Dinner is Prompt-ly at Eight - 9. The Beard #371

The Beard – Prompt #371

Donnie opened the mail, which was always a depressing endeavor only now it was torture. Cutbacks at work left him with only a couple of serving shifts a week. That had sapped his reserves. Then he endured a month long back problem which made it worse. He had no money coming in. The bills didn’t seem to care. His student loans, the electric company, and the landlord all seemed to still want to get paid.

He didn’t even want to get started thinking about the credit card bill. He was having a rough time keeping up the minimum payments, never mind paying down any of the principal. His sister offered him a bed in her basement but with three teenagers in the house, it seemed like the desperate move of a pathetic loser uncle.

After carefully opening the bills and laying them with the return envelopes into a neat pile, he looked at one last piece of mail to open. It didn’t look familiar. There weren’t any of the usual enticements on the outside for an advertisement. Nobody he knew lived in Duluth which is where the return address said it came from. This was no bill. There was an almost personal feel to the quality of the paper.

It was addressed to Mr. Donnie Malone, 1550 Loring Lane, Apt. 213, Minneapolis, MN, 55401. He slit the top open with his Graceland letter opener and pulled out the single creamy sheet from inside.

It was handwritten! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a letter in cursive writing. After the passing of his last grandparent, his father’s mother, there were few people left who would take the time to write a letter like this.

He grabbed his cheap pair of plastic cheaters and started reading.

‘Dear Mr. Malone,

You don’t know me, but I’m aware of your situation. My predicament is as perilous as your own. You are a man without an income or prospects. I’m a woman of means who will lose it without a marriage certificate. A mutual friend suggested we could help one another.

I know this isn’t the most orthodox arrangement, but perhaps our helping each other will ease the stress in both of our lives. Therefore, I propose you marry me. I’ll give you both a dowry and a monthly income. You move here to Duluth and live in my home with me. In essence, you’ll be my ‘beard’ I think is the term.

Don’t reject this offer out of hand. It’s a chance for me to keep my greedy brother at bay and you will chase the financial wolves from the door. Think about it. In the meantime, if you need more information about me, here is my Facebook page address.

Sincerely,

Kevyn Ruth Woodsman.’

Donnie threw the letter into the pile with the advertisements and solicitations for donations. It was ridiculous to even consider such a situation.

He was startled by his phone buzzing on the table to his left. Donnie looked at the caller ID which said, Unknown. That could only be one kind of call; a bill collector, again.

Donnie grabbed the cream colored letter and read it again, this time his forehead burrowed as he considered the implications.

***********

As he drove up to the wrought iron gate, he was scowling again. He could feel it wrinkle his forehead. They had come to an agreement. Kevyn would pay off his debts and he would put a ring on her finger. The first time he’d come to this gate, he’d been awed. It was a magnificent estate sprawling on several acres overlooking Lake Superior. The house was a mansion with rooms like a Clue game. She had a fucking Billiards Room, a Library, and even a Parlor that was quite different from her family room.

Kevyn was nice enough he supposed. She wore her steel gray hair short, favored black Doc Marten boots, and had exquisitely tailored, yet rather masculine, pant suits. She wore a tie had a voice far deeper than Donnie’s.

She was, in a nutshell, the quintessential lesbian. Sure, she was wealthy and cultured, but when she drank beer she loved to belch, loudly and proudly. Donnie was positive she had a Y chromosome and was simply pretending to be a woman.

He found it was his ex-boyfriend, Nathan, who had given Kevyn his name. Someday, that man would pay.

In the end, he hadn’t much choice. Kevyn insisted this sham of a marriage must appear to the outside world as credible. There would be no boyfriends, no lovers, no late night booty calls since her brother had a mole on staff. They were watching to make sure this marriage was the real thing.

Donnie would need to sleep in the bedroom with her. Otherwise, the plan would be discovered. If it was revealed, he would lose it all. So, now he was driving a nice Lamborghini, wearing a Brunello Cucinelli suit, had Magnanni’s on his feet, and even his underwear had a name, Andrew Christian. Once, years ago, he’d gotten a pair of Joe Boxer underwear and thought that had been quite nice. They were nothing compared to this underwear.

Andrew Christian’s were both comfortable and seemed to hug his bits and pieces deliciously.

He was a ‘beard’. A kept man. A prop in his wife’s home.

While he couldn’t go anywhere by himself, she was off playing around all the time. It was infuriating and depressing, in equal measures.

After parking the car in the driveway, he walked into the house.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Fahd, the butler said. “Shall I let your wife know you’ve returned?”

“Sure,” Donnie said. This morning Kevyn had one of maids in the bathroom with her when he left. From the sounds they were making, the maid wasn’t cleaning the grout, or at least, not the floor tile grout. He thought it entirely possible Kevyn’s grout was getting a good rubbing.

“The concierge said you had a lovely meal with your lawyer at Savoir’s,” the butler said. He was an especially handsome man, dark, thick eyebrows above dark chocolate brown eyes, liquid and alive. His skin was like a delicious, light caramel and his voice was silky like a rich mousse. Donnie got a little excited every time the man talked to him.

Kevyn insisted it was Fahd who was spying on them for her brother. It seemed likely, especially considering the man watched Donnie like a hawk. He never failed to say where Donnie had been, with whom, and for how long.

He could only be around the sexy man for so long before he got a little overheated and annoyed at the same time.

“I’ll be in the Library,” Donnie sighed. “Tell Kevyn that please.”

“I’ll inform Mrs. Malone you’ve returned,” Fadhi said with an irritatingly pleasant smile.

“Thanks.” Donnie escaped down the hall and into his favorite room, the one no one else seemed to ever go into. Especially his wife.

Donnie settled into the leather wing backed leather chair he’d grown to love and pulled the chain on the lamp at his side. He looked around the room and sighed. So beautiful. So relaxing. So boring.

The man picked up the book he’d been reading. He looked at the title and smiled. ‘Fanny Hill’. How appropriate that a man like him should read something so appropriate for his new station in life.

Donnie laughed. Yes, he was the hooker who would never again get screwed.

He put on his prescription reading glasses with the tortoise shell rims and started reading again, a resigned smile graced his face.