“Yeah he does. He’s part of my family. That’s what family does, they stick together. Not get married to some billionaire and run off leaving their kids to fend for themselves in boarding school.” I get off the sofa, grabbing my cell and move past the cameras, demanding Karl and Josie to stop filming.
“Emerson,” Karl shouts across the room. “I need more footage.”
I wave my hand in the air, ignoring his plea, and head straight to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me with a loud bang. It would only be a matter of time before someone would find me and try to talk me back into living room. But I was pissed off. At Wesley for disrespecting my wishes and as much as I hated to admit it, at Logan for being such a sleaze.
The anger rages and I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell Logan my thoughts given we hadn’t spoken for weeks.
Filled up your belt yet? I hear you’ve been busy.
The second I hit send, I want to retract the message. Why the fuck is there no recall button? Did Apple not understand that during heated moments, one could so easily mouth off based on unstable emotions?!
Nice to see you online. Your hair looks good in purple. But then again, I watched last week’s episode and I would compare my full belt to your engagement. When’s the lucky day?
I could feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. What did that mean? Comparing his belt to my engagement? This wasn’t a contest. And if it was, what the fuck would be the prize at the end? Who became the most miserable because they lived a life they didn’t want? I would win that in a heartbeat.
You’re still the same Carrington. An asshole.
Frustrated at myself for feeling this way, I look up and see George walk out of my closet. He has the guilty face. The same face he has when he’s been chewing on something pricey. My feet move forward towards the closet where I see my vintage Chanel purse that Mom gave me a few years back—chewed at the sides.
“GEORGE!” I cry, falling to the floor and picking up the remnants of the bag. He had really gotten into the beading, tearing it apart with his canine teeth.
I storm out of the closet, searching for him around the room. He is sitting in the corner, already in timeout with his head down and eyes conveniently avoiding me.
“Are you kidding me? George Puggington! How dare you eat my vintage Chanel? Go for Wes’s shit, not mine!”
He knows he’s in trouble, and with my day already gone bad, I fall onto the bed, accidently knocking my cell beside me. I hold it up in front of face as I lay on my back reading the text from Logan.
A beautiful asshole, right?
His cockiness makes me smile, and without thinking too much, I type the first thing that comes to mind.
You do know how weird that sounds right? I’m literally visualizing assholes and I think I’m a little scared. Women aren’t programmed like men. You’re all about the tits and ass.
Ass being assholes.
I knew that would challenge him but I only stated the truth. We didn’t care about cocks as much as men were obsessed with female anatomy and big juicy asses that they can slap. Boo-tay.
And what is Emerson Chase all about?
I read his question carefully and it got me thinking about what I wanted. Did I even know what I wanted? No, because I no longer thought about myself. It didn’t matter anyway, at least, for this season. Signing on the dotted line meant I signed the rights to my freedom. With that morbid thought, I do what I do best—act like a smartass to avoid reality.
I’m all about hot soccer players that appear in Sports Illustrated and OMG the abs . . . like literally can you even DEAL with such hotness???
In the confinement of my room, I laugh to myself when I read the text back. Logan is a womanizer and women were drawn to him. He knew that, they knew that, and I should have known that. Well, I do know that . . . stupid brain just forgot for a while.
I don’t think a man like that exists. Maybe you need to bat for the same side. Now THAT would make for some great reality TV.
Smartass. I can hear the voices coming close to the bedroom, so I type fast before they find me in here grinning like a fool over a stupid conversation.
You wear a kitty dress once and it’s all about the pussy with you. MAN. ALL MAN. I need a man not a woman. Take your lesbian fantasy elsewhere. That boat has no chance of docking at my wharf.
My name is being called and Josie walks in with her camera faced down and headphones resting on her neck. She is much older than me; a hopeless romantic that only ever sees the good in people despite what they have done. God love her.
“You okay Emerson?”
“Sorry. Just having one of those days.”
“Listen, we can cut that footage and re-shoot? I won’t tell Cliff.”