The Fakers

8: Gemma

"Is that the guy from last night?"

"Unfortunately."

Mohamed laughed heartily at my response, not realizing that I was being completely serious. He had a contagious laugh, one that started in his ample belly and shook his shoulders and jiggled his double chin, and even I had to smile.

"He likes you, you know," he said, looking at me through his rearview mirror.

Sweet Mohamed. So pure. So naïve.

His romantic ideals were from a whole different era. They had no business here in the twenty-first century where hook-up apps and two word texts ("You up?") were fixtures of the dating landscape. I was guilty of sending the latter not five minutes go.

"Despite the fact that I took him home with me, we don't actually know each other," I confessed, as if this were news to Mohamed. "Or really like each other, for that matter."

"Maybe you don't like him, Ms. Vaughn. But he quite likes you."

"We met for the first time last night," I argued, oddly annoyed by his assessment.

"So?"

We were at a stoplight, and Mohamed turned around in the driver's seat to look at me. "I knew Amira was the woman I'd marry the very first day I met her."

I smiled at the mention of his wife. "Were you struck by her beauty?" I asked.

"Yes, even though she was quite fat and had a big nose," he chuckled. "She was not conventionally beautiful, but there was something about her that lit up the entire room and I could not take my eyes off of her. She was a special woman. She is a special woman." His eyes became misty and his broad shoulders stooped with the weight of the world.

Oh, Mohamed.

"How's Amira doing?" I asked softly, wanting to cry for my dear friend. Mohamed parked his car in front of my apartment building, but I made no move to exit. We sat in silence for a few moments, the air heavy and stagnant. He sighed and shook his head.

"Her tremors are getting worse and she's starting to forget things, like my name."

Mohamed had more love for his wife in his pinky than I had for anything, and my heart ached for him. I reached across the seat and squeezed his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mo."

He patted my hand absentmindedly. "No, no," he said. "Don't you be sorry, Ms. Vaughn. Don't you worry about me. Amira and I have had more than our fair share of happiness – an unfair share of happiness, if you will."

I thought about Mohamed's parting words as I made my way into the building. He was watching the love of his life waste away to Parkinson's, but he was right. Mohamed didn't have my pity; I envied him. I envied her. I could be reincarnated ten times over, and I would still never experience a love like Mohamed and Amira's.

I thought I had once, but I was badly mistaken.

As I unlocked the apartment door, I wondered if I'd have healthier relationships if my parents were more like Mohamed and Amira.

Probably.

Emile and Henriette's relationship had turned contentious upon my conception. Neither of them had wanted kids and Emile had undergone a vasectomy, so I was something of an unpleasant surprise, to put it lightly. He was convinced that Henriette had cheated on him, and she was convinced that Emile had lied about the vasectomy to get her pregnant and thwart her acting career. After medical bills were produced and a paternity test was performed, they called off the divorce, but the damage to their relationship could not be undone.

I sighed as I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and a purring mass of silky fur began to rub against my ankles.

"Go away, Monty," I said to the Russian blue now weaving himself in and out of my legs.

He meowed in response and lovingly nudged my calf with his soft head.

"I won't condone this behavior," I said, pushing him away with my foot, but Monty just wouldn't take the hint. Unfazed by my rejections, he kept coming back, reminding me of another needy animal I knew.

Once I was sufficiently hydrated, I let down my hair and tossed one of the bobby pins onto the kitchen tile. In an instant, Monty went from "love me!" mode to attack mode. His jade-colored eyes turned black as he crouched down low to the ground, his fluffy bum in the air, his tail swishing angrily. He pounced onto his unsuspecting prey, and continued to chase and bat it around on the floor.

I left Monty to his barbaric devices and tiptoed to the bedroom, making sure to shut the door behind me. I quickly got naked, as I always did, and slid under Jamie's fluffy comforter. He mumbled something inaudible, not quite fully conscious.

Jamie Nichols, a medical resident, didn't get nearly enough sleep, and he had to be up early for an eight-hour shift at the UCLA hospital. Even so, he'd always let me wake him – he had given me a key to his apartment – whenever I was so inclined. In my own medical opinion, sexual release was just as important as sleep to one's health. Jamie had laughed when I told him that, but he didn't disagree with me – and he was the actual medical professional.

I draped myself over Jamie, who conveniently also slept naked, and rested my head on his chest. As I breathed in his warm scent (Old Spice, I believe), he wrapped his muscular arms around me and kissed my forehead, his eyes still closed. I frowned. That wouldn't do.

"Hey," I whispered, adjusting my position so that I was straddling him. Jamie began to wake up, and in more ways than one. I kissed his neck as I raked my nails across his scalp, which made him groan my name. I gently kissed my way to his mouth, enjoying the feel of his smile against mine.

In one smooth motion, Jamie flipped me onto my back so that he was on top, but that, sadly, was as aggressive as it got. He made love to me with a sweet tenderness, although if I had my way, he'd take me mercilessly as he pulled my hair. But alas, Jamie wasn't into that; he was a gentle lover, the type to gaze at you adoringly and who told you how beautiful you were. In the same vein, he was also the type to make sure his partner was taken care of before he was, which was one of the main reasons I kept coming (pun intended) back. That, and he was very well-endowed.

Not long after we finished, Jamie began to snore softly, and I took that as my cue to leave. I untangled myself from his limbs and quickly got dressed. He would have wanted me to stay the night, but he was a cuddler and I wasn't; plus, I didn't want him to think that this was anything more than sex.

Even though I had made my intentions clear, I couldn't help but feel guilty whenever I was with Jamie. I knew he liked me, and while Jamie was a good guy in an honorable profession, and he was safe – it would simply make too much sense for me to like him back. No, I was only interested in the men who wouldn't catch me when I fell for them.

I quietly opened the bedroom door, but the damn cat meowed happily as soon as he saw me.

"Shhh!" I whispered to Monty, who was rubbing against my legs again and purring like a motorcycle.

I looked back at Jamie, but he was thankfully out cold. I snuck out of the bedroom and into the hallway, with Monty following closely behind. When I bent down to grab my Louboutin pumps, the needy little shit headbutted my hand and meow-screamed at me.

"You're the fucking worst," I said, but I finally gave in. I scratched his gray little head mainly to shut him up, but also because he was adorable.

"Don't get any ideas," I told him. "I still hate cats."

He purred back, clearly not believing me.

* * * * * *

This concludes Part I of The Fakers. Now that you've been properly introduced, what are your thoughts on Gemma and Liam? Are you excited to see what I have in store for them? (You should be.) Please leave me your thoughts, questions, comments, and - if I may be so bold - a vote!