The Stand-In Read online

  “Congratulations,” she replied, not sure where the conversation was going.

  Margie smiled, showing off brilliant white teeth. “Thank you. However, when our wedding preparations got underway, I came to a sad realization. I had no friends to stand up for me.”

  Winn gawked. How could this woman have no friends? Even the grouchy lady who ran the corner store on her street had friends. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Not really. You see, I’d dedicated my life to my work. Spent countless hours climbing the corporate ladder. Oh, I had associates. I had plenty of colleagues and contacts, but no real friends. And I realized I’d rather have a stranger as my bridesmaid than an associate.”

  “But that sounds, well, sort of horrible. No offense.”

  “None taken. The fact is, Winn, in today’s modern world, many relationships are conducted online. People are closer to their Facebook friends than they are to people they see every day. These are the women I help. Let’s face it, some of us just don’t have a wide circle of girlfriends.”

  Winn thought about it. She didn’t really have a lot of good friends either, unless she counted her sister. Oh, she knew a few women, but because she was in acting, most of her friendships expired quickly. To keep her acting résumé fresh, she partook in numerous community theater productions. Her relationships tended to last as long as each production. After each show ended, the friends faded into the distance.

  Of course, there had been Amber…

  She gritted her teeth at the thought of her former best friend.

  Margie continued. “When it came time to finalize my bridesmaids, I interviewed and hired a few of the professional temps I’d worked with in the past. These were women who knew how to conduct themselves, women about whom I wouldn’t have to worry. Because they were getting paid, I knew there was no chance of them getting drunk or hitting on the best man at the reception. They represented me on my special day exactly as I wanted them to represent me. They made me look good and I was happy to pay them for their services. After the wedding, I shared the information with a couple of colleagues and we all agreed it might be an interesting sideline for the agency.” She curled her rouged lips. “You’d be surprised how many brides approach us for stand-ins as their bridesmaids.”

  Winn bit her lip so her jaw wouldn’t drop. “You call them ‘stand-ins’?”

  “Better than ‘Rent-a-Maid,’ don’t you think?”

  “Uh, sure. I guess so.”

  Margie cast an appraising gaze over Winn’s face and form. “You’d do well in this position. You’re pretty, but you look like the girl-next-door, which is good. Brides don’t generally want to hire supermodels as their bridesmaids.” She looked her up and down. “It’s good you’re not too tall. The blonde hair might be an issue for some brides. Some women are very insecure and don’t like to think the stand-in will outshine them on their wedding day. Still, I don’t think there’s a need to dye it right now. Let’s see what the response is first.” She glanced down at Winn’s resume. “You’re an actress. Wonderful. This job is ideal for actors.”

  “Great.”

  As Winn struggled with her thoughts, Margie produced a contract. “As you’ll see here, the pay is fair and we do have a bonus structure in place. As stated in the ad, all your expenses are paid, from wedding gifts to dresses. We also screen our brides and ensure we’re not sending our stand-ins to any questionable locations. You won’t have to attend weddings in dodgy bars on the bad side of town. Does this sound reasonable to you?”

  She stared at the figure on the contract. She hadn’t ever seen that kind of money in her bank account. Pinching her thigh so she wouldn’t shout in excitement, Winn composed herself and offered Margie a placid smile. “Very reasonable. When would I begin?”

  “If you’re free this afternoon, one of my colleagues can start your training.” She offered a pen that cost more than Winn’s shoes. “I will, of course, need to call your references, but I can see you’ll fit in quite well here. Would you mind terribly if I sent you to a spa tomorrow to get your eyebrows and nails done? I’ll cover the cost. We like all our girls to project an immaculate image.”

  Winn touched her left eyebrow as she reread the contract. She hadn’t ever thought her brows were unruly, but who was she to argue with the woman footing the bills? She eyed Margie Kent. “You’re not really a madam, are you? I’m not signing some kind of hooker contract, am I?”

  She laughed. “Absolutely not. As a stand-in, rule number one is ‘No hookups on the job.’” She motioned toward the contract. “So, do we have a deal?”

