Chapter 3
IMOGINE
“So, tell me again how you were able to pay rent so far ahead?” my dad asks as he adjusts his tie. It’s still a bit crooked, so I get up from the couch and tighten the knot while straightening the rest of the tie. “Thanks, sunshine,” he says with a warm smile.
“I made good tips yesterday and got an advance on my check,” I say as I turn my back to him. I don’t want him to see the lie written all over my face. “And I worked out a deal for, uh, for payments on rent for the next few months. You just focus on paying off… other things.”
We haven’t talked about three nights ago when Marco showed up and demanded fifty thousand dollars.
I’m not sure what my dad’s plan is, but I need to figure out a way to tell him his debt is forgiven so he doesn’t do something stupid like gamble away another paycheck.
Ideally, he’ll make legit money and we can actually have something in savings for once.
Silence stretches between us, and I know my father wants to ask more questions about the money. I’ve never gotten an advance on a check before, so why now? How did I make such good tips when I was scheduled for the early morning shift, which is notorious for shitty tips?
Before he gets a chance to voice his concerns, a light knock sounds from the door of our room. I glance at my father over my shoulder, both of us exchanging questioning looks. We wait for more knocking or maybe a gunshot, but nothing follows.
I move toward the door, but my dad stops me with an outstretched arm.
He takes a few cautious steps toward the door, peeking through the peephole to see who’s there.
Opening the door reveals no one, but a dozen bags filled with groceries, toilet paper, toothpaste, shampoo, and other necessities sits outside.
My dad cranes his head out the door, looking left and right to see who left this for us.
I already know it was Marco. I didn’t ask for this, and honestly, I’m confused.
I thought I was stretching my luck by asking him to pay rent.
He must have realized how desperate our situation was and that we probably couldn't afford groceries if we couldn’t afford rent.
“Imogine?” my father calls out, sounding confused.
I look at him and see that he’s holding an envelope with my name on it. I take it before he can open it.
He frowns. “What kind of deal did you make, exactly?”
Without answering him, I open the envelope, revealing a neatly handwritten note.
Our first engagement is tonight. It’s a very public fundraiser that will establish our relationship. You’ll be picked up at 5 pm sharp for hair, makeup, and wardrobe. - M
“Just Sal from the diner. You know how he likes to look after us.” Sal has been the head cook at the diner for longer than I’ve been alive.
He’s been known to pay bills, drop off meals, and do light maintenance work for his coworkers when they need a helping hand.
It’s not out of the realm of possibility for him to do something like this, but my gut twists up with yet another lie.
Looking up from the note, I see my dad giving me a very skeptical expression. “Sal usually doesn’t provide two weeks’ worth of food and toiletries,” he says flatly.
“Well, we’re in no position to refuse his kindness, are we?
” I say dismissively. I know I hit my mark when my dad’s shoulders slump slightly.
I hate shaming him, but it’s the only way to get him off my back with all the holes he’s poking in my excuses.
Plus, it’s the most truthful thing I’ve said during this whole interaction.
We’re not in a position to say no, and it’s okay for him to feel the weight of that sometimes, even if it hurts to watch.
“Do you need help putting everything away?” he asks, changing the subject.
I look over at the clock on the microwave and then shake my head.
“I’ve got it. You should get to work.” My dad nods and then gives me a side hug.
I can tell he’s still confused, but he’s done needling me for answers.
At least for now. “I’m picking up a late shift at the diner, so I won’t be here when you get back. ”
The lies keep slipping off my tongue, each one easier than the last. I don’t like it, but it’s what I have to do for now.
True to his word, a black SUV rolls into the motel parking lot several hours later, at five o'clock sharp, stopping right outside our door. I wasn’t sure what to plan for or expect, but Marco said hair, makeup, and clothes would be provided.
I still wanted to look professional, so I put on the same outfit from when I had my meeting with Marco.
After locking our door, I take a cleansing breath and psych myself up for what’s to come. To my surprise, the back door opens to reveal two women—one who appears to be in her forties and the other in her mid-seventies. I think I must be mistaken at first, but then I hear my name.
“Imogine? We’re here to pick you up for your makeover,” the younger woman says.
