THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE WAS ME

"Back in the day, women threw themselves at me because they thought I was Len Perrie."

I raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to laugh.

No, they didn’t.

Leaning on the bar conspiratorially, his breath thick with whiskey and desperation, the man smirked at me.

"Not just the looks, either. I got the voice. Nailed ‘Rebel Soulmates’ at karaoke once—scored with many a lady that night."

"Len Perrie." The fake London drawl was almost amusing.

I nearly choked on my drink.

Hindsight—my cruel mistress—whispered that I should’ve walked away the second I saw him staggering into the bar, wearing that cheap store-brand suit like it was an Armani original.

But I stayed.

He stuck out his hand.

"Martin Smythe," He announced proudly, like the name meant something. "Ex–Len Perrie impersonator. Back in the day? Women and a fair few men threw themselves at me because they thought I was him."

I took a slow sip of my whiskey.

That sounded… familiar.

I had to remind myself—again—that being here in the first place was already the biggest mistake. But what choice did I have?

Damn. I missed those days—no landline, no mobile, no television. Just me and my battered old transistor radio.

I’d been living off-grid since The Night Everything Went to Hell Tour, 1997. I had only wanted a break—from the never-ending room service, the hotel windows that framed cities I never truly saw.

But all I ever heard was:

"If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it."

 "It only matters if it’s on the wall."

The band had become a machine—churning out gold records, hounded by the bloodhound press, fighting off screaming fans, drowning in endless TV and radio interviews.

So I walked away.

I settled in a Twilight Zone-esque ex-mining village where there were no fond farewells—just a warm "See you later." The grocery store doubled as the library, café, and post office. The pub was just the next room over, run by the grocer’s son, who was desperately trying to drag the village into the modern age.

For a while, it had been enough.

I had even been thinking about getting chickens—fresh eggs for breakfast, simple pleasures.

That dream died the moment I heard the soft clink of glass against glass.

I froze.

Trouble in high heels had found me.

And I had nowhere left to run.

The scent of expensive champagne curled through the air.

And there she was.

GEORGE JR

Sitting at my table, legs crossed, sharp as a blade in her usual tight pinstripe power suit. The jacket cut just right, offering the barest glimpse of black lace underneath.

A blonde bombshell in the most dangerous sense—she didn’t just walk into a room, she owned it and would charge you rent.

In theory, we could have been an insane power couple. But I respected her father too much. Even in death, he would haunt me if I dared to look at her that way—so I didn’t.

Many men judged her by her looks, her body, her gender.

She let them.

Then she would smile sweetly, sharpen her knives, and take everything.

I exhaled, steady. "How the hell did you find me?"

She slid a glass toward me.

"Len." A pause. "I always knew where you were."

I stared at her. At the champagne. At the trap I hadn’t even realized I’d already walked into.

So this was how my unofficial comeback tour started—performing old hits on this floating nightclub sailing from port to port, an all too obvious throwback to my pirate punk days. If all went to plan, I’d be back in the studio next month with a new band and an upgraded image.

Swirling the last of the whiskey in my glass, I prayed for a miracle.

What I got was Martin Smythe.

Martin had the kind of face you’d see carved into the front of an old castle—rough, weathered, and built for trouble.

With an over-exaggerated Brian Blessed-style beard, chickens could nest in.

If I existed in some Fat Elvis parallel universe, Martin Smythe was its bloated, washed-up king.

And a paparazzi’s wet dream.

Then Martin made yet another stupid mistake—he started complaining about his wife.

Lydia.

The dumbass, as he called her, had come up with a "stupid idea" to add some excitement to their marriage. She was waiting for him in a cabin, draped in silk, ready for a night of role-playing, espionage, and seduction.

And what did Martin Smythe want to do?

Ditch her and hit the dog track.

That’s when I realized exactly what kind of man he was—

The kind who had a wife in lingerie but would rather be losing money on a greyhound named Lucky Bastard.

"Mate, do me a favor," Martin slurred, slapping a tuxedo onto the counter. "Put this on. I really need to get off this ship. You’ll find her very willing. She loves the whole James Bond thing."

I blinked. "I think she’ll notice the lack of facial hair."

"I'm going to shave it off. I might even get lucky." He winked, staggering away. "Did I mention I resemble Len Perrie?"

I looked at the tuxedo he’d left behind.

"Well," I sighed, "if you’ve been pretending to be me… I might as well return the favor."

I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into Cabin 24.

What I got was Lydia Smythe.

Draped in black silk. The dim bedside light glossed over her skin, her bold red lips curving in confusion.

And all I could think was—what kind of idiot walks away from this?

She lifted an eyebrow, slow and deliberate.

Expected Martin.

Instead, she got me.

A pause.

Her gaze flicked over me, assessing.

Then—she smiled. Slow. Wicked. Like she’d just figured out the best joke in the world.

"I was expecting Mr. Bond."

"Mr. Bond sends his apologies," I said, stepping forward, already in character. "He got sidetracked at a dog track."

Her lips parted, expression unreadable.

Then, she laughed.

All I was supposed to do was say the lines, play the part, and leave.

Then Lydia stood up, slow and smooth.

The silk shifted over her curves like it had been painted there. The scent of something dark and floral filled the air, making my thoughts blur at the edges.

She took a step closer.

A deliberate, measured step.

"A shame," she murmured. "I had such a good performance planned."

I tilted my head. "I’d hate to let it go to waste."

Lydia hummed as her fingers brushed my waist—just the barest whisper of contact.

And suddenly, I forgot why I ever wanted to leave.

Then—

Screaming.

And all I could think was—what kind of idiot walks away from this?

Martin Smythe was in trouble.

We turned up just in time to see him—freshly shaven, panicked, flailing at security.

George Jr. had her arms folded, looking extremely unimpressed.

"Trying to sneak off again?" She sighed. "Take him to my cabin. Keep him there until it’s showtime. Mother Goose isn’t losing this golden egg."

Suddenly, he wriggled free and lunged straight toward Lydia.

"Tell them who I am! Tell them I’m your husband!  I was on my way to the dog track. I know I promised but…I will make it up to you so please just tell them "

Lydia turned, looped her arms around my neck, and kissed me passionately on the lips.

"This is my husband," She purred.

A pause.

A slow, wicked smile.

"And do you know something? I can finally see the resemblance."

Martin was still struggling, wild-eyed, breathless. No one was listening.

 I stepped closer, hands in my pockets, tilting my head like I was considering something.

He looked up at me, desperate. "Please..Tell them who I am!"

I leaned in, slow and easy, until my lips were near his ear.

"Back in the day, women threw themselves at me because they thought I was Len Perrie."