Instead, I did what any bastard who knew exactly how to hurt someone would do. I lied to her.
“I don’t want to fuck you.”
“Shut up, Teddy.”
“You would be a waste of a condom.”
She slapped me right across the face, her palm flattening against my cheek. But it wasn’t anger I felt in that slap; it was that hurt again. I felt a pain in my chest as I said it, but it was nowhere near the pain she must have felt in hers. She was such a beautifully confident creature, even if that confidence was only a single layer deep, and I knocked her off the pedestal on which she had every right to be.
CHAPTER NINE
Teddy
TEDDY TRIBUNE
This Bad Boy is Sorry
By Theodore Vincent Stoneguard IV
The other night, Teddy did something unforgiveable. He wishes he could explain his actions, but he cannot. He wishes he knew a way to apologize that would prove to Ashley how much he truly means the words, but alas, he is not believable as that man. He is, however, the man capable of tearing down someone so harshly that they begin to see themselves in a different light…in an unhealthy lig—
The next memory plaguing my final moments was my silly attempt at an apology. It ended there, as after finding myself halfway through the word “light”, I tore the paper in two and tossed it in the trash.
Remember earlier when I mentioned that I was the one stories were written about? For the first time in my life, I had tried to do the right thing. I did not take advantage of a woman who was sad and hurt and drunk. I did not let her know that my father had every intention of forcing himself onto her the night she had assumed she was playing the crowd the way a socialite would. I took the blame. I let her hate me.
And she wrote a story. I was the predator, and I was the gambler. I was the guy people write stories about.
Because no one writes stories about the good guy: the guy who does everything right, the guy who doesn’t hurt those around him. But doesn’t that guy’s story deserve to be heard?
There is a man in this world that wakes up in the morning and kisses his wife. He’s a good guy. He’s the guy every other guy secretly wishes he could be. That man then smiles as he thinks of how lucky he is to have won the hand of the woman sleeping next to him. Then he checks on his sleeping children and fixes the blankets that have inevitably fallen from their beds. He then drinks his coffee and reads the morning paper, and thanks God that the terrors of this world are not troubling his little household. He happily goes to work, knowing that he is doing what should be done: he is providing for his family. He comes home, spends time with his wife and kids, says his prayers, and then goes to sleep, ready to do it all again the next day.
He’s the dream. He’s the one every woman says she wants.
I am not that man. And the thing is, even when I tried, no one allowed me to be. They still wrote the stories. They still made me the one to watch. I am the man they actually want: the one that needs to be fixed. I am the man that is exciting and scary and has every possibility of crushing you. I am that man because they made me that man. And although deep down they yearn for that man, on the surface, they hate him. That’s why they tell the stories.
And that’s why they laugh when he fails.
When speaking earlier of my dreams to run my father’s company, I made an oath:
I will never be the person they claim doesn’t deserve what he was given.
I’m sure when the article goes out tomorrow about my death, everyone will say that I deserved what I was given. At least I’ll get my wish.
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 i
n 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 wo
man 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.
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