Billionaire Badboy (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

HUNTINGTON HEERALD

Bad Boy in the Library with the Newspaper

By Ashley Leigh

Teddy caused quite a ruckus in the school library last
week when he proudly walked in and slammed a newspaper down in front of another
student. When she made it apparent that his charms didn’t work on her, he
pulled her from her seat and led her out of the reading area. The female
student asked to remain anonymous, but wanted to tell the readers that she did
feel threatened, and would hope that anyone else who had been terrorized by
Theodore Vincent Stoneguard IV would come forward.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Teddy

I was staring at an article as the new memory took shape. After
heading off to law school, and after my unfortunate, unexplained running out on
Ashley, since my father couldn’t lay the paper in front of me every Sunday
morning, he took to having it mailed to me, opened to Ashley’s column. This
specific article was about how I had bribed a teacher to give me a higher grade
on a paper.

Let me just say right away that it wasn’t necessarily a
bribe. The professor was part of my game night, and offered me a higher grade
if I would be willing to forget some of the losses he still owed. I should have
turned him down. Believe me, I do realize that. In all actuality, I suppose I
deserved a higher grade on that paper. It was well researched, well cited, and
well put together. Looking back, I think he was the one playing me… but I liked
having him in the games, and he was on something of a losing streak. I figured
this option was a win-win.

Until it got back to my father.

I explained the situation to him, but it really didn’t
matter. In his eyes, the truth was irrelevant. What everyone believed to be the
truth was what mattered, and in this case, people believed that I had bribed a
teacher. Thank you for that, Ashley.

So yes, I was angry. I assumed she’d be in the library, as
she always seemed to be, so I grabbed the paper, hopped in a cab, and was at
the library in less than ten minutes.

I didn’t need to look far. In the center of the room was a
long table and she was at its helm, books spread out around her. She was
wearing a hat: one of those knit hats that looks like it should be a winter
hat, but people tend to wear them all day, as if it was some sort of fashion
statement. I don’t know why I was getting so angry about the hat. I think I was
just angry with her, and I was now finding ways to hate every part of her.

Which brings me to her glasses. They were thick plastic blue
frames, and they were falling down her nose. They were just reading glasses. I
knew she didn’t wear contacts; I had been close enough to her, had looked right
into her eyes enough to know that. What kind of a statement was she trying to
make with the blue glasses? It’s not like it mattered if they appealed to her;
it was the rest of the world that had to look at them.

Then she had one of those oversized scarfs wrapped around
her neck. Sure, it was winter, but it was at least seventy degrees inside the
library. Why was she still wearing the scarf?

But the hat, the glasses, and the scarf… they didn’t
frustrate me as much as her ability to hold a pencil did. You know how normal
people rest their pencil between their ring finger and middle finger and then
hold it on the other side with their thumb? Yeah, not Ashley. She surrounded
the entire pencil with the tips of all her fingers. I didn’t even know that was
possible. And she was a writer! I couldn’t understand how she was able to keep
up that writing habit and not get some sort of cramp in her arm.

It was uncomfortable, and unnecessary, and I hated watching
her write. So naturally, I walked over to her and slammed down the article.

“What the hell is this?”

“Shhh. We are in a library.” She deviously smiled up at me,
her eyes peeking over the top of her glasses.

“Don’t pull that shit with me. What are you trying to do? Get
me expelled?”

“I can assure you that is not my intention. I just need
enthralling content for my articles, and you provide it.”

“You make it up!”

Her little finger pointed to the headline. “Tell me this
isn’t true then.”

But she knew I couldn’t do that. Sure, in the moment it
seemed innocent enough, but when push came to shove it was a bribe. Technically
I was the one who accepted it rather than offered it, but that could have been
debated and fought. It was hard to fight with her when I knew I had been in the
wrong. Still, seeing all your faults in headline form each week has a way of
making someone snap.

I could see we were beginning to cause a scene. I grabbed
her terribly placed pencil out of her hand, tossed it to the floor, and
interlocked my fingers with hers. I then led her into the stacks, to the
always-deserted back corner of the library.

“Teddy, what are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

I could feel her resisting against my pull, but I was in no
mood to explain myself. She was the one who needed to do the explaining.

When we reached the corner, I swung her around and pressed
her up against the wall. I leaned in close, knowing that we were still in a
library, and I needed to stay quiet. Or maybe I just wanted to be close to her?

