Dirty Nasty Billionaire [Part Four]

by Paige North

  Dirty Nasty Billionaire (Part Four)

  Paige North

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Favor Ford Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Want To Be In The Know?

  Dirty Nasty Billionaire (Part Four) by Paige North

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Epilogue

  Want To Be In The Know?

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  Dirty Nasty Billionaire (Part Four) by Paige North

  Chapter 1

  GizmoGossip - A Statement from Nixon Blake

  Nina March, staff reporter

  Well guys, we’ve had a good run, but it appears it’s all over now. We should all blow through our bank accounts, tell our families we love them, and wait for the end. The apocalypse is coming. Because Nixon Blake, the uber-private founder and CEO of Scour, has released a statement concerning his affair with the intern.

  Buckle up, folks. Here it is.

  I deeply regret taking advantage of Ms. Masterson and her position as an intern with the Business Lab Program. As her supervisor, I should have maintained a strictly professional relationship. The abuse of power was reprehensible, and I take full responsibility. Ms. Masterson was nothing but professional and capable who more than earned her spot with the BLP, and my deepest regret is that her bright future may have been marred by my actions.

  I will be taking a brief hiatus from the day-to-day at Scour, leaving the company in the capable hands of my VP of Operations, Randi Powers. When I return, I will not be speaking again on the matter, or any personal matter. My focus is, and always has been, the future of Scour.

  So apparently he’s taking the #MeToo line, and saying there was no relationship, but that he abused his power. I can’t help but wonder what Ms. Masterson would say about that, as we’ve heard from leaky Scour employees that she’s no longer an intern with the company. Was it light workplace harassment, or something more?

  ***

  “You’ve got to leave this apartment.”

  It’s been a week since I officially quit Scour. A week since Nixon released the statement. The rest of America moved on pretty quickly, though I did spend several days turning down interview requests. We’re still the talk of the tech blogs, of course, and I imagine that’ll probably continue until, oh, I don’t know … forever? This is probably some of the juiciest gossip they’ve ever had. I heard the reporter who’s been covering the Nixon Blake beat actually got a promotion out of it.

  Good for her. At least one of us got a job out of me sleeping with my boss.

  Elise let me wallow for the first two days, but by the third she was starting to prod me to put down the Ben & Jerry’s and get off the couch.

  So I did that, but I still couldn’t bring myself to leave the apartment. I didn’t know where I’d go. It’s not like I can afford to go shopping or hit the bars. I’m out of a job, remember?

  But as the days ticked by, I slowly started to formulate a plan.

  “I’m leaving the house today, I swear,” I say, aiming the remote at the TV to turn off my Grey’s Anatomy binge. In a week I made it through eight seasons. I was starting to feel like maybe I should apply to medical school (eight seasons of Grey’s and I felt qualified to perform an appendectomy already), but then I remembered that blood makes me squeamish. So instead, I’d come up with another plan.

  “I’m going to campus to pick up transcripts and meet with a couple professors to talk about recommendations,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to apply to grad school.”

  Elise arches an eyebrow at me. I’ve never expressed any interest in graduate school before.

  “What are you going to study?” She asks.

  “I don’t know, I’m thinking maybe informatics? I could get a PhD and be a professor. By the time I worked through the degree and the dissertation, hopefully everyone will have forgotten about me. Besides, college campuses are much more forgiving of sexual indiscretions.” I shrug. It seems like a good enough plan, I don’t think about the tens of thousands of dollars in student loans it will require.

  “Stop it. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Elise says. “I mean, it’s a fine plan, and I’ll support you in whatever you choose. But I don’t think things are as one as you think they are. I mean, Nixon’s statement seemed to really help.”

  “Yeah, great. Now I’m a victim of harassment, which seems to have worked out really well for all the other women who were actually harassed. I bet if you asked them they’d say it was a career highlight,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Just don’t count yourself out yet, ok?”

  “Oh, I haven’t. I’ve got an interview at the pub down the street for a waitressing gig,” I tell her.

  “You didn’t.”

  “Hey, I can’t apply to grad school until the fall. I’ve gotta earn a living somehow until then, right?”

  On my way to campus, I engage in my secret shame: checking the gossip blogs for any news about Nixon. He made good on his promise and took a hiatus from Scour. The company stock took a slight dip for the first two days, but it quickly recovered as they prepared for the launch of a new generation of the Scour tablet.

  But no one has said a word about where Nixon’s gone. He hasn’t been seen anywhere, so maybe he’s holed up in his apartment, just like me. Only at least I have soapy medical dramas, ice cream, and a roommate to keep me from going insane. I don’t think Nixon even has a television in his apartment, and though he could obviously stream something on any one of his devices, he doesn’t seem like a binge watcher.

  No, if he’s at home, he’s sitting alone in his empty apartment, staring at a wall, a thought that makes me nauseous every single time.

