He turned around, popping an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Negotiating?” I winced.
“Get out.”
I dug my heels deeper into the floor. “Give me my phone first.”
“Read the contract first,” he quipped back.
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Was I really going to share my biggest insecurity to this monster? No. There was no way I was talking to him about something so intimate, so humiliating.
“I…” I licked my lips. “I’m…”
“You are not too busy. Don’t even pretend with me.”
Ugh. “That’s not it.”
“Is this an autonomy flex, or an influencer thing about how you’re too important to bother reading your own emails?” His mocking tone seared through me.
“No!”
The words felt like bullets, piercing through my chest. The air felt hot and charged in my lungs.
“Forget it. I’m not moving an inch until you give me my phone back.”
“Very well.”
With that, he lowered the waistband of his gray sweatpants. I caught a glimpse of the sharp V bracketing his abs. The golden, smooth skin of him, and the trail of hair rolling down from his belly button to…
“Jesus!” I looked away, coughing to conceal my embarrassment. “What are you doing?”
“Making you run away. Or, alternatively, setting the ground for a nice, cushioned settlement agreement after the sexual harassment lawsuit I’m going to file against you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. He was playing chicken with me. And winning. How was I going to survive him for six months?
You’re not. You’re going to have to make him quit.
“Well?” he asked. With my eyes closed, I could feel his warm breath fanning the side of my neck. Shivers trailed down my spine. “Your move, Brat.”
He saw this as a chess game, as nothing but entertainment. This was my life.
“I’ll read the damn thing,” I heard myself say. I opened my eyes. Fortunately, his pants were still on. Unfortunately, so was a condescending smirk.
“If you come across any big, intimidating words, let me know.”
“Fuck you, Random.” The words came out shaky, and I hated myself for it.
“It’s Ransom,” he corrected.
“Random suits you better.”
He paused, scanning me through hooded, ominous eyes that reminded me he was a man who fought—protected?—for a living. My lower lip trembled. He looked like a heartless prince, distant and untouchable.
Whatever he saw in my eyes made him realize I was too easy a prey. His locked jaw loosened, and his expression turned from murderous to done-with-my-shit.
“I’m hopping in the shower. When I get out, you better be ready to sign, having understood the contract.” He flung a towel over his shoulder and exited the room.
I went to my bedroom and perched on my mattress, my fingers clutching the wad of papers. My eyes roamed the pages.
The words all bled together, as if the paper were wet. I tried to take it one word at a time, but I was too upset to concentrate. After a few minutes of trying, I stood up and opened the balcony doors to try to get enough air.
You can do it. You’ve done this before. All you need to do is focus.
By the time a knock sounded on my door, I’d only made it to the second paragraph. Something about personal liability.
Ransom waltzed inside, wearing a dashing Prada suit and shiny loafers, looking like he was attending the Oscars. He buttoned his cufflinks. I leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb of the balcony, pretending not to want to hurl myself over.
“Well?”
“Boring and uninspiring. One out of five stars. Would not recommend.”
I walked over to one of my nightstands, taking a pen from a drawer. I signed the dotted line at the bottom of the contract, even though I hadn’t actually any idea what it entailed. I handed the file back to Ransom, flashing him my femme fatale smirk.
“So. You are capable of making a good decision after all.” He plucked the contract from between my fingers.
I expected a pat on the head, he was so demeaning, but of course, I wasn’t good enough for Ransom’s touch.
“Your father owes me a hundred bucks,” he said, matter-of-factly.
They’d bet on it? I wouldn’t put it past my father. He always viewed me as his little, simpleton, adorable Sugar Pie. With the big eyes and the small brain.
Maybe Dad had told him about my…issues. Maybe Ransom knew I hadn’t read the contract. And how sad was it that this complete and utter stranger who didn’t even like me had more faith in me than my own pops?
Tears filled my eyes, and I felt my throat clogging up with a scream.
“Look at me now, Brat.”
Brat. It was so patronizing, so belittling…and there was nothing I could do about it. My parents wouldn’t even take my calls.
Why hadn’t I answered them when I still could? When it was still up for discussion?
I turned my head, giving him a hate-filled look, squaring my shoulders.
“I fulfilled my side of the bargain. Now give me my phone, jerk.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please, jerk.”
Chuckling darkly, he produced my phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. I reached to take it. He raised the phone in the air, not letting me touch it just yet. He was so tall the phone brushed the ceiling. In that moment, I could tell liquid gold ran through his veins, not blood. He was no mortal. Nor was he a god. He was, quite simply, something else entirely.
“Remember the rules: no telling anyone your whereabouts. You are only allowed to post pictures of a place after you’ve left it, and once it’s been cleared with either Max or me.”
Max? Who the hell was Max? I supposed the manual/contract covered it.
Ransom continued. “No checkins. No telling anyone about your schedule. And absolutely no showing off your cars and their license plates. Capiche?”
I nodded, feeling like a punished child, loathing him more and more each second that passed, but he hadn’t said I couldn’t post pictures after leaving said locations, which felt more practical while being restrictive. Still, I didn’t have an optimistic glow about the rest of the contract’s mysterious contents.
“I would just like to make one thing clear, though.” I tilted my chin up.
He stared at me with his signature, would-rather-be-anywhere-else expression intact, waiting for me to continue.
“I do have a real job, and it is important to me. Contrary to what you believe, I’m not some scatterbrained heiress with entitled teenybopper friends. Got it?”
He slipped the contract into a briefcase and ignored my words, which I supposed was better than laughing in my face.
Waltzing through the vast hallways of my mansion, he vanished, like a ghost in the stories my mom told me not to read after dark.
“So where do y’all think Sundance will be held this year?” Nectarine, or NeNe, wondered aloud when we sat at Bakersfield, a new bakery on Rodeo Drive. She flung her lavender hair to one side, popping an orange pill bottle open and sliding a Xanax down her throat.
Ransom was sitting at a table next to us outside by the curb, working on his laptop and looking like he wanted to murder everyone on the premises. I was hyperaware of his presence, so I noticed when his fingers stilled over the keyboard. He’d definitely heard the verbal fart NeNe had just let loose.