like a lady—only because my mother would kick my butt if I didn’t. Oh, and my absolute favorite, my fashion sense is Jackie O enough for the club. And we are not talking sex club here, get your mind out of the gutter. The Club is a highly competitive country club in the East Coast conservative upper crust, old money town that Grant is from and where Eunice still resides. Grant’s parents, David and Diana, live in a penthouse in NYC. And Grant’s sister, Beth, now lives with her husband and two kids in suburban Philadelphia.

  Where Grant’s family is a looney bin, mine is quite normal. I have one older brother, Owen. He’s also a lawyer, and my dad is, of course, a lawyer. And my mother is a college professor. My parents still live in the same McMansion they built when I was a teenager. Basically, we are a total Leave It to Beaver sort of family. Normal in every way that Grant’s family is not. Well, as normal as any family can be.

  Immediately after I hang up with Grant, I text my boss, Sheila. Fortunately, Sheila who is a partner at the firm is amazing and doesn’t bat an eye.

  “Go, have fun,” is her response.

  I roll my eyes. Sheila is a dying breed, a real tree hugger. She had gone into law to fight for environmental justice, and she is still slaying the beast. I am her protégé. I had gone into law after reading an article in college about the rainforest and how tribes were being displaced and rare species were likely already extinct, and we had no idea. Yeah, I might be a tree hugger too, but a closet one at that.

  I call our administrative assistant, Louise, and work out who would cover for me for a few days. We settle on a newbie who I feel needs to get broken in a bit. Yeah, yeah, it is probably totally mean throwing her into the deep end of the pool with no notice, but we’ll find out if she c
an swim.

  I call my mother next. “Mom?” I say when she answers.

  “What’s up, sweetie?” she replies, and I can tell she is busy just by the sound of her voice.

  “I’m going to Mexico with Grant for a wedding,” I announce.

  “Oh, that sounds like fun. When do you leave?”

  “In about,” I start and look down at my phone, “thirty-seven hours.”

  “Oh, well, you have fun and be safe,” my mom says nonchalantly like it was the most normal thing in the world for her daughter to jot off at a moment’s notice to foreign countries with her gay bestie.

  “Right,” I answer, staring down my phone.

  “I have to go meet with the dean now, dear. Love you. Text me when you land, OK?” she adds and hangs up.

  I stare at the phone and shake my head. Somehow, I think this trip is a horrible idea, but maybe a shitshow is just what I need.

  Chapter 2

  “Open your eyes,” Grant insists.

  “No, thank you,” I reply. We are traveling on one of Grant’s family’s private jets. Yes, one of them, and I am hating every second of it. I squeezed my eyes shut when we took off twenty minutes ago, and I refuse to open them again. Maybe when we land.

  “I have something you’ll like,” Grant prods. I know even with my anxiety meds, that there is nothing and repeat nothing that he has that I want except for this godforsaken flight to end.

  I shake my head. Then, I hear the distinctive pop of the cork, and I curse him under my breath. “You sure you don’t want any?” he asks.

  “You suck,” I groan.

  “Well, you could be sucking on this bottle of champagne,” he says with a laugh. I flick him off, and he laughs harder. “Oh, come on, Reagan. I pulled down all the shades. It’s just you and me in a little family room.”

  “Right, shaped like a tube that happens to be flying through the sky like Superman,” I say like a petulant child as I cross my arms.

  I smell the champagne, and I know it’s because Grant put it under my nose, bastard. “Not fair,” I groan.

  “Sugar, I never said I played fair,” he says.

  I open one eye just slightly, and I see that he is holding a champagne flute in front of me.

  “Come on,” he whines. I slowly open my other eye and focus on the bubbly. I reach out and down it in one gulp and hold the glass back up.

  “Hit me,” I say.

  He chuckles and pours more champagne into my glass. After about six glasses, I’m starting to feel much better.

  “I think we should probably eat something,” he declares. “I don’t need my better half showing up too plastered.”

  I roll my eyes. He calls for his flight attendant, Greta or Gretchen or something, and has her make us some sandwiches. A small platter of sandwiches and fruits appears alongside cheese crackers and, of course, caviar, because what else does one eat with champagne on their private jet. I pull out a pill for my anxiety and take it with the champagne. I start to make a comment but decide against it.

  Somehow, I fall back asleep as Grant is droning on and on about something to do with some boy toy he met at a club two weekends ago. I awake with a start and feel hot, humid air.

  “Wake up, sleepy head. We’re here!” Grant exclaims as he pulls me up from my seat.

  “Sorry, I think the meds had me falling asleep. You’ll have to share the story with me again later,” I say with an apologetic grin. He smiles and nods.

  We are ushered through customs. A driver picks us up to take us on a one-hour drive to our hotel.

  Grant hands me a water as I fan myself, anxiously awaiting the air-conditioning to kick on in the van.

  “Let’s go over the itinerary, since you passed out on the plane,” Grant states as he pulls out his phone and loads some sort of invitation. “So, tonight we have a welcome party at six. Tomorrow morning, brunch will be served in the Gilbert Room of the hotel, and then there’s a second welcome party. The next day, we breakfast on our own, but they’ve reserved a pool area, and then the next day we have rehearsal at five p.m. The wedding is the day after that at four p.m. followed by a six p.m. reception. Then there’s a brunch the next day and a final party that night. We have our room for one extra day after that, you know, to decompress and all. Apparently, we can book tours and whatnot on the second floor of the lobby, and we can also book cabanas there as well. And, I think that’s it,” Grant says as he puts his phone back away.