  With no job and no Nixon to distract me, I have oceans of time to think about Nixon. Which sounds like a paradox, but trust me, it’s not. Because when we were having wild sex every single day and night, I didn’t have time to wonder why his apartment was devoid of furniture or why his office was like a big blank sheet of paper. I didn’t have time to dwell on his lack of assistants or the way he ran from that crowd at the gala. In my web searching shame spiral, I’d read up on all the various updates about Nixon ducking out of various speaking engagements. According to my research, he hadn’t spoken to a crowd outside of Scour world headquarters in almost five years.

  That coupled with his intractability when it came to any part of his private life becoming public, and I was really starting to worry about him. There’s clearly something very wrong there, maybe even something broken. But of course, there’s nothing I can do about that now.

  I don’t even know where he is.

  New England College lies on approximately 300 acres just to the west of Boston, along the banks of the Charles River. I remember the first time I visited, as a junior in high school who was busting her ass to qualify for a spot. My parents pulled our old Toyota Corolla up in front of the iron and stone gates, and there was a moment where I was scared I wouldn’t be able to walk in. Surely everyone there would see that I didn’t belong.

  But my dad booted my mom and I out of the car while he went to find parking, and I found myself on the sidewalk staring up. And
surprisingly, I wasn’t scared.

  I was ready.

  I was hungry.

  I knew I belonged.

  Because I was smart, and I’d worked hard. I knew that in 18 months I’d be walking through the gates as a freshman.

  NEC was exactly what I hoped it would be: a school full of smart, ambitious students, brilliant faculty, and opportunities for me to reach new heights. Everything I wanted, I got out of it. I absolutely loved the four years I spent on that campus and everything it gave it me.

  So walking through those same gates now, I can’t help but feel as if I let it down. It lived up to its bargain, giving me the best education and opportunities, leading me all the way to a top internship at a world-renowned company. And what did I do?

  I fucked it all up. Literally.

  The last time I was here was back in early May, for graduation. It was cold, but sunny, so everyone sat in the audience shivering while pretending it was a beautiful spring day. My parents were out there, my dad taking pictures with his iPad like a grade A dork. Elise and I stood in line in our caps and gowns, waiting to cross the stage and accept our diplomas from President Levi (or, in Elise’s case, an empty red leather folder with a listing of her library fines inside). Everything felt so exciting, like we were on the edge of something great. I hadn’t yet had my disastrous first day at Scour, or made any of the terrible decisions that would follow. When Elise and I stood next to the Lawrence Fountain and had our picture taken holding up our New England College diploma folders, I felt like I’d walk out of here and take on the world.

  But now here I am, just two months later, skulking back onto campus, my future foggy and murky. Part of me hoped that maybe stepping onto campus would help me come out of it a little, so see some hope. Maybe feel a little bit of that mojo I felt back when I first visited NEC. But nope, I still feel completely lost.

  I have a stack of transcripts waiting for me at the registrar, stamped and sealed for my future (hypothetic) graduate school applications. I should probably see if I can still take advantage of on-campus career counseling as a recent grad. Lord knows I’m going to need it.

  The registrar’s office is in the old administration building, a gothic stone beauty with arched windows, creaky old wood floors, and brass nameplates. It looks like the kind of place a Hollywood location scout chooses when the scene calls for something that “looks like college.” I go in and hand the secretary my ID, and I wait while she goes to the back to get my transcripts. I wonder, as I do with every interaction I’ve had since the story broke, from my Scour coworkers all the way down to the cashier at Starbucks, if she’s heard my story. She’s got my name, so maybe it’s ringing a bell to her right now, she just can’t remember how to place it.

  I hope eventually these horrible thought spirals will stop. Elise tells me the more I get out, and the more time passes, the better it will get. I sure hope so, because this feels so shitty I can’t even.

  “Delaney?”

  My heart drops into my stomach at the sound of my own name. I turn and see Dr. Costanovich, the New England College Dean of Students, standing in the doorway. Shit. I completely forgot that his office is just down the hall.

  Dr. Costanovich conducted my scholarship interview for NEC back when I was a lowly high school senior. Right away I could tell I liked him, and when I arrived on campus, I made it a point to sign up for a class with him. Though he spends most of his time overseeing departments and counseling students as Dean, he does take time to teach a class or two each year. He’s well known journalism professor, with a specialty in science and technology reporting.

  Oh, the irony.

  “Hi, Dr. Costanovich,” I say, trying to arrange my face into some semblance of a smile.

  “What are you doing on campus?”

  “Just picking up some transcripts,” I said, pointing to the secretary, who’s making her way (very very slowly) back to the front desk, a manila envelope in hand. “I’m thinking about grad school, so I need to get my applications together.”

  “Is that so?” He says, though I can hear the skepticism in his voice. He knows I’m full of shit, thinking about grad school. We had a talk about it during the fall of my senior year, during which I told him I was ready to get out of school and the confines of the classroom and actually do things.

