Billionaire Badboy

by Kenzie, Sophia

  “Ashley?”

  “Yes, Teddy?” I could see her waning, her eyes drifting from their normal focus. She was beginning to flirt with me.

  “Did you follow me to Columbia?”

  “You are so full of yourself!”

  “Okay, I’ll assume then the answer is ‘no’.”

  “You’re correct. It is ‘no’.”

  “But you knew both of us would be coming here at the same time.”

  “I do my research.”

  “And yet you haven’t written an article about me since we’ve been here.”

  “Do you really believe you’re my whole life? It was a summer job. It’ll be a summer job again. But I’m in grad school. I’m not going to chase you around just for the fun of it.”

  I was oddly hurt. For some reason, I wanted her to be obsessed with me. I didn’t want it to just be about a paycheck. Is that weird?

  “So you admit it’s fun?” I teased.

  She cackled, spitting just the tiniest bit of beer onto the small cocktail table between us. “Okay, you caught me. It’s a little fun.”

  So I sat up straighter. “Why me? Why do you write about me?”

  “Because you were born into a life of privilege, and you’re not deserving of it.”

  I have to tell you: I have asked a lot of women a lot of questions, but never once had I been given such an honest answer. She didn’t need to sugar coat anything. She wasn’t scared of me, and she wasn’t in awe of me. To her, I was just another normal person.

  “I really thought you were going to tell me that you found me to be a fascinating specimen who could keep your readers forever entertained.”

  “You know, I was kind of kidding before when I said you were full of yourself, but that comment might have just put you over into the self-love category.”

  I wanted to touch her, in some way. Either give her a friendly push to jokingly show her that she affected me, or give her a huge hug just to get her closer to me, but instead I acted the way I was now so used to doing around her.

  I touched my pinky to her nose.

  “What did you just do?”

  I was asking myself the same question: what did I just do? Who puts his pinky on someone else’s nose?

  “I just wanted to touch you in some way.”

  “Teddy…” She tilted her head.

  “Pretend that didn’t sound as creepy as it did.”

  We both just laughed as we took another swig of our beers.

  “The truth?”

  “Please.”

  “Of course I knew of you. I grew up in Huntington. You’re like royalty. But when I started working at the Herald, you must had just slept with my editor and never called her, or something to that extent. She was just looking for a way to get you to pay attention. Apparently it made you pay attention to the wrong girl.”

  Now that definitely sounded like something I would do. It was all starting to make so much more sense. Ashley didn’t have some long-standing vendetta against me. I had never personally affected her. It really was all about the paycheck.

  “But then after my first ‘stalking’ I spent a night in jail, thanks to you, so I begged for a full column instead of just one scathing article, and the rest of the summer was my own revenge.”

  “Which I did deserve.”

  Oh my God, I almost put my pinky back on her nose.

  “Did you almost put your pinky back on my nose?”

  “I can’t control this thing!”

  We took another swig of beer, both finishing our pints.

  “Why did you kick me out of your party?”

  I took a deep breath. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her so badly, but I… well, I had never talked to anyone about that. I had never confessed to another living soul what I had personally witnessed for more than ten years of my life, what every girl I had brought home after I turned sixteen had had to face. And they never talked about it either. It was just one of those things.

  “If I make a promise to one day explain that all to you, can we save that for another night?”

  Maybe something changed in me first, but her entire body moved in a way, after I made that request, that seemed different: more open, more comforting. She had obviously reached a topic that was too close to me, and she knew that. And she was being respectful of that.

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  And then she put her hand on top of mine. That magnetism that I have already spoken of, the way she was able to draw me in, multiplied exponentially with her touch. I needed her after that. In the days, weeks, even months following that simple moment, my hands craved her.

  The waitress came around, dropping off two more beers on the table and giving me a wink.

  “What’s it like?” Ashley looked at me as I thanked the waitress.

  “What?”

  “Being the object of everyone’s affection.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Enough about me.”

  She sat back. “Fine. What would you like to know then?”

  “Why journalism?”

  “I like to write.” She casually announced.

  “Try again. Why journalism?”

  “Excuse me?” She shifted in her chair.

  “People who like to write keep journals. They don’t decide to spend their life going after the truth.”

  “Teddy, I write a gossip column for a silly small town paper. Please tell me why you think I care about the truth.”

  I swear, the next thing I said to her set in motion the remaining events of the evening. It was the reason we had three more drinks, the reason we stumbled into her apartment at two in the morning, the reason I left with a slap across my face, and the reason she called me out, yet again, in her column.

  “I’ve read every single article you’ve written about me. You’re passionate, you’re accusatory, and you’re giving. But you’re hiding something. You’re hiding your heart. You’re saving that for something bigger: bigger than me, bigger than you, and definitely bigger than that paper. So what is the truth you’re searching for, Ashley?”