  She smiled, brimming with a happiness she barely understood, and so relieved she didn’t have to give up her apartment. She’d have money again, and she’d be acting again. In a strange way. “We have a deal.”

  * * * *

  Three months later

  Patrick Lincoln ignored the receptionist’s knowing grin as he entered the sleek offices of Player Magazine. Clearly, the receptionist recognized him as the ex-columnist for the Torontonian, Toronto’s most respected newspaper. She obviously saw him for what he was: a former reporter of world events, now reduced to freelancing for a dumb rag, written for dumber men.

  She glimpsed him and must have known exactly how far the mighty had fallen.

  Nevertheless, he held his head high as he approached her desk. “Hi. I’m here to see Jake Fowler.”

  Her manicured nail clicked her computer mouse. “Of course. He’s expecting you, Mr. Lincoln. I’ll take you right in.”

  The pretty thing stood and led him to a door at the back of the reception area. Patrick allowed his gaze to drop to her rounded ass, clad as it was in a tight miniskirt that showed quite clearly her lack of panty lines. Nice.

  Stop it. You’re not in any position to be noticing a lack of panty lines.

  Feeling castrated, as if the mighty hand of fate had snipped his balls, Patrick looked away from her juicy behind. He followed her down a mahogany corridor to an office as spacious as his own used to be at the Torontonian. He bit back a grunt as he glimpsed warm, leather interiors and manly furnishings.

  Old Jakey boy had done all right for himself. Perhaps he should have tried writing less about scandals in the council chambers and more about bodybuilding and “how to get her into bed on the first date.”

  Bullshit men’s magazines. Catering to readers who thought they were gods but who had trouble getting it up.

  Now, now, Paddy. You’re here because you have no choice but to work for this bullshit men’s magazine, so smile for the damned cameras.

  The first thing he noticed was the incredible view of the city’s trendy Distillery District, refurbished beer warehouses that now acted as galleries and high-priced florists. He then noticed the professional man standing at the window, the suit who bore little resemblance to his old friend from university. However, once Jake Fowler turned and smiled, his brown eyes crinkling in genuine happiness, he once again glimpsed his old drinking buddy and fellow shit disturber from journalism class.

  “Patrick Michael Lincoln, you downtrodden fuck.”

  Patrick danced his gaze toward the still-lingering receptionist and then back. “Nice to see you too, Jake. It’s been a long time. I see you’ve cleaned up.”

  Jake shrugged, glancing at his designer duds. “Nah. I haven’t changed a bit. Just better clothes.”

  “Considering some of our misadventures, it makes me nervous you haven’t changed.”

  He chuckled and then eyed his employee. “Thanks, Nancy. That’ll be all for now.” She smiled and left the room. Once the door was closed, he gave Patrick the same randy grin they’d exchanged at countless filthy bars in their college days.

  He shook his head. “Seriously? Sleeping with the secretary? You’re a twisted cliché.”

  He held up his hands in defense. “Are you kidding? I wish. I’m not that depraved.” He approached and they hugged it out. “Not that I wouldn’t like to. That bra is definitely not padded.”
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  Jake motioned toward the homey seating area and Patrick sat, knowing full well that as comfy as it appeared, each furnishing was chosen with care by a designer. As he eased into the brown leather couch, he let out a small, nostalgic sigh for the chair in his old office. God, he missed that chair. When he remembered how well his own chair cushioned him, he got winded. Any time he so much as spied a nice pair of Italian leather shoes now, or even a belt, he got a hard-on.

  “Besides,” Jake continued, seemingly oblivious to Patrick’s case of leather-inspired lust. “We’re not here to talk about my perversions. We’re here because you fucked up big-time. I may want to sleep with my receptionist, but you hit the boss’s wife. What were you thinking?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s not as lecherous as it sounds.”

  Jake matched his eye roll. “Oh, it’s never as lecherous as it sounds. Don’t worry. This is a judgment-free zone.”

  “Listen, Jason Dietrich was my boss at the Torontonian for five years. I saw how he operated. I witnessed how he mauled every skirt in a ten-mile radius. When Gloria first came to me, she was distraught. She needed a shoulder to cry on and I happened to be there.”