  Oh, I did things, all right. I did someone. And look where it got me.

  “Why don’t you stop by my office when you’re done here?” He says with a smile that seems full of pity.

  “Oh, I couldn’t take up your time,” I say. I really don’t want to find myself sitting across from him at his desk, just like I did during advising meetings. It would be too painful. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

  “It’s summer, Delaney. You know I’ve got nothing going on. Just stop by, ok?” He poses it as a question, but I know his tone well enough to know it’s hardly a request. And even though a little part of me thinks that I don’t owe him anything, I know that there’s no way I’m going to ditch out on Dr. Costanovich.

  I accept my transcripts and sign for them, and when I make my way two doors down to the Dean of Students office, I’m sweating like I just ran the marathon. Is he going to lecture me? There’s nothing he could say that I haven’t already thought a million times. Maybe he’s got some advice for me? That would be ok, though it would mean acknowledging that he knows what happened to me. Oh god, I can’t believe Dr. Costanovich knows about my sex life. That’s almost worse than my parents finding out.

  His secretary, a kindly older woman with graying hair named Ms. Coyne, who still takes notes in shorthand, is at her post. In my four years at NEC, I never walked into this office to find her desk empty. Dr. Costanovich, at least, doesn’t mind people in his shit.

  “Hello dear,” she says, a warm smile on her face. I have to work overtime to beat back the thought that she knows, because that would probably cause a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me hole (which, honestly, would be a mercy). “You can go on in.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her, and then hurry through the wide, mahogany door leading in his office.

  His office has the strange characteristic of being neat and cluttered at the same time. I remember him remarking once that the hardest part of his job was keeping his gorgeous office in order for the parents and visiting dignitaries who inevitably showed up. If left to his own devices, he’d do the stereotypical professor thing of being surrounded by dangerously teetering stacks of books, papers strewn everywhere. As it stands, there are plenty of stacks of papers, and books on shelves that aren’t quite as orderly and neat as they should be, like the room is just pulsing with life, ready to burst open. I spent so many wonderful hours here talking about books and philosophy and plans for the future.

  Dr. Costanovich is sitting behind his desk, shuffling papers, when he looks up to see me come in the room.

  “It’s good to see you, Delaney,” he says, gesturing to one of the leather wingback chairs across from his desk, the ones where the leather is worn and smooth like butter. “How are you doing?”

  I drop into the chair and lean back. I contemplate just letting my body go limp and sliding off the chair into a puddle on the floor. Because that’s how I’m doing, if he really wants to know.

  “I’m ok,” I say. And then I decide to rip off the Band-Aid. “I mean, I assume you know things haven’t really been going according to plan.”

  He purses his lips, taking in a deep breath, then blowing it all out. He nods. “Yes, I was disappointed to see that you had such a negative experience at Scour. I know you had high hopes for the program.”

  I nod. High hopes seem like ancient history at this point.

  “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Because we here at NEC take these matters very seriously. To hear that you were the victim of workplace harassment as part of a program that we endorse so wholeheartedly, and that the perpetrator was an alum with whom we have deep ties, well, to say that we’re troubled
doesn’t begin to cover it.”

  “Oh, well, uh—“ I start, but then trail off, because I’m not sure what to say. Nixon released the statement without consulting me, and though it certainly took a little bit of the heat off me (though half the internet is still delighting in calling me every synonym for slut they can imagine), it didn’t make me feel much better. Because I’m not a victim of harassment, and parading around like I am feels disrespectful to all the women who really do suffer that kind of treatment. I don’t want to co-opt their stories and experiences just so I can shake free of my own terrible decisions. I wanted to sleep with Nixon, despite the fact that he was my boss. He never forced me. I was more than willing. He never made me feel uncomfortable or pushed me further than I wanted to go. If anyone wanted an example of enthusiastic consent, it was me.

  But telling my college mentor and advisor, a distinguished older male faculty member, at that, that I was happily having sex all over my workplace, a workplace for which he wrote me a glowing recommendation? Well, I’ll be honest, I’m thoroughly chickening out on that one right now.

  When I don’t say anything else, Dr. Costanovich charges on.

  “I want you to know that New England College has severed all ties with Nixon Blake and with Scour. He won’t be welcome back on campus, and we won’t be accepting any more donations from him or his company. That’s how much we value equity and respect in the workplace.”

  Holy crap, seriously? I mean, it’s one thing to make Nixon persona non grata, but to decline any of that sweet sweet Scour money? Those checks are why the dorms now have air conditioning, and why the computer labs have state of the art equipment, updated with each new generation of hardware and software. That’s got to be a huge financial loss, not just for the college, but for the students who were the beneficiaries of that money. Hell, Scour funded hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of scholarships, scholarships that I myself needed to go to school here.