“Teddy…” Her voice quivered. She was frightened. I didn’t
care. My blood was boiling.

“Stop this now.”

“Stop what?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Ashley. You’ve, for some reason,
put a bull’s eye on my back and you can’t stop throwing your knives.”

“The people have a right to know.”

“What do the people have a right to know? That some spoiled
little rich kid is out causing trouble that affects no one but himself.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then prove me wrong! Who have I hurt? Because it certainly
hasn’t been you.”

I was right in her face, screaming through my whispers. My
hands were still clasped in hers, but she wasn’t fighting me. She was just
staring at me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I blamed the hat, the
glasses, and that freaking scarf. I wanted to tear them all off of her. I
wanted to…

Okay, in the moment, I believe I thought I wanted to bury
her in a deep hole and pour cement on her. I must have been watching too many
mafia movies at the time.

But seeing the whole thing happen again, I knew exactly what
I wanted from her. Just her: I wanted her. But I was too proud to allow those
thoughts to creep in. Instead, I needed to assert my privilege and power over
her.

I felt her shake from a chill, but still, I couldn’t read
her. “Am I scaring you?”

She tilted her chin up higher, facing me. “I don’t know.”

“I should be.” I growled at her. I then dropped my fingers
from hers and moved my hands to her face. I grabbed the sides of her glasses
and slid them from her nose. I wanted to look into her eyes. I wanted to know
what she was thinking.

Her breath quickened and her eyes focused, then softened. God,
she was beautiful, even with that stupid knit hat.

“If I ask you to leave me alone…”

“I can’t do that.”

“And if I promise it will mean we keep meeting like this?”

She swallowed hard. I thought I had won with that threat. While
I knew I would never hurt her, the picture she painted of me, the person she
had to believe I was, just very well might. At least I had that.

But then she surprised me.

“Then I look forward to all the times I’ll be pinned up
against the wall by you.”

Her face broke into a smile as she snatched her glasses back
and slid out from under my hold, the same way she did when I had her pinned up
against the tree. She didn’t even look back as she walked away from me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

HUNTINGTON HERALD

Tuesday at Six

By Ashley Leigh

Well, my loyal readers, as I live and breathe, our
favorite billionaire has offered to sit down with me for an interview. Why on
earth he would choose me, of all people, to set his story straight? I have a
feeling I might finally be getting under his skin.

How did I secure this sit down, you ask? Picture this:
It’s three in the morning, and I have just finished a paper on the state of
politics in Namibia. I’m treating myself to a glass of Pinot Noir, when I hear
a knock at my door. Yet, it wasn’t so much a knock, as it was a bang.

Intrigued, I made my way to my apartment door and snuck a
peek out of my peephole. You wouldn’t believe my surprise when I saw Teddy
staring back at me. He was perfectly inebriated, no doubt from the disbanding of
his prized gambling ring, and in no state to be speaking to the press. I
could’ve easily rid him of all his dirty little secrets with nothing more than
a wink, but I thought better of myself. He sought me out, he asked me for an
interview, the least I could do was to hold off until he was sober. So instead
of tearing him down brick by brick, I sent him away from my door with nothing
more than a date and time.

The mark of a good journalist is knowing how and when to
pick your battles. My battle day is coming fellow gossipers, and you’ll get to
enjoy every bit of it!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Teddy

“Open the door, Ashley. You have to let me in.”

I knew exactly which memory was about to appear before my
eyes.

“Ashley, stop ignoring me. I know you’re in there.”

The image sort of faded slowly into focus, and I saw myself
at the top of the stairwell of a pre-war building, banging against a door. I
was wearing gray slacks and a white button up dress shirt. The top four buttons
were undone, revealing a V-neck undershirt that I’m pretty sure had been
stained with ketchup. At least I hoped it was ketchup. The gel in my hair had
lost its hold, allowing for quite a mess on top of my head.

You know when you run into someone who is trying to pull off
dreadlocks and all you want to do is wash their hair? And then if you know you
are going to see them again while they’re in that phase, you put one of those
hotel bottles of shampoo in your pocket and try to find the right time to
passively hand it to them? No? Is that just me? Well, okay then. What I’m
trying to say is that someone needed to hand me a tiny bottle of shampoo. I
looked dirty.