  “I’m sure you were.” Jake grinned like a spoiled frat boy.

  “No, really. She told me she wanted to save her marriage, not make it worse. She said she could only take so much rejection.” He brought his hands together, knotting his fingers. “Gloria and I were old friends…Anyway it doesn’t really matter. I’m sure you read all the sordid details in the papers.”

  “I did. He threw the book at you, my friend.” Jake leaned toward the tray on the table between them and poured out two servings of scotch. He offered one to Patrick. “That bastard totally blackballed you. I hope she was worth it, although I must say, I haven’t met a woman yet who is.”

  He tried not to frown at Jake, considering this was more or less a job interview. However, he couldn’t deny their conversation was starting to piss him off. Had Jake been pedaling his man-is-superior shit so long he’d started to believe it? “Tell me the truth. Do you believe I slept with a married woman?”

  “Who among us hasn’t?”

  “Jake, seriously.”

  “I am being serious. Look, Paddy, I couldn’t care less whether or not you fucked Gloria Dietrich.”

  “No? All of Toronto seems to care an awful lot.”

  “Fuck ’em. If anything, this has just given you more street cred, bro.”

  “I’d rather have my job than street cred. Gloria played me, Jake.”

  He leaned in and pointed at his face. “You see? Women may call men dogs but they’re just as duplicitous. I wrote an editorial on that very topic not too long ago.”

  Of course he had. It was just the sort of drivel the readers of Player would gobble up.

  Ah, hell. It might tempting to blame the Neanderthals who read Player for his misery, but he could only blame himself for trusting Gloria. His stress headache returned and he rubbed his temple, in a vain attempt to alleviate the dull throb. “You know the worst part? Jason doesn’t even care what his wife gets up to. He fired me because it was expected of him. Because he worried he’d look like a pussy if he didn’t.” He downed the scotch in one gulp, his eyes stinging at the burn.

  “Ah, Jason Dietrich, big bad publisher man can’t be seen as a cuckold.”

  “I don’t know which of them disgusts me more.”

  “I don’t blame you. And for the record, I always thought the Dietrichs were self-important cows.” Jake arched a brow. “Tell me the truth, though. Is she hot naked?”

  Why did it disappoint him so much that Jake believed the worst of him? “I’m not answering that question.”

  “No kissing and telling, huh? I can respect that.” He grinned. “So none of your other job leads have panned out? Did Joe at the World call you back?”

  “Nah,” Patrick said, grunting. “I’m pretty sure Joe deleted my contact information. Jason controls too many people in our industry. When he said he’d make mincemeat out of my reputation, he wasn’t kidding. None of the political mags will touch me for fear of offending him.”

  Jake stared at him for a good, long time. “Well, Paddy, you know you always have a job with me. Sure, you wouldn’t be writing scathing commentary on our crumbling city infrastructure, but you’d be writing. And it would be a way to get your name out there again, you know, until the World knocks on your door.”

  Patrick stared into his empty crystal glass, defeated. “Are you going to make me write about erectile dysfunction?”

  He burst out laughing. “Not today, buddy, not today. But what I will do is help you reinvent yourself.” He leaned on his knees and stared at him, his eyes growing bright with anticipation. Just like when they used to hit the bars as young bucks, sizing up the hotties. “Today, the played becomes the player.”

  A player. Did he really have it in him to be one? Sure, he’d had fun in his younger days but he’d been a respectable journalist since getting out of school. He’d done his work, collected the accolades, and kept his head down.

  And he’d been punished for it. Maybe he should have had a bit more fun along the way.

  Jake put down his scotch and walked over to his desk. He sat, looked at his computer, and typed in some commands. “Jason Dietrich thinks he’s stopped you from writing, but he doesn’t run in my circles and I don’t owe him any favors.”

  Bitterness bubbled out of him. “Plus your dick readers would love the idea of me writing for your magazine.”

  “My friend, you see right through me. Sure, my dick readers would love to read an article written by you, Toronto’s current bad boy.”

