16. Sixteen
Sixteen
Ainsley
I t's been a few weeks of phone calls, texts, and impromptu dates since our trip to Rare, and I no longer have that knee-jerk reaction to piss Payton off every time I hear his voice. In fact, I’ve started to look forward to his incessant chatter, too smiley face, and the attention he’s lavishing on me. I’ve even changed his name on my phone so he’s no longer Annoying Payton.
The Atlanta Haute List continues to post stories about the questionable state of our evolving relationship, sharing photos of us that strangers take without our knowledge or permission. It’s unsettling to me but good for his end goal of convincing Harlowe and the world that we’re really dating. I just have to keep myself from believing it, knowing I’m prone to attachment given the kind of attention he’s providing.
That attention has been frequent and fine, but it’s not what I’ve come to anticipate from him. Maybe I expected to experience more of the filthy words that have gotten me so hot and bothered in our conversations, or to experience the form of dominance he explained at dinner. Just thinking about that now sends heat rushing to my core and causes me to squirm in my seat.
I look around the newsroom, my face hot with embarrassment over the errant thoughts that drenched my panties.
Thankfully, no one’s paying attention, or even worried about news—or what I’m doing—at a small paper like the Gazette. They’re all complacent with fluff pieces and feel-good stories or ad sales for revenue. No one has aspirations of leaving, of climbing higher than this. I’m surrounded by mediocrity, and it stings extra when I remember Payton asking why I’m working here instead of somewhere better. He can’t know that I’m here due to an epic fuckup that cost me what I’d worked my ass off for. Now I’m in journalism purgatory, hoping to find absolution for my mistakes.
Will I ever truly overcome my failings and finally earn my shot at a bigger newspaper? Meeting Payton and getting a chance to write a profile on him has given me the opportunity to do more with my work and look for something bigger. At the very least, it’s time I get past fucking up royally and embarrassing myself so thoroughly that I was thrown from the path that my hard work at NYU had paved.
Still, it’s safer here, tucked away in mediocrity like a bug under a rock, where the spotlight misses me. Here, my mistakes and failures aren’t held over my head daily.
Despite all that, I want to start in the direction I was once set on, and the story Payton agreed to will be a huge help. I’ve begun to outline the story and know it can be good, great even, with the right hook.
I shopped my piece about the Olympus real estate venture into an entertainment complex and new hockey franchise to the Atlanta Free Press, the largest newspaper in Atlanta, and they were thrilled to run the story. It received a great online response, and other news outlets picked it up. They even offered to buy other stories on Olympus I may write, allowing me to publish my work to a larger audience with a reputable press going forward. Reid wasn’t all that upset about me publishing with another paper because I wrote a story for the Gazette that was more fitting for our audience and I don’t have a non-compete clause in my contract.
My phone vibrates on my desk, breaking me out of my internal musings, and I eagerly snatch it up, thinking it’s Payton reaching out. Why I’m so excited is beyond me when I know he’s just going to be his annoying self. Disappointment fills me when an unknown number greets me instead of his.
Unknown: Why are you with Payton Olsen? Are you fucking him? How do you even know him? He’s so out of your league.
I’ve had a few friends reach out to ask me about the Atlanta Haute List stories when photos of Payton and me started to show up more frequently and my name was suddenly thrust into the limelight alongside his. People really will take photos of the man anywhere. I’m trying to get used to that, knowing I’m going to be around him more.
However, this feels more intrusive than usual and I want to know who feels like they can barge into my life demanding answers when I don't even have their number saved. I’m willing to engage instead of immediately block for that reason alone.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Are you that desperate to get my attention that you’d pretend not to know? God, you’re so pathetic.
No. It can’t be him. My stomach drops, realizing who this unknown person could be. I hate that he’s reaching out now, just as I was thinking of the reasons I left New York, him being the biggest. I changed my number when I moved to Atlanta to start over. He wasn’t supposed to find me here. I thought I’d successfully cut him out of my life. Yet, here he is, somehow messaging me, his hurtful words bringing me right back to the relationship that nearly broke me. My stomach’s in knots with panic as I read his messages again, trying to control my breathing, feeling like the twenty-two-year-old girl who was under his oppressive control for far too long.
Archer Donovan knows exactly how to turn me into a weak, insecure mess with his words alone. My shaking fingers type out a halting reply.