Right, so back to the memory…

I’ll be the first to say it: I was a mess. My shirt was half
tucked in, my one pant leg was sticking into my shoe, and my pocket seemed to
be overflowing with…

“Perfect.”

French fries. Not perfect! There were French fries in my
pocket, and I was happily snacking on them, and calling them “perfect.” How
wasted was I that night? At least now I could safely assume that the red stain
on my shirt was indeed ketchup.

But French Fries? Really Teddy? Where’s the class?

I watched as I shoved my face full of stale, cold fries. I’m
glad no one else was there to witness my old movie-style life flashbacks; I
embarrassed even myself.

My head banged against the door as I whispered, “Ashley,
where are you?”

Okay man, take a breath and walk away. Just walk away…

Great, I was now attempting to have a conversation with a
memory of myself. I wonder if, as part of the dying process, you begin to lose
your grip on reality. Your brain might try to cling to life by replaying these
memories. It tries to hold on just a little longer. Or maybe, since I had such
success visualizing my earlier fantasy, making it seem like a reality, I
thought I could change the story of my life. I might be able to die in peace,
knowing I had righted my wrongs, even if it was only for myself. It was like a
last ditch effort at a second chance.

But I didn’t take a breath and walk away. It wasn’t a second
chance; it was a replaying of a memory, and I knew exactly how that evening
would unfold… I drunkenly insulted her apartment and then stupidly offered her
an interview.

“Ashley, I’ve been watching you in your window for
twenty-seven minutes. I know you’re in there.”

Well, I forgot about that part. That wasn’t at all creepy.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Of course it was the creepy Peeping Tom admission that
finally made her open the door. Wow, she was breathtaking. Every time I saw
her, I had to remind myself of that fact. It was like my unbridled hatred for
her made me forget her attractiveness, but then when I came face to face with
her, it was magnified.

“Wow, Ashley, you look tired.” Really? To myself, I thought
that she was breathtaking, and yet out loud, I commented on her dark circles. Why
did I say that to her? That’s not something any woman ever wants to hear. How I
ever got girls to sleep with me is a mystery.

“You can leave.”

“I can’t. I need to talk to you.”

And then I shoved my way into her apartment. Here’s that
apartment insult I mentioned: “I can’t believe how small this place is!” Classy,
I know.

“You’re just full of them tonight, Teddy. Can I help you get
in a cab?”

“No you cannot.”

“So you can pull off that feat on your very own? Great. Go
ahead back downstairs then and do it.”

I placed my hands clumsily on her shoulders. “But I’m giving
you an interview.”

“What?” She shrugged my hands off of her, and I watched them
lazily fall to my sides.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“Sure. But…” She took a step back, eyeing me from head to
toe. “What kind of game are you playing, Teddy?”

I remembered earlier in the night when I had come to the
realization that I should offer her an interview. I had been called into the
Dean’s office where I was sat down and scolded for my little poker tournament. The
thing was, when Ashley posted her article outing my gambling ring, it gained
much more press than just the Huntington Herald. At first, it worked well
enough in my favor. Word got out, and everyone wanted in. It moved from once a
week to two, and then from two to four. And I’m not ashamed to say that I was
making a good deal of money. It didn’t matter that I didn’t need it. I was
making money from something I was passionate about. Isn’t that the dream?

But soon, enough professors were in on the pot that it
became a problem. The professor who offered me the bribe came forward in a
confession and the Dean nicely asked me to consider disbanding my endeavor. Of
course he would never threaten me, as my family was now a major donor to the
university, but his tone made it apparent that it was the board’s decision not
to punish me, and not his. The last thing I wanted was to be on the wrong side
of the Dean, even if I did have a sort of unspoken immunity.

Still, I left there pissed. I knew it was Ashley’s fault
that my games were being made to cease. I spun my brain around ways that I
could get back at her; things I could take from her. It didn’t matter to me
that I was privileged and she grew up “wanting.” She made her bed, and I was
about to make her lie in it. Since the night I maturely chose not to take
advantage of her, she retaliated by documenting my entire life: every test I
took, every restaurant I tried, every move I made. People either only hung out
with me to get their names in the paper, or refused to hang out with me because
they didn’t want their names in the paper. My life was an open book. I couldn’t
run away from her. I couldn’t hide anywhere. I had never hated someone so much
as I hated her in that moment my games were shut down.