  “But…”

  “I told you, Paddy. I don’t care what you did with Gloria. You could have fucked her sideways and upside down, and I still wouldn’t care, so save your breath. Now, I’ve e-mailed your first story lead. It’s actually pretty interesting, even for a jaded politico like you.”

  Beggars can’t be choosers. “Tell me more.”

  “I heard talk of a woman named Margie Kent. She’s big in the recruiting world. She runs an agency that hires women for weddings. They call these hired women ‘stand-in bridesmaids.’ Basically, if a bride is a total loser and has no friends, she goes to Margie and she hooks her up with fake friends for her wedding.”

  “Are you shitting me? It sounds like a prostitution ring. You sure they’re not hiring these girls as a ‘last hurrah’ treat for the groom? A final kick at the can of bachelorhood?”

  “That’s what I’d like you to find out. The agency says they cater to professional women whose lifestyles don’t allow for intimate friendships, but there has to be more to it than that. See if you can shadow one of these stand-in bridesmaids and get the scoop. Tell them you’re doing a feature for…Bridal Wreath.”

  “I won’t lie and tell them I work for a wedding magazine. I’ve never lied to get a story, Jake, and I won’t start now.”

  “Still trying to prove you have scruples, huh? Who are you trying to prove it to, Paddy? Me or yourself?”

  “I have scruples.”

  “Awesome. Luckily for this job, you can leave ’em at home. Anyway, find out what would make someone hire these people, and see what’s up with these bridesmaids. I’m sure you’ll dig up something with your considerable charms.”

  “And why do you think your male readers will care about professional bridesmaids?”

  “Come on. Hot bridesmaids for hire? It’s a wet dream come true. I’d bet every single one of my readers has tried to bag a bridesmaid at some point. Even if there isn’t anything shady about this agency, a well-written expose on these women could make for major fantasy material.”

  “And you sell fantasy.”

  “By the ream. The dorks who buy my magazine think they’re walking, talking Greek gods. And there’s nothing they like more than feeling they know everything about women.”

  As much as their conversation made him feel in need of a shower, he considere
d a few angles and realized he could make this one hell of an interesting story. Okay, Jake was looking for some sort of misogynistic point of view, but he didn’t need to give it that sort of treatment. Sure, the writers at Player were known for sinking to slightly seedy depths.

  He didn’t need to.

  Yes, he’d be scoping out bridesmaids-for-hire rather than crooked city councillors, but he could make it work. He had no choice. If he wanted to survive in his field, he had to make this story sizzle. He leaned back in his leather seat, enjoying the cushion of soft hide under his back. “What if it is a cover for some sort of brothel?”

  “Well, wouldn’t that be awesome?” Jake’s mouth widened in a feral grin. “Then it would be our duty to expose it, don’t you think? As well as the women who toil for this Margie Kent. You’ll make it work.”

  He grinned at Jake, humoring him. Perhaps this Kent woman just operated a weird business. And then again, maybe there was something sordid underneath it all. Ever since Jake mentioned it, the hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck had stood straight, bristling with curiosity. He knew when something sounded wrong. His instincts hadn’t failed him yet. They’d helped him sniff out that fool Councillor Rendez last year, when he’d proven the randy politician had had sexual liaisons with not two, but three, women outside his marriage.

  So he wasn’t hounding bureaucrats at City Hall anymore. He could make the most of this assignment. Yeah, he’d find the dirt on these bridesmaids, and when he did, he’d share it with the world.

  Chapter 2

  Patrick sat across from Margie Kent, and wished her massive desk didn’t obscure his vision of the mile-long legs he’d glimpsed earlier. The bridesmaid recruiter was busy scrolling through some pages online, flipping through the files of her recruits. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through her highly polished veneer, to see if the persona of a pimp hid somewhere underneath the coifed hair and false lashes.

  “Let’s see,” she said, almost humming. “I could have you meet with Ava. She’s very experienced, but she’s had to cut down on her hours recently. There’s Ruth, but she doesn’t tend to get many bookings.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “She’s a little too gorgeous for most of our brides.”