Bad Influencer by Kenzie Reed
Chapter Eight
Jillian
A day of fun with Elliott? Of course, it’s not as easy as all that. First of all, women are openly checking him out everywhere we go, and it’s actually annoying. I’ve noticed that at Nowhere Special, too.
The fact that it bothers me… bothers me even more. Why? What is it about Elliott that short-circuits my common sense?
He’s moving through the park with a scowl and a determined stride, not even noticing these women exist. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t flirt—he’s a man with no game whatsoever, but I can kind of see why he still appeals. He’s tall and obscenely handsome, and radiates a kind of uncaring confidence that’s apparently catnip to members of my sex.
You’d think that changing out of his ten-thousand-dollar suit into jeans and a T-shirt would make him less magnetic. You’d be wrong. It also doesn’t hurt that the T-shirt perfectly hugs the curve of his biceps and the jeans mold to the world’s sexiest behind. I’ve never thought of myself as a butt woman before, either. But now I am, and it’s all his fault.
“Am I walking too fast for you?” he asks after I linger behind him for about the millionth time to stare at his rear end.
“Nope, not at all!” I hurry to catch up, and move in between him and a curvaceous blonde park employee who’s trying to sidle up to him. “This park is so cool I’m just walking really slowly so I can check everything out.”
The blonde starts walking faster and moves as if she’s going to approach Elliott from the other side. I link my arm through his and quickly steer him down a side path that leads towards a gift shop. I look over my shoulder to see her glaring at me, and I stick my tongue out at her. Elliott’s off in his own world, frowning down at his phone.
We stop in front of the gift shop. “Do you not notice it?” I ask him.
“Notice what?”
I sigh. “Never mind.”
“No, really, notice what?”
“All the women checking you out.”
He flashes a rare, genuine grin, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s the sun bursting through sullen rain clouds. It’s a chorus of angels singing. “Is that a problem for you?”
“I’m green with envy.” I smirk at him to show I’m joking. Totally joking. Ha ha ha.
“Also, for all you know, they’re checking you out. You’re not entirely hideous.” He stands there with his hands in his pockets and an aw-shucks grin, and my knees wobble dangerously.
“Keep sweet-talking me like that, and I just might fall for you.” No, no, I did not just say that. I manage a quick, awkward laugh that comes out like a seal’s bark, and resist the urge to clap both hands over my mouth.
All right, talk about anything else before this gets even more awkward… seriously, the details of my latest gyno visit would be less awkward.
“Okay, so, photo opportunities today. I exchanged numbers with the family from next door, and—”
At the mention of the family, his smile vanishes. Just like that, the magic is gone. “Actually, I need to head over to the operations center, and I’ll be there for a couple of hours. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Some guys say ‘I’ll call you’, and they assume that women know that ‘when Hell freezes over’ is very strongly implied. Is that what’s happening here, Elliott Bradford?”
“Who, me? Would I do something like that?” But he’s walking backwards as he says it. Quickly. He spins around and power-walks away before I can answer.
I scowl after him resentfully. I want him to be universally awful. It would make my life so much easier. The fact that sometimes he’s funny and kind of charming is just confusing my already bewildered hormones even more. I’d prefer to keep my weird crush on him strictly below the belt, so I can tell myself it’s just lust.
Finding that he’s actually kind of likeable really messes with the script I’ve written about him in my head.
I spend the morning walking through the park and taking pictures. I’m wearing my vegan leather boots, and carrying my eco-friendly water bottle, and I snap some pictures of myself wearing those and post them on my MyFace profile along with the appropriate hashtags. A few people stop by and ask to take selfies with me, as well—the twenty-first century version of getting my autograph.
Then I send the pictures and videos from around the park to the Bradford family’s social media department, so they can vet them and post what they like.
And I wait for Elliott to call me back. And I wait. And I wait.
I’m growing increasingly annoyed. I stop off to get a soy milk latte, and check my MyFace account to see how many comments I’ve gotten on the pictures.
Yikes. I have several thousand notifications. That’s rather alarming.
I also have multiple text messages. One of the text messages is from Edith. It’s a picture of Elliott with his arm around my waist.
“The park pictures are very nice. However, people seem to think that you’re dating Elliott. I’d be careful with that as a strategy, it could backfire,” she says. “Unless you’re really dating him, in which case, Mazel Tov.”
I send back a quick text. “It wasn’t a strategy, I promise! He put his arm around me to discourage an ex of his.”
Then there are two texts from Bronwyn. One of them is a picture of Blinky in his dog bed with a new dog toy, cuddled up with Pussy Galore, who has a catnip mouse. Blinky doesn’t even look like he misses me, the little punk.
The other is a picture of Elliott with his arm around my waist, taken from a different angle than the one that Elliott’s mother sent me. It’s accompanied by a string of question marks, then some kissy lips, a bottle of champagne, and a Gif showing someone rolling a condom onto a banana.
I check my MyFace account for messages. Hundreds of them. People are already making up couple names for me and Elliott. No, thank you, I will NOT answer to “JElliott”.
You can’t ignore online rumors, though, or they’ll snowball outrageously. I snap a picture of myself, crossing my eyes and sticking my tongue out, and post it with the caption, “Elliott Bradford and I are just friends! JK, I don’t even like him. (Winky face.) But seriously folks, this is much ado about nothing. We are not dating. #singlegirl #singlelife #datingmyselfandlovingit #boysaresmelly #govegan #spayandneuter”
I text Elliott, then try to call him. It goes straight to voicemail.
I glance at my watch. My heart sinks. Elliott’s not calling me back, and it’s 3 p.m. Pretty sure he’s going to spend the entire day avoiding me. Possibly the entire trip.
So I do what I always do when I’m feeling bad. I look around to find someone to entertain. Making people happy makes me feel better.