I devised a plan to get close to her, to force her to like
me, maybe even to fall in love with me. Then I would metaphorically pull down
her pants at recess. I would learn all her secrets and then, when I had taken
what I needed, I would expose her to the world. That’s one of the perks of
being ridiculously wealthy: people listen to you.

In order to make her trust me, I would need to open up to
her first. I would need to seem as though I needed her. I would make her feel
like an equal, make her think I cared.

The ideas were pouring out of me. With every sip of bourbon
I took, a new way to deceive her popped into my mind. I was on fire!

Now, I need you to know that I don’t condone any of the
terrible things I was thinking that night. Deceiving people out of revenge is
really not a good thing. Remember, I was twenty-two and the one thing I cared
about, my gambling games, had just been taken away from me. I wasn’t thinking
clearly. And, you’ll be happy to know, it never worked! I tried, though only
briefly. I tried to let her in. I tried to make her fall in love with me. But
it was as if she could read me from the very beginning. She always seemed to be
one step ahead. I chalked it up to that mind reading thing she had done the
last time I had been in her apartment: the whole wall, tongue, and breaking of
glass trinkets vision.

I entered her apartment thinking I was playing it super
cool. I went in, I told her I would give her an interview, she asked me what
game I was playing, and then I winked at her and left. I was in and out in
under a few minutes.

I went in:

“I can’t believe how small this place is!”

I told her I would give her an interview:

“I’m giving you an interview.”

She asked me what kind of game I was playing:

“What kind of game are you playing, Teddy?”

And then I winked at her and left:

“How’d you know I was playing a game?”

“I assumed as much, but you did just confirm it.”

Wait, why wasn’t I leaving? I remembered winking and
leaving! I stayed? How long did I stay? What was I doing?

“You are a tricky one, Ashley.”

“If I’m so tricky, why do you want to give me an interview?”

“Well, you might not know this, but I’m tricky too.”

Teddy, stop talking. Get out of there! Don’t say another
word!

And I’m talking to my memory again…

Ashley took a step closer. “How are you tricky, Teddy?” Was
she flirting with me? Is that why I was staying?

“If I didn’t hate you so much, I’d think you were really
pretty. Like really, really pretty.”

Yes, that was exactly why I was staying.

“You hate me?”

“Of course I hate you! But you hate me too, so we’re even.”

“We are even.”

“But we’re not. Because of you and your stupid little
stories, I have to shut down my poker night.”

“I did that?” Oh my freaking God, she was absolutely leading
me on. With every enticing delivery, she inched her way closer to me. And I was
falling for it! She really was me in female form!

“You did! But don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“The interview?”

She was now close enough to me that we could feel each
other’s breath. She was good: definitely better than I ever gave her credit
for… I watched my eyes roll back in ecstasy. That was weird. I had only ever
felt my eyes roll back in ecstasy. Had I known what rolling my eyes back in
ecstasy looked like, I would’ve trained myself not to do that a long time ago.

“The interview is just part of it!”

“There’s more?”

“There’s so much more.”

Don’t tell her, Teddy.

“Tell me, Teddy.”

I wonder whom I’m going to listen to: my subconscious or the
beautiful temptress.

“Well, see, I’m devising a plan to get close to you, to
force you to like me, maybe even to fall in love with me.”

I guess that answers my question. Oh wait, I’m still
babbling.

“Then I will metaphorically pull down your pants at recess. I
will learn all your secrets and then, when I have taken what I need, I will
expose you to the world. That’s one of the perks of being ridiculously wealthy:
people listen to you. But, and here’s where the real thinking comes in, in
order to make you trust me, I will need to open up to you first. I will need to
seem as though I need you. I will make you feel like an equal, make you think I
care.”

Apparently I gave her my full plan word for word. No wonder
it never worked. No wonder she was always one step ahead of me. This time, she
wasn’t a mind reader. This time, it was all me.

“I’d love that interview.”

“Now?”

“No, I’d be afraid that you’re so drunk you might tell me
something you didn’t want to tell me.”

Okay, she was good.

“Tuesday at six?”

“Tuesday at six it is.”

And then I winked at her and left.

There it was! The wink and the leaving: I knew they happened
at some point.

Better late than never.