Me: How did you get my number?
Archer: You can’t hide from me. We were fucking for over a year. The least you could have done was save my number, but you were never a good girlfriend, so I didn't warrant that kind of respect from you, did I?
Archer: My parents were right. You were just a desperate redneck scholarship girl who wasn't worth my time. I should have fucked you out of my system and thrown you away like the garbage you are. Your true colors were showing long before you got with this piece of Olsen trash.
A cold sweat beads along my hairline. I swipe at my clammy skin as my past stares me in the face in the form of a text thread, and everything I’ve tried to put behind me comes rushing back. But I’m a different woman now, with a little more steel in my spine. I can stand up for myself where Archer used to walk all over me. More than that, I can protect my public relationship with Payton, who doesn’t deserve Archer’s rage just because I’m with him, even if it’s fake . I push through the fear and let the anger I’ve allowed to become my personality seep through. I pull it around me like armor and draw a sword of steely words to cut through the bullshit Archer is spewing. I can do this. I’m better than the broken woman he made me.
Me: Why are you messaging me now if I’m not worth your time?
I swallow a mouthful of bile as I hit send and set my phone down with shaking hands. It vibrates a moment later, and I’m reminded why it’s better not to goad Archer. He just gets meaner.
Archer: Because you were seen with Payton fucking Olsen, one of the assholes who stole my father’s company then sent him to fucking prison you brainless cunt, and I want to know why. Now stop playing dumb bitch and answer me, goddammit!
I cringe at his tone, even through text. I can’t believe I thought I was in love with this man at one point. I rub my face and take a deep breath that does little to quell the panic seizing me. I know exactly why Archer hates that I’m with Payton. They have bad blood due to business dealings that went wrong for Archer’s father. I’d celebrated the news of the downfall of Donner Investments, knowing Andreas Donovan had gotten what was coming to him, thinking maybe Archer would have learned some humility from watching his father lose everything. That was too much to hope for because I knew Archer better than anyone.
Archer started out nice, like most manipulative narcissists do, but quickly turned into a controlling asshole who put me down every chance he got in insidious ways. It was never this blatant, but I guess the gloves are off now that we’ve been broken up for years and he wants information on whatever he thinks is going on with Payton. If he’s freaking out about my connection with Payton after a few gossip column stories, it’s only going to get worse when photos and accounts of my fake relationship with Payton get steamier. Great, just what I need. Archer thinking he should be all up in my business because he has some beef with the Olsens over Olympus business dealings. I type back a quick reply while I have the fortitude to do it.
Me: I don’t owe you anything. Get a life.
I quickly block his number with shaking fingers.
“Hey, do you have the Peachtree Plaza story for me yet?”
I jump in my chair as Reid comes up beside my desk, my face flaming hot in embarrassment. My heart races as I’m caught texting instead of working, feeling like a scolded child. I should’ve sent my story already. I’m off my game, and it’s all Payton’s fault. It’s not like me to let a man distract me. Well, it's not like me now , and I hate that I’m falling into old habits, especially right as my past has come back to remind me of my failings.
“Yeah, I’ll email that right over.”
“Any fun plans this weekend?” Reid asks, leaning his hip against my desk. Reid’s in his early fifties, has been with the Gazette for a decade, and acts like the paper is God’s gift to suburban Atlanta. He thinks we need to cover every shopping center's grand opening and pothole petition like they mean just as much as national news. He’s a warrior for lost causes, which is endearing in its own way but truly comical when you pick your head up and look at real problems compared to the things he focuses on.
“Reid, we’ve talked about entering my personal space. Get off my desk,” I say with measured calm and a bite to my words that precede a true snap. He stands up without argument, used to my bluntness at this point. It’s easier to fall back on that than give in to the panic that’s swirling inside of me from Archer’s texts and unexpected reentry into my life after two years of silence.
“Oh, sorry. Send me the story and chase down your next. You had some good ideas in our meeting this morning. Run with those and get me something to edit.” He starts to walk away before turning with his finger in the air. “And no extra stories this weekend, kiddo. You’re too young to waste all that time working. Learn from my mistakes.”
He smiles like he’s imparting some secret wisdom. In reality, he’s the one who assigns me the stories and makes me work on the weekends more often than not. Reid has children my age and tends to treat me like them. I remind him regularly that I’m on his staff, no matter how much he wants the newsroom to be a family .