  If I’m being completely honest with you, it was a total bullshit line. Deep down, and four drinks in, I meant it, but seeing it again, I knew it was a line. With that amount of alcohol in my system, all I was thinking about was stripping her down and fucking her any way possible. I wouldn’t deny that for a second.

  And it worked… as all my lines did. But it was her answer to my question that caught me off guard. If there really was a rhyme or reason to these flashes, this specific encounter was the one that proved to me that Ashley was a real person. She wasn’t just some manic pixie dream girl that was placed into my life to show me the error of my ways. She wasn’t there to help me get over some issue I had been struggling with for a time. And she wouldn’t disappear when I didn’t need her any longer. Ashley Leigh was a flesh and blood woman with her own goals and her own life.

  “…So what is the truth you’re searching for, Ashley?”

  She stared at me; at the time, I wasn’t sure why. But once she finally confessed, I knew she had been searching my eyes to see if she could confide in me. She was searching for a friend.

  “My father was killed about ten years ago.”

  “Oh God, Ashley. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, I’m not looking for your pity. I just…” I could tell the alcohol was going to her head. She slouched in her seat, her words began to slur, and her ability to hold eye contact became outstanding, if not slightly awkward. “He was working for the government. In what capacity, I am not sure. Then, he, umm…” She kind of laughed as she spit out her closing. “Well, he died. They say he was in an accident. I’m not sure what kind. They paid for the funeral and everything, and we never asked any questions. Another shot?”

  She stood up and ran to the bar, no doubt retreating from her sudden burst of honesty. When she came back, she was balancing four shot glass
es in her palm. I gladly took two and toasted her with each one. But now, instead of just regarding her as some dumb reporter who was out to ruin my life, I saw her as a person.

  “Ashley,” I lightly placed my hand on top of hers, as she had done for me, “thanks for telling me your story.”

  She quickly smiled, but deflected just as quickly. “Race to the bottom?” She held up her last beer to mine.

  “Ready, set, go.”

  The rest of the time at the bar was a blur, even in my flashback. We talked about the requirements for a Master’s in Journalism:

  “Do you have interest in being on television?”

  “No, it’s just a class I’m required to take.”

  “You should be on television.”

  “I’m not looking for fame. I’m looking for the truth.”

  “It’s annoying me that you’re such a good person.”

  “Is it because you’re not?”

  We talked about the requirements for a law degree:

  “This silly writing project has to be about eight thousand words. That’s crazy.”

  “That’s nothing. What, like eighteen pages?”

  “Yes, actually. Exactly eighteen pages. How did you do that?”

  “My entire major is writing.”

  “Why? Why would you subject yourself to that?”

  “Are you really looking at corporate law? You better get used to writing all the time.”

  “Shit.”

  We talked about her childhood dog:

  “That’s a fake name.”

  “Rover? No, it’s not.”

  “It’s so cliché that no one uses it. And no one should use it.”

  “I named him when I was six!”

  “I am judging six year old you.”

  And we talked about my secret underground gambling ring:

  “Three of my professors are in on it.”

  “Three? Which three?”

  “Okay, Miss Journalist: I’m drunk, but I’m not that drunk.”

  Before I knew it, we were rushing up the steps of her fourth floor walkup. I waited for the moment she would open the door to her apartment and I would push her up against the wall and crush her mouth with my own. I thought about what she would taste like: the whiskey, the beer, the curried popcorn we had been snacking on for hours. I saw the entire evening play out, the way my evenings normally did. We’d throw each other around for a bit, maybe break a few lamps or vases in the process, and then we’d bid each other goodnight and never speak of it again. It seemed to be exactly what we needed to break the tension between the two of us.

  But as she pushed her door open, something stopped me. I couldn’t go through with it. It was pathetic, but I couldn’t play out my fantasy. I froze.

  “This is a nice place you got here.” I half-jokingly admired, just to get out of my head. I’d put the entire apartment at about four hundred square feet but that was totally a guess, as I never did see the bedroom. The “kitchen” was lined up against the wall, and a small baker’s rack separated it from the open living room. The walls were an ugly sort of yellow, and the cracks in the ceiling had me more than a bit worried that the roof would cave in at any moment.

  “Shut up. What, do you have some sort of four bedroom brownstone waiting for you?” She turned to me, very accusatory.

  “Something like that.” I gave her a side grin. She didn’t need to know just how much nicer my living quarters were compared to hers.

  “Oh my God. You just made a choice not to brag, and I’m pretty sure it was so you wouldn’t hurt my feelings. Who are you and what did you do with Teddy?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I spent an entire summer writing about you. I know you have a ridiculous twenty-seven room mansion.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you just…” She slowed her words as she moved closer to me. “…Made a decision not to flaunt your wealth. I’m impressed.”

  “I told you I wasn’t as bad as you made me out to be.” I lightly jested, but in reality, I knew it was only because I was with her. I would’ve gladly boasted of my upper west side home to anyone who would listen.

