The Pretend Wife Pt. 01

I leaned against the counter at work, apron stiff with grease, watching the clock crawl past ten. Name's Savan Patel--born in Ohio, USA, but my parents hauled over from India before I was a blip. I'm brown, lightest shade going--fair enough folks sometimes peg me as a tanned white guy in the right light. No facial hair--Dad's genes left me smooth as hell at 23, not a whisker to my name. Hair's black, straight, always flopping in my eyes no matter how I shove it. I'm not fat, but thick--wide hips, thighs that chafe when I walk, and an ass my buddy Jake used to razz me over. "Dude, most girls'd kill for that," he'd say, cracking up. I'd shove him, laugh, but it stuck, that weird little jab itching in my head.

Life's been a dumpster fire lately. A year ago, my parents died--car crash on some icy Ohio road, gone quick. They'd paid off their debts, left me squat else--no cash, no safety net. I'd just wrapped college here, poli-sci degree, thinking I'd sort it out. Wrong. Waiting tables barely covers rent, and now my landlord's done--eviction notice says I'm out in three days. I'm 5'7", schlepping trays all night, nipples poking my shirt in the cold, and broke as fuck. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"Order up!" the cook barked, and I grabbed the plates, weaving through the diner. My sneakers squeaked, jeans hugged my thighs too tight--everything hurt. After my shift, I slumped at the bus stop, wind biting my hands, and my phone buzzed. Text from a ghost--Praveen Nair. Hey, Savan. In town. Drinks tomorrow? I froze, thumbs hovering. Praveen--45, rich as sin, an Indian guy I'd met three summers back in Goa. I'd been 20, dragged to India by Mom and Dad for a "roots trip," and we'd hit it off. I texted back, Yeah, cool. Where? Maybe he'd toss me a lifeline, something to yank me out of this mess.

We met at a bar the next night--dim, loud, cheap beer on tap. I'd swapped the apron for a hoodie and jeans, still stinking of fries. Praveen rolled in--blazer sharp, shirt crisp, watch glinting like it cost my rent ten times over. He's 6'3", broad shoulders filling the doorway, muscular--abs tight under that fabric, the kind you don't get without effort. Silver streaked his dark hair, and his eyes hit me hard, like he saw right through.

"Savan," he said, clapping my shoulder, voice deep. "You look beat."

"Feel beat," I said, sliding onto a stool.

He ordered beers--some fancy craft shit, cold as hell. "How's it been?"

"Shitty. You?"

"Same, different flavor." He grinned, clinking my bottle.

We drank, talked old times. I'd met him in Goa--beach trip, sun frying us, waves crashing loud. He'd been this cool older guy, buying me drinks, laughing at my dumb stories.

"Remember that swim?" I said, sipping.

"When you almost drowned?" He chuckled. "Had to drag you back, kid."

"Yeah, yeah. And those sunglasses--vendor hated us."

"Still got mine somewhere." His grin softened.

Goa had been a blur--nights melting into mornings, beers and selfies. He'd been ripped back then too--broad chest, arms flexing when he hauled me from the water, water dripping off his stubble. I'd been shorter, softer, stumbling after him, my shorts plastered to my thighs. One night, we'd haggled over cheap sunglasses--his Hindi smooth, mine a mess--till the guy threw in a free pair to shut us up. We'd worn them all week, me slung over his shoulder like he was family.

Another round landed. "So," he said, "what's really up?"

I sighed, beer half-gone. "Parents died. Year ago. Left me nothing."

"Fuck, Savan. That's brutal."

"Yeah. Sold the house in Ohio, still broke. Waiting tables, about to get evicted."

"No job lined up?"

"Nope. You?"

He leaned back. "Work's fine--travel, deals. Parents are the headache."

"How's that?"

"Traditional as hell. Want me married yesterday. I'm 45, no wife--they're losing it."

I snorted. "No ladies chasing that cash?"

"Plenty. Not my thing." He shrugged. "Wish I could help you, but..."

"S'fine," I said. "Beer's good."

We kept drinking--three, four, five bottles. The bar spun, my laughs slurring.

"You're trashed," he said, tossing cash down.

"You too," I mumbled.

"Not bussing home like this. C'mon."

I staggered after him, air cold outside. His car--black, sleek--hummed us to his place. Vacation home, he called it--not where he lives full-time, just a spot he keeps here. Big, glassy, all leather and wood inside. "Crash here," he said, kicking off his shoes. I nodded, flopping on a rug, out cold before I hit it right.

