Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 179189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 896(@200wpm)___ 717(@250wpm)___ 597(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 896(@200wpm)___ 717(@250wpm)___ 597(@300wpm)
This bitch is crazy. Seriously.
“Well, thanks anyway. I’m glad I found someone I can agree with,” I say, nodding because I really wanna go now.
“No problem,” she says. “It’s always nice to talk to someone who knows what I’ve been through.”
“Likewise,” I reply, and I smile. “Well, see you.”
“Bye!” she says, and I quickly spin on my heels and dash off, pulling Pepper along as fast as she can manage. I don’t ever wanna come back here.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Never in my life have I met a more fucked-up bitch than that woman.
But even as she closes the door, I know she’s not the one smiling the hardest.
Because as I walk back to the car, I take out my phone, which has been recording our conversation all this time.
I grin when I press the button to stop it and do a playback. “Gotcha …”
Chapter 28
TJ
I shouldn’t have gotten into this damn car.
Hundreds of journalists crowd the pavement, trying to get a picture of me inside a car as it drives up to the building and into the garage. They don’t stop shooting pictures, despite the tinted windows being closed and blocking the view.
Fuck.
Why did I decide to go to work again?
Oh, right. I heard my pop’s voice in the back of my head again, telling me to man up and face what I’ve done. Fuck … what have I done.
I should’ve listened to him when he told me to stop feeding my addiction. To act professional and keep it away from work.
When he asked me to take over his company mere days before his death, I never imagined it’d be this hard. I should’ve taken his advice when I still had the chance.
How many more questions could I have asked if I’d only had another minute with him? I knew being a CEO wasn’t going to be easy. He prepared me for that. It was always hard, but never this hard.
I wonder what Pa would’ve done about this. If he was still alive.
I sigh as I drive the car into the parking spot and a hoard of journalists gather around.
I grab my briefcase and open the door. A barrage of clicking cameras are in my face with lights everywhere. I can barely see.
“Sir!” one shouts.
“Mr. Morrows!”
“TJ, over here!”
They’re all fighting for my attention. I don’t want to give it to them, but they’re blocking my path. Everywhere I go, they’re there. They follow my every footstep. Blind me with their flashing cameras. Drive me insane with their yelling and taunting.
“Sir, do you have anything to say about the article that came out yesterday?” one of them asks.
I wish I did. I tried. I honestly tried. But the longer I stared at my laptop, the less I came up with. It ate me up inside. I couldn’t keep hoping for something brilliant to magically pop into my head when I knew damn well that denying it all is denying the truth. I am an addict, yes. I hoard panties, yes. But it didn’t go down the way that woman said it did.
Still, I knew they wouldn’t believe me, which is why I haven’t even tried to respond.
“No comment,” I shout back, holding my briefcase in front of my face to block another photographer from taking a picture.
But speaking only makes them more rabid. They’re like vultures, feeding off the feeble and weak. Poke my eyes out while I’m down, why don’t you?
They don’t even realize my reputation isn’t everything that’s ruined here. And they don’t care either. All they want is the next juicy picture with a trendy tagline for a tabloid. I’m just fodder to them.
One of them pushes a microphone in my face. “Mr. Morrows! How did it feel when you found out one of your employees talked to the press about your panty addiction?”
“I said no comment,” I growl, pushing on.
I try to ignore them, but it’s impossible. They keep harassing me.
“Did you steal more panties? Do you have a specific preference?” one of them asks.
“How many panties did you collect from other employees?”
It’s all just speculation. Ideas. None of it is real or true, but to them it is.
Anything they write can be made real as long as people believe it.
Fuckers.
“Did you grope any of your other colleagues?”
“Enough!” I scream back. “Don’t you people have anything better to do?”
It’s silent for a few seconds, but then the barrage of inappropriate questions and flashes continue, so I give up.
It’s no point trying to argue with these people. All they want is my face on their magazines to get people to buy it. They don’t care about my side of the story. They don’t care about the truth. If they did, they wouldn’t have printed it in the first place without checking the facts.
“Do you people ever think before you print those lies?” I yell as one of them gets all up in my space.