The Fakers

9: Liam

Before I met Gemma, I had always been able to get a girl without lifting a finger. A look and a smile was really all it took. (I mean, have you seen my face?) While I had once considered this to be a blessing, it was now nothing but a goddamn curse.

Having relied solely on my good looks, money, or celebrity to get the girl, I had no idea how to win Gemma's affection, who was immune to my superficial charms. I had sent flowers and gifts to her office, and when those didn't do the trick, I sent a few drunk texts ("y di u hatemee ily") to her work phone during the early morning hours. For some reason, those didn't do the trick, either.

It was frustrating because I just knew Gemma and I would be good together. I felt it down to my bones.

She was the Angelina to my Brad Pitt, the Amal to my George Clooney, but I didn't know how to make her see that.

My desperation only worsened as time went on, and the more she rejected me, the more infatuated with her I became. Thoughts of her consumed me completely, and I couldn't even pretend to enjoy myself at my favorite Vegas strip club.

"What's your problem, dude?"

"What?" 

"That's the third champagne room invite you turned down, and I think her boobs were actually real."

"You really think a size zero was blessed with G-cup boobs?" I asked, laughing at Tony's idiocy.

"A man can dream," he replied, his attention returning to the flexible dancer on stage. The bottle blonde was wearing a pink sequined thong that looked downright uncomfortable. My own butt itched as I watched her gyrate on the pole. Tony waved a thick stack of bills in the air, and she crawled towards him in what was supposed to be a sexy manner. She shoved her crotch in his face, and Tony was slipping twenties into her G-string when I couldn't take it anymore.

"I need a fucking drink," I said, standing up. "I'll be at the bar."

"Uh-huh," he responded, his eyes and hands still glued to the stripper. 

I was on my third whiskey when Giorgio, the floor manager of Sapphire, greeted me with his typical gusto. "Liam, my boy!" he bellowed, gripping my hand and slapping my back. Giorgio was a heavyset middle-aged man who always smelled like hair gel and cheap cologne. In his all-black suit and gold chain jewelry, he definitely looked the part of a gentleman's club manager.

"My girls taking care of you?" he asked with a wink.

"They're certainly trying," I said with a wry smile. "Hey Giorgio, do you have any ethnically ambiguous brunettes with green eyes? Who are more on the, uh, natural side?"

"Hmm." He narrowed his eyes as he stroked his chin, deep in thought. "I'm not sure that I do, but let me double check for you."

Not five minutes later, a plastic-looking brunette in pigtails and a schoolgirl skirt was headed my way. She looked nothing like Gemma, and so I wanted nothing to do with her. I quickly paid my bar tab and left the premises.

I was walking back to the Palazzo – I had booked the penthouse suite for the boys' weekend – when I had the brilliant idea to drunk dial Gemma. She answered the phone right before it went to voicemail. 

"Gemma Vaughn."

God, her lawyer voice was so sexy. For the first time tonight, I was turned on.

"Gemma," I said, trying my best to sound sober. I don't think I succeeded. "It's me."

"Hi Liam," she sighed. "I really hope you have a legal issue this time."

There was an awkward pause as I racked my brain for one. The only legitimate question that came to mind ("is prostitution legal in Vegas?") seemed inappropriate.