  “Hey, I’m just along for the ride, so whatever,” I grumble as I stare out at the third Starbucks that we’ve passed. “Do you think we can stop for a coffee?” I ask him.

  He speaks in Spanish to our driver, who had introduced himself as Paulo.

  “He says there’s another one in the next town, and we can stop there,” Grant relays.

  I lean against the window and continuing watching the world go by as Grant starts in on a story about some jerk at his office. I want to listen, but I’m also really exhausted.

  I’m not sure how long I sleep, but I wake to the smell of coffee.

  “I knew you’d wake up once you smelled the coffee,” Grant says with a laugh as he hands me my caramel macchiato with soy milk.

  “No nut products, right?” I ask him. Grant’s pretty good about remembering my nut allergy, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.

  “No nuts,” he says with a smirk. I elbow him in the side, and he laughs.

  A few minutes after sipping my drink, we pull up to a huge, and I mean huge complex. Grant checks us into our suite, and we are transported there by golf cart. Yes, the resort is so large that we need a golf cart to get us to our room. The bellboy opens the suite’s door, and I gape. It’s two stories high and it’s beautiful. There’s a staircase behind the bed…wait, one bed.

  I look back at Grant who is thrusting some money into the bellboy’s hand and closing the door.

  “What?” he asks as he turns and sees my face.

  I point to the bed and my mouth drops open farther as I look past the bed to the bathroom, the bathroom with no wall.

  “What. The. Fuck?” I manage.

  Grant busts out laughing. “It was the only thing available. We can share. I mean, one of us can just hang out upstairs in the hot tub while the other is in the shower. See, no big deal,” he offers.

  I place a hand on my hip and give him my most incredulous look.

  “Seriously, Reagan, we’ll be fine. Remember that trip to Paris? Or the time we went to the Bahamas? We can handle this. Plus, I brought this special smelly stuff for the toilet. So, we are so good,” he says as he proudly pulls out a small bottle from his travel kit.

  “What the hell is that?” I ask.

  He grins. “You just…,” he starts as he sprays a little in the air, “and then you poo. It will smell delightful, oh, but make sure you spray it in the water, not the air.”

  I place my hands over my face and shake my head. How did I end up here? Oh right, I agreed to pretend to be Grant’s girlfriend, so his bitch grandmother doesn’t cut him off from the family estate. I sigh and leave my bag on the bed as I walk up to the second floor, which is really just an outdoor area with a hot tub that overlooks the beach. I hear Grant a moment later, and he hands me a shot glass filled with…I sniff…tequila.

  “To a great trip!” he says.

  “To successfully faking our non-platonic love,” I reply.

  He laughs. “To my decoy,” he says, and we clink glasses and throw back the shots.

  “This is nice up here,” he finally says after looking around for a moment.

  “It’ll do,” I agree.

  “Oh, nature calls,” he announces. I groan.

  “Grant, we just got here,” I reply as I turn to see him walking down the stairs.

  I roll my eyes and turn back around to look down at the walkway along the beach and miles of sand along the water. As I’m looking, I see a man jogging along the beach, and I immediately do a double take. He’s shirtless, and he is just the type of m
an who should run shirtless. He looks like he was sculpted by ancient Roman gods to serve as a living fantasy for anyone attracted to the perfect male specimen.

  I feel like I’m watching a commercial for a men’s cologne. His hair is dark and wavy, just long enough to run my hands through it. I can’t tell his eye color from up here, but that doesn’t make a rat’s ass of a difference because I can make out every muscle on his body right now and that is all that matters. I pull down my sunglasses, so I can see him better. He looks up just as I crane my neck a bit better to look at him. I quickly fall to the floor and lean against the wall of the deck, which is thankfully opaque and not transparent.

  Just then, Grant walks back up and eyes me suspiciously.

  “That tequila too strong for you?” he muses as he sips on a glass of champagne.

  He holds one out to me, and I roll my eyes again. At this rate, my eyeballs will be permanently stuck looking up into my skull by the end of the week.

  “Thank you,” I say as I take a sip and sink into a lounge chair. The plush cushion is warm from being in the sun.

  “Soooo…,” Grant says slowly.

  “Soooo…,” I mock him.

  Grant tosses back the rest of his champagne and stands up. “Come on, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a swim,” he declares as he holds out a hand. I sigh. Grant has a tendency to always need to be doing something.

  I take his hand and follow him downstairs.

  “Ladies first,” he says, motioning to the bathroom…er…bath area.

  “Grant, I know we went skinny dipping once, but that was at night, and it was dark and there are no walls between us and that bathroom,” I say as I point at the open space. There’s an enclosure with the toilet and the shower stall, but the doors are translucent.

  “I’ll wait on the balcony with this,” he declares as he opens the mini-fridge and pulls out a bottle of some sort of beer.

  I huff and grab my bathing suit and cover-up. I change quickly and head out to the balcony. “Your turn,” I say motioning toward the room.

  He hands me his beer, and I finish it as I lounge in a hammock that is strung up on the balcony. It’s hot as balls here, but at least there’s an ocean breeze.