Bad Influencer by Kenzie Reed
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jillian
I wake up late on Wednesday, which is what happens when you have multiple sessions of makeup sex. When I reach over to the right side of the bed, it’s empty.
Grumbling, I roll out of bed, use the restroom, and then go to search for Elliott in the main area of the cabin. He’s not there either. My stomach lurches.
And then I hear a car rumbling up. I hurry to the doorway, and watch Elliott park and climb out of his car.
“What the heck?” I yawn and stretch, moving out of the way to let him in. “Where did you go? And why? I thought you did the old dine and dash. So to speak.”
“Are you kidding? You’re my new favorite meal. You’re dinner and dessert all in one.” He strolls into the living room and flops dramatically down on the sofa.
“You still haven’t told me where you went.”
“I just called in sick and canceled my meetings for today,” he says, grinning lazily. “Come here and sit with me.”
I sit down next to him and hold up my hand for a high five. He reaches up and smacks my palm.
“Yep, that’s me. The Bad Influencer. Welcome to the wonderful world of Jillian,” I say. “Low expectations to the right. Straight ahead, you will find the zero work ethic aisle.”
“Nope, nope. You’re doing the negative self-talk thing. We’ll have none of that now.” I snuggle up next to him. We fit perfectly together, even though he’s a good eight inches taller than me. I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’ve seen you at the bar. You hustle your ass off. And you’re killing it with your influencer gig.”
I sigh. “That all fell into my lap, though. I got lucky. I really didn’t do anything to earn it.”
He sits up so abruptly that I almost fall off the couch. “Hey!” I protest.
“Come on, Jillian. Do you just hear your parent’s voices talking in your head twenty-four seven? Do me a favor. Tell them, for me, that I said shut the fuck up.”
I bark out a delighted laugh, imagining the look on my parent’s face if I ever said that to them.
“You got lucky once, yes, but luck isn’t what kept your influencer numbers growing and growing.” His voice is heated, eyes alight. “It’s a combination of passion, sincerity and talent. You’re an excellent photographer, whether you’re using your phone or a traditional camera. You’re great at staging, lighting, posing, and just knowing exactly when to take the shot.”
I start to protest again, but a stern look from him silences me.
“And you’re also incredibly versatile. You switched from your animal rights and ecologically friendly platform to our amusement park platform, and you made it work. You helped humanize our park, you exposed us to a whole new audience, and you actually got a number of decent shots of me, and I can tell you from a lifetime of painful experience, that isn’t easy.”
I shrug, uneasy with all this praise. It feels weird, and I don’t know yet if it feels good-weird or bad-weird. I’m so used to defending myself in a bitter, “Well, what did you expect? This is me we’re talking about!” way.
“I mean, I did it mostly through manipulating you into situations where I knew you’d come out looking good. A lot of times I didn’t even count on making you smile, I sort of made you into a comic figure and everyone assumed you were in on the gag.”
He shrugs. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Just because it comes easily to you doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t give yourself credit. You’re naturally good at it. Be proud.”
I relax into his arms, pondering that. And I decide that it feels weird-good.
We spend the morning lounging around in the cabin. In the evening, we douse ourselves in lemon-eucalyptus mosquito repellant and take a hike up the hill.
On Wednesday, I expect that he’ll want to head home, but he calls in sick a second day in a row. We spend the day having amazing sex, and lounging around on the couch, and cooking side by side in the small kitchen.
On Thursday, at 10 a.m., after we shower and dress, I say “Hey, we need to head into town. We’re out of milk for our coffee.”
He yawns hugely. We watched movies on videocassette until 3 a.m. this morning.
“I’ll use your soy milk.”
“We’re out of that too. We’re making a milk run. Deal with it. And get dressed.”
He heaves a sigh but obediently fetches his clothes from the dryer. He’s just been washing his clothes every day since he came with nothing. At least he didn’t wallow around in dirty clothes. That’s a thing I’ve gone through on more than one occasion, when I’m really down in the dumps.
“Fine,” he grumbles.
A few minutes later, we’re on the road to town.
“You just passed our exit,” he points out.
“Sure did.”
“What’s happening? Am I being kidnapped? Is this part of some kinky fantasy scenario?”
I laugh. “You wish.”
“Well, then?”
“We’re going back to work.”
“You monster!” he splutters.
“I can live with that.”
“But my car’s back at the cabin.”
“Send someone to pick it up.” I shrug. “And by the way, I can’t believe you’re forcing me to be the responsible one here.” I shoot a narrow-eyed look of annoyance at him. “Don’t ever let it happen again.”