The two women look me up and down, their eyes scanning my curves, hair, face—everything about me. They whisper to themselves, and I wonder if they are about to call the whole thing off and deem me a lost cause.
“Chop chop, dear. We have a lot of work to do,” the older woman says, resting her shrewd gaze on mine.
Just like that, I’m whisked off to a salon on the other side of town, far away from the pawn shops, bail bonds companies, and strip clubs scattered around this neighborhood.
The next two hours are filled with hairspray, bobby pins, eyeshadow pallets, and a dozen people taking my measurements. I’m breathless by the time Maria, the younger of the two women in the SUV, zips up the back of my dress.
She stands behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
I’m speechless. I’ve never worn a ballgown, and certainly not one with Swarovski crystals embedded in the bodice.
My dark hair has been curled, teased, and swept to the side in an elegant, twisted bun with a few strands framing my face.
The dark blue smokey eye matches the royal blue skirt of the gown while also making my light blue eyes sparkle.
The deep red matte lipstick is sexy, seductive, and pretty much the opposite of who I am, but I don’t hate it.
In fact, it’s exactly the disguise I need to pull off this whole thing.
“Wow,” I whisper more to myself than anyone else.
“We do good work, don’t we?” Maria asks, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
I nod. “I can’t believe it’s really me under all this.”
“Now, now. None of that self-deprecating talk. An artist is only as good as their subject, and you, my dear, are beautiful. We simply enhanced certain features and brought your best assets forward.”
I can’t help the giggle escaping my lips when I look at myself in the mirror again. My best assets clearly refer to the cleavage spilling out of the top of my dress.
“Oh, hush,” Maria says with a playful grin. “You know what I mean. Now, go on and get into the limo waiting outside. Your Prince Charming awaits!”
I thank the team of people who managed to make me gorgeous and head out through the back door. I may be Cinderella, but I’m not sure Marco is Prince Charming. He’s way hotter.
Ten minutes later, the limo stops in front of a large historical building that appears to be decked out for a fancy event.
I shuffle over to the right side of the vehicle, about to open the door when it opens by itself.
Standing there, in all his muscled, olive-skinned, sharp-featured glory, is Marco.
I peer up at him, noting he has his shoulder-length hair pulled half-up, revealing more of his face.
I don’t know how, but it makes him even more attractive.
Marco wears a well-tailored charcoal suit with a royal blue tie that matches my dress.
How does he get sexier every single time I see him? It’s not fair.
He holds out his hand to help me out of the limo. I take it, and just like the last time we shook hands, a surge of energy rushes up my arm and spreads throughout my body, making me gasp.
Marco squeezes my hand and pulls me the rest of the way out, pausing to look at my outfit.
I squirm under his scrutiny, wondering what he’s thinking.
His jaw tenses as his nostrils flare, and for a moment, I think he’s upset.
Is it my boobs? I knew they were too much for this dress.
Or maybe the crystals are too much. I’m not used to wearing anything so flashy.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, lifting my hand to his lips. Our eyes lock, his dark gaze holding me captive. He presses his lips to the back of my hand ever so gently, and I hold my breath, not wanting to ruin this intimate moment.
“And who is this?” someone asks from off to the side.
Marco straightens up and wraps an arm around my waist before addressing the man.
“Grayson, how are you? I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight.
” The two shake hands, though Marco keeps a secure hold on my waist, almost like he’s afraid I’m going to run away.
Or is it possibly… a possessive move? It’s part of the act, you idiot, I remind myself.
“I’m glad I came,” Grayson says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at one of these fundraising events with a woman.”
“This is Imogine. My girlfriend.”
I know this is the deal and that it’s all fake, but hearing that word in reference to me has me feeling some kind of way. A shiver runs down my spine, making my toes twitch. Or maybe that’s just the four-inch heels I have on. How do people wear these things on a regular basis?
“Girlfriend, eh?” the man responds. He offers his hand to me, which I take to be polite.
I swear I hear Marco growl under his breath, but I’m not sure what’s upsetting him.
“Imogine. Lovely to meet you. Marco and I have worked on many contracts together over the years. You must be something special.”