How do I do it? It’s easy. I have a genuine capacity for making a fool of myself in public. Singing always works well. I have been told that I have a good voice, if by “good” you mean loud and impossible to ignore. Dancing is good too. My secret is that I do not care, in the slightest, how ridiculous I look. Also, I know that it’s hard to stay in a bad mood when you’re singing.
As luck would have it, I spot the family who are staying next door to us.
I walk over to them to say hi, and I’m instantly swarmed by the triplets. Literally. As I stand there laughing, one of them scales my entire body and clings to my shoulders, and the other two immediately hang off each arm. I suppose this is karma for suggesting the very same thing to Elliott.
“Michael! Michelle! Mary! You get off her this minute!” Their mother comes barreling towards me.
I start doing deep knee-bends with the kids still dangling off me, and they scream with laughter. A crowd starts to gather.
I manage to get up to fifteen before I sink to my knees, red-faced and huffing and puffing. I definitely need to up my cardio routine.
“Again! Again!” they shriek.
“Glargh.” I try to form words, then decide just to concentrate on breathing.
Their mother introduces herself, her husband and her children. They’re the Sanders family, from Ohio. They’re a group of big, happy, sunburned blondes, wearing Bradford Family Amusement Park hats and T-shirts.
“Are you with the Bradford company? We can’t thank you enough for this! This is our dream vacation!” Mrs. Sanders gushes.
“Can I get some pictures of you for our social media feed?” I ask. “I would need you to sign a release. It’s totally okay to say no.”
“Oh, for sure! It’s the least we can do, since my children nearly killed you.” She elbows her husband. “They nearly killed her, dear.”
Her husband shrugs and grins. “Yeah, they do that a lot.”
“So they like to climb? I think I can help you with that. Let’s head over to the Ghost Town jungle gym.”
We stroll through the park until we find the world’s coolest play structure, and I take picture after picture while the kids scramble up and down and over like monkeys.
Finally, I call it a day and I glance at my watch. It’s five o’clock. There’s still no sign of Elliott.
I go back to the suite, thoroughly miffed now. “I’ll call you,” my ass. I guess I’ll be eating dinner by myself.
I’m scanning the park map and looking for a restaurant that serves vegan food when my phone rings. It’s Theo.
“Everything all right?” I ask him.
“Why? Why wouldn’t it be all right? What have you done?” Theo says, sounding alarmed.
Of course his mind goes straight to a worst-case scenario. I roll my eyes. “Would robbing a bank while wearing a Saran Wrap bikini be a bad thing?”
There’s dead silence. Then there’s dead air, and his number disappears from the cell phone screen. I realize with horror that my brother actually thought I was telling the truth. I told him I was going away for the weekend to work, and he didn’t believe a word of it, but I tell him something that makes me sound like a psycho and he takes it as gospel?
Oh hell. He’s going to call my parents.
Frantically, I try to call him back. There’s no answer. I try again.
A minute later, my father calls.
“Don’t do a thing, don’t say anything to anybody.” His voice is thick with fury. “We can still turn this around. For you, anyway, not for me. I can kiss the nomination goodbye. You won’t have to go to jail, though. We can get you booked into a rehab center.”
“We still love you, dear!” I hear my mother yell from the background. “We’ll get through this together!”
“Yes, we still love you.” My father’s voice goes all sad and disappointed. That’s worse than him being mad. “It’s all right. I won’t lose my current position. Probably.”
“You can… What? Rehab for what?” I yell.
“Drugs. Alcohol. Whatever kind of addiction the jury will find most sympathetic.”
“I did not rob anything! It was a joke! Obviously.”
“We’ll need you to check in immediately. Where are you? Are you at home? We’ll send someone to pick you up.”
“Are you even listening to me? I just said it was a joke. I am at work, at the Bradford Family Amusement Park in Colorado, and I didn’t rob anything. I was being sarcastic to Theo because when he called, he asked me what I’d done wrong, which I…” I trail off.
A long moment of silence follows.
“Hello?” I say nervously.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” My father chokes out the words. “I have to call my attorney, your brother, your sister-in-law…”
“Are you people insane, that you think I’d do anything like that?” I cry out. “Rob a bank? Wearing Saran Wrap? Seriously?”
I mean, think how sweaty that would be. And who could make a run for it wearing Saran Wrap?
“She didn’t rob a bank! She was just joking!” I hear my mother yell to someone.
“What kind of joke is that?” It’s our family’s cook, Cora.
“A very bad one! Obviously!” my father growls.
I clench my fist and unclench it. “I’m really insulted that you’d actually think I would do that.”
“Excuse me. We will talk about this later today. I’m just going to need a little time to recover from this.” The disappointment in my father’s voice slices my heart like a jagged knife.
“Well, I’m going to need more than a little time to recover from the fact that you actually thought I’d do that. Please tell Pansy I send my regrets.” I hang up, my hand shaking.
At least I don’t have to endure a barbecue from hell.
I bury my face in my hands.
If he’s mad at me now, wait until I fail this assignment and I end up going to jail. My only hope is that his judgeship is confirmed before that happens.
My phone pings, and I grab it, hoping it’s a text from Elliott. It’s not; it’s Trevor.
“Nice pictures of the park. Getting good engagement, according to the marketing department. Where are the pictures of Elliott, though? He’s your main focus. Tick tock. Time’s a-wasting.”
He might as well have included a little inmate icon. Or some handcuffs. I don’t answer, because there’s nothing that I can say. I’m doing everything I can, and already failing on the first day of my job.
I toss the phone down on the bed and scream, “Arrgh!”
Gloomily, I wander over to the mirror and hold up an orange that I snagged earlier from a food cart. I put it next to my cheek and shake my head sadly. Orange washes me out completely. I really, seriously, can’t go to prison.