  “So, you’re in my apartment. What happens next?” You’d think she was trying to flirt with me, but the way she said it was more of an interview question.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not stupid, Teddy. This is where you’re supposed to throw me up against the wall and stick your tongue down my throat for a bit, until we eventually end up breaking a few of my glass trinkets while we have our inevitable one night stand.”

  For the longest time when looking back at that night I assumed I must have, in my drunken state, admitted my fantasy aloud. But as I lived it for the second time, I realized that wasn’t the case. I didn’t speak those words; she came up with them on her own. Either she read my mind, or she had done so much research on me that she knew the route of my sexual escapades. Either way, she took me completely by surprise. I didn’t know if I was turned on or turned off.

  “It’s not happening.”

  “Yes, it is. You climbed four flights of stairs. There’s no reason to do that otherwise.”

  “So I can’t just spend time with you? What have we been doing the last few hours then?”

  “Oh, come on, you knew getting me drunk would lead us here. That’s how you work.”

  “Don’t just assume things about me because you’ve read a few page six articles. And don’t you dare think that you know anything about me just because you’ve written those half-assed articles of your own.”

  “And don’t you dare criticize my life’s work.”

  Our voices were becoming too loud, but I couldn’t control the anger coming up my throat. Why was I so angry? It was a silly little conversation. It didn’t need to be so heated. “Your puerile pieces on my bad boy billionaire lifestyle are your life’s work now? What happened to avenging your father’s death?”

  “You don’t get to bring up my father.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have told me about him.”

  “You know what?” She took a step back, bringing her hands to her head and brushing them back through her hair. “This was a mistake. Get out.”

  “No.”

  “Then have your way with me.” She threw her arms out to the side. “You have two options. Pick one.”

  “What? So you can write a story about it tomorrow? How I took advantage of another drunk girl who was too vulnerable to make a decision for herself?”

  “Yes. Yes, exactly.”

  “So that’s what this was about the whole time? You’re whoring yourself out for an up close and personal story? Well that’s too bad, sister.”

  I slid past her, making my way to the door, but she grabbed onto my sleeve and flipped me around to face her before she slammed me up against the wall. My head bounced off the concrete.

  “No you don’t.” I growled at her as I lifted her easily off of her feet and replaced her spot with mine. I had her shoulders pinned back as her chest quickly rose and fell with her staggering breath.

  “Kiss me.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Then kiss me, you coward.”

  I was the dominating one. I told women where I wanted them and when I wanted them. Her complete disregard for the role I expected her to play angered me so much that I felt a fire within me I couldn’t control. I thought about the fantasy where I put her over my lap as I slowly lowered my face to hers, keeping my mouth inches from her moistened lips. I wanted to taste them. I wanted to suck on her bottom lip until she screamed with pain. I wanted to push my body up against her so she could feel what her disobedience was doing to me.

  “I said, don’t tell me what to do.” My words were slow, deliberate, and I breathed each syllable into her mouth. Her eyes closed, and she purred softly at the taste of my breath. I lowered further, until our lips met, but I did not kiss her. I sat there, feeling her want me. I felt her craving grow st
rong as my warmth invaded her. She purred again, this time, louder, and I groaned as my pants tightened in response. I allowed my tongue to slide into her mouth, tasting her ever so briefly before I took it away. I wanted her to want me for reasons other than a story. I wanted her to think of me as a man rather than a boy. I wanted to prove wrong every degrading thing she had reported of me.

  I felt her mouth begin to close, begging for my lips to follow, but I held strong. She needed to learn the pain of wanting, and I was going to teach it to her. I was going to teach it to her, I was going to teach it to her again, and then I was going to fuck her. And then she would have nothing to write about, because I would own her.

  Just as I was about to bite down, bringing her into the most wanted kiss she had ever experienced, I remembered my father, and what he had said the night he had first laid eyes on her.

  “All she needed was a good fuck from me and she would’ve known her place. She would’ve shut her mouth forever.”

  That’s what I was doing. I was being my father. I was about to fuck a girl so she would shut her mouth. How had I so easily turned into him with just barely a nudge?

  I quickly stood, releasing Ashley from my grip.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have to go.” I searched frantically for the door.

  “No.” She stood in front of me.

  “Yes, please, just let me leave.”

  “Why?”

  She was hurt. I could see it in her eyes. What kind of a bastard turns down a woman who is throwing herself at him? And I wish I could’ve explained it to her: how my biggest fear was turning into my father, and sleeping with her would be a step in a direction I just couldn’t take. I wish I could’ve told her how I watched for years as my mother stood idly by as he fucked any woman who stepped foot in our house; how he claimed that no one dare say no to him, and I witnessed firsthand that no one was willing to prove him wrong. I wish I could’ve told her that, when I looked into her eyes, I was scared of what I could do to her. I was scared of who she might be able to let me become.