Sun stabbed my eyes next morning, head pounding. I groaned, sitting up--hoodie twisted, jeans somewhere under me. Praveen was up, coffee brewing, hair messy but still too sharp.

"Morning," he said, smirking. "Alive?"

"Barely," I rasped, throat dry.

"Coffee's there."

"Thanks." I stumbled to the bathroom--my clothes stank, sweat and beer soaked in. "Hey," I called, "got anything clean?"

"Duffel by the couch. Grab something."

I dug through--tees, sweats, all his size. At 6'3", he towered over me--5'7", narrow shoulders, soft chest. I snagged a gray shirt and black sweats, peeling off my grimy stuff. Water hit my face, cold and sharp--my reflection stared back, smooth, tired, hair a wreck. The shirt swallowed me--loose, hanging past my hips, nipples poking out like some chick's. My manboobs weren't big, but they showed. Sweats were worse--baggy at the waist, tight over my ass, seams stretched. I looked dumb as hell.

I shuffled out, tugging the hem. Praveen glanced up, coffee mid-air, and laughed. "What the fuck, Savan?"

"Shut up," I said, grinning despite the heat in my face. "It's all you had."

"You look ridiculous. That ass in those sweats--shit."

"Fuck you," I shot back, plopping down.

"Seriously, get some women's stuff. Fit those hips right."

He laughed again, loud, leaning on the counter. I rolled my eyes, sipping coffee.

"Not funny," I said, but I smirked.

"It's hilarious. You'd kill in a skirt."

"Yeah, sure." I waved him off, cheeks still warm.

"Got work today?" he asked, sipping.

"Yeah, later," I said. "But I'mma have to start looking for a place. Gotta move out in the next week."

"Eviction's that close?"

"Yep. Three days, then I'm toast."

"Damn," he said, shaking his head. "That's tight."

His phone buzzed, cutting him off--a text. He pulled it out, squinting. "Oh, fuck me," he muttered.

"What?"

"Family gathering. New York. Mom's pushing it." He read aloud, voice flat. "'Praveen, we're flying in from India next month. Big event--everyone's coming. You better be there.'"

"Sounds fun," I said, smirking.

"Not even close." He groaned, tossing the phone down.

Then it rang--loud, shrill. He winced, picking it up. "Ma," he said, switching to speaker. "Hey."

"Praveen!" Her voice crackled through, thick with accent. "You got my message?"

"Yeah, just saw it."

"You must come. No excuses. Family's expecting you."

"I'll try," he said, rubbing his temple.

"Try? No--be there. And Praveen..." She paused, tone shifting. "I hope you're dating someone. Bring her, huh? Time you settle down."

He froze, eyes wide. "Uh... yeah, Ma. I'm seeing someone."

I raised an eyebrow. He kept going, nervous as hell. "Sure, I'll... try to bring her if I can."

"Oh, thank God!" she squealed. "Finally, you're seeing someone! I'm so happy--okay, bye, take care!"

She hung up, and Praveen dropped the phone, face in his hands. "Fuck," he muttered, muffled.

I stared, coffee halfway to my mouth. "You're seeing someone?"

He looked up, grimacing. "No. Shit, I just said that to shut her up."

I snorted, setting the mug down. "Smooth move."

"Yeah, real smooth." He sighed, dragging his hands down his face. "Now what?"

"Dunno," I said, leaning back. "Guess you're screwed too."

He laughed, bitter, staring at the counter. Silence stretched, awkward and heavy, his shoulders slumping like that lie was a brick on his back. I sipped my coffee, mind wandering--eviction, work, the grind. Then it hit me--his skirt jab, my hips, a dumb, awful idea I didn't dare say. No way. I'm not some drag queen. I shoved it down, fast, but Praveen sat up, staring off, and that smirk crept in--slow, weird, like he'd struck oil.

"I got an idea," he said, voice low.

"Don't say it," I snapped, coffee sloshing.

He grinned, leaning in. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"NO!" I barked, chair scraping as I shoved back.

"Hey," he said, hands up, "I need this favor, and you do kinda look like a girl."

"Fuck you, I'm not doing it!" I shot up, pacing, heart slamming. Drag? Crossdressing? Me? No fucking way--I'm not into that shit. My head spun, his laugh from earlier ringing--skirt, hips, all that crap. He's lost it.