“My personal life is none of your concern. The story’s already in your inbox.” I close out my email for emphasis. I stopped playing along with social niceties when I moved to Atlanta for a fresh start. I like to blame my time in New York for the curt replies and testy attitude, but it just feels better this way, less likely to get hurt if you keep everyone away.
He waves. “Get out of here, kid.”
I look around the office and notice everyone shutting down computers, chatting about evening plans or dinner recipes. I follow their lead, closing my ancient laptop. I’m supposed to meet up with Della for after-work drinks in a bit, which I desperately need following that awful text exchange. My phone vibrates in my purse and I pull it out, wondering if it’s her asking where we’re meeting up. Instead, it’s Payton.
Okay Payton: Miss me yet?
I feel a two-fold sense of relief that Payton’s texting me and it’s not Archer from some other number harassing me. I wouldn’t put it past him to have another way to do just that. I take a relieved breath and smile because the egotistical jerk I enjoy a whole lot more is the one wanting my attention. I type out a quick reply as I head to my car.
Me: Sorry, who is this?
Okay Payton: You want to wound me, but you can’t. I missed your insults and crankiness. My life wasn’t the same without you.
Damn . I know he’s messing with me, but reading that last sentence strikes a chord that feels like a melody I haven’t heard in far too long. His attention feels a little too good after the absence and I allow myself a moment to enjoy it before I quickly shut it down, despite wanting more of the reassurance that when I’m not hearing from him, he’s missing me.
Me: I doubt it.
Okay Payton: Never doubt me, Muffin. Do you like espresso martinis as much as you like iced coffee? There’s a bar by Olympus that has the best and I’m heading there now. You’re coming with me.
He doesn’t even bother to invite me. He sends me the address in a pin with the expectation that I’ll join him. It’s a bold move that I rather like. I call him out on it.
Me: You’re a smug bastard. I’m meeting a friend for drinks tonight so I’m busy. Can’t make it.
Okay Payton: Not a bastard. Arrogant asshole was a previous insult and it was more fitting. I know you miss my annoying smile. Invite your friend. I have a friend, too. We’ll put on a show for them. Get ready for our first double date. See you soon. I can’t wait to get my hands on you again. This time, you won’t even have to pretend to enjoy it. I’m fucking excited.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I let out a sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a frustrated snarl as I slide into my car, wincing when I burn my hands on the hot steering wheel that’s been baking in the sun all day. I crank the engine of my old Toyota to life and turn the AC all the way up, knowing it won’t cool down for several minutes.
Double date? Can’t wait to get his hands on me? Holy shit, this is really happening, and I’m kind of into it.
I type out a text to Della, letting her know plans have changed.
Me: Hey, is it okay if we meet up with Payton and a friend of his for drinks tonight instead?
It takes a few minutes for my phone to vibrate back with her reply.
Della: HELL FUCKING YES! Have you seen who he associates with? The men of Olympus are hot as fuck. It’s about time you dating him worked in my favor. I’m so glad I finished early and went home to shower.
I shake my head in resignation and send her the address. If she’s on board, I guess I can't argue. And now I’m about to play his fake girlfriend in front of my friend and I have to make it convincing. I sigh and let Della know my arrival time so she won’t beat me there, and begin the drive.
It takes me half an hour in Atlanta traffic to make it to the bar and another five minutes in the car to talk myself into going inside. Archer texting me out of the blue after years of not hearing from him still has me rattled. Knowing my connection to Payton is what caused him to reach out makes me nervous to be seen with the billionaire because this PDA-filled evening will absolutely make it into the gossip pages again, as planned.
A thought strikes me, and it has me considering the situation from a different angle. Maybe this is exactly what Archer needs to see after all this time, me moving on with someone he hates more than anything. I’ll just keep blocking him if he continues contacting me. I don’t actually have to interact with him. That’s enough motivation to resolve to be as convincing as possible that I’m falling head-over-heels for Payton Olsen.
I slick on my vanilla-scented lip gloss, making sure the rest of my work-appropriate attire and makeup are still in place. I walk toward the bar, knowing I’ll be bombarded with Payton’s annoying cheerfulness as soon as I find him, and I’ll like it more than I care to admit.