"Savan, hear me out," he said, standing too, all 6'3" of him looming. "It's perfect."

"No, it's insane!" I spun on him, fists balled. "You think I'm gonna--what, prance around in a dress? Fuck off!"

He stepped closer, voice dropping. "I'm desperate, man. She'll never drop this."

"So lie better! Don't drag me into your drag show!"

"It's not a show," he said, quick. "It's... a disguise. One time."

"One time?" I laughed, sharp. "You're full of shit."

"Savan, please." He sat, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing together. "I'm drowning here. New York--family flying in, whole damn circus. I can't go alone again."

"Then hire a chick!" I snapped, pacing harder. "Someone who's not me!"

"I don't want a chick," he said, quiet. "Too complicated. You're... easy."

"Easy?" I stopped, glaring. "You think I'm easy for this? Look at me!"

"I am," he said, eyes flicking--shirt loose, sweats stretched. "Smooth, short, those hips. Little tweak, you'd pass."

My face burned, stomach flipping. "You're nuts. I'm not doing some faggot dress-up!"

"I'm not asking you to like it," he said, fast. "It's acting. A job."

"A job?" I snorted. "What, I'm your Barbie now?"

He didn't laugh, just watched me, eyes steady. "Look, I know it's weird."

"Weird? It's fucked!"

"Okay, it's fucked," he said, nodding. "But I'm out of plays. You're broke--evicted in three days."

"So?"

"So I can fix that," he said, leaning forward. "Help me, I help you."

I froze, breath hitching. Money. He knew my weak spot, bastard. "How much?" I asked, hating it.

He paused, thinking. "Enough. One night--meet them, smile, done. Never again."

"No way," I said, shaking my head. "I'm not crossdressing for your mom!"

"No big deal," he said. "Just stand there, look cute. I'll handle it."

"Look cute?" My voice cracked. "I'm not a girl, Praveen!"

"You don't have to be," he said, slow. "Just... look like one. For me."

I groaned, dropping back into the chair, head in my hands. This was nuts. Drag? Me? I hated the idea--skirts, makeup, all that shit. My skin crawled thinking of it--fabric hugging me, people staring. No. Fuck no.

"Savan," he said, softer, "I'm begging here. One shot."

"Why me?" I muttered, not looking up. "Anyone'd do it."

"You're here," he said. "And... you fit. That shirt, those sweats--shit, it's half-done."

"Fuck you," I said, weaker, fight fading.

He stood, pacing now, muscles shifting under his shirt. "I'll make it worth it," he said. "Money--real money."

"How much?" I asked, voice tight.

He stopped, turned. "One month's rent. Up front."

I blinked, lifting my head. "For real?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "No strings. I'll fix you up--hair, clothes, whatever. If you don't think you pass, you walk, keep the cash."

My gut twisted--rent was $800. That'd buy me time, a place, air to breathe. But this? "And if I do pass?" I asked, dreading it.

"Then we go to New York," he said, careful. "Party's a weekend. I'll pay--however much you want."

"However much?" I snorted. "You're that rich?"

"Rich enough," he said, smirking. "Name it."

I stared, coffee cold in my hands. Eight hundred bucks, no catch--tempting as hell. But passing? Me, convincing his family I'm some chick? My head screamed no--every bit of me hated it. Crossdressing? Fuck that--I'm not some drag freak. My stomach churned, palms sweaty. I hated how my ass stretched his sweats, how my chest poked the shirt. He was right--I kinda looked it already. That pissed me off more.

"How long's this 'fixing' take?" I asked, voice flat.

"A couple of hours, a day at most," he said, perking up. "Hair, outfit--it's easy."

"Easy," I muttered. "Right."

"You in?" he asked, eyes locked on mine.

I swallowed, throat dry. "If I say no, you'll keep nagging?"

"Probably," he said, grinning.

"Fuck," I breathed, slumping. "Fine. One shot. I look dumb, I'm out--rent's mine."

"Deal," he said, fast, hand out.

I stared, then shook--his grip firm, mine shaky. "You're an asshole," I said.

"Yep," he said, laughing. "But you're a lifesaver."

I pulled back, coffee bitter on my tongue. What the hell was I doing? This wasn't me--dresses, pretending, none of it. But the cash--fuck, the cash. I'd do it, look like shit, take the money, and bolt. No way I'd pass, no way I'd go further. Praveen's smirk said he thought different, but he was wrong. I wasn't his girl--never would be.