Jillian Dodd - Hate Me

“I’m sorry I didn't tell you when I stopped doing stuff with Dawson. It must have been horrible for you when I hung out with him. Now I understand why you acted like such a little bitch sometimes.”

“What?!” he says with a grin, grabbing my waist playfully. “I think you just liked watching me suffer.”

“No, I didn’t, because when you suffered you pretend-punched my head. And pretend-punching someone's head is not nice.”

“Better than punching it for real.”

“Maybe, unless you tell them you’re pretend-punching them.” I put my finger up to his lips. “And before you say I did that. I did not. You were lurking behind me when you overheard. You told me to my face.”

He looks deep into my eyes, the playful mood turning serious with a single look. He doesn't say anything, just kisses me.

And does this kiss ever speak.

It's a kiss that's more emotional than it is sexual. It's a kiss that says all our fighting, all our misunderstandings, our lack of communication, all the hurt feelings, were worth it.

But when his tongue gets involved in the kiss and he pulls me onto the bed with him, and onto his lap, it takes the kiss to a whole other level.

It’s emotion mixed with desire.

And I decide that might be the most powerful combination of all.

With every flick of his tongue, with every greedy touch of his lips, with every caress of my face, I know it's not just a silly love potion.

It's what love is supposed to be.

Scary, exhilarating—from the top of the world to the pits of hell—all-consuming love.

I think of his time bomb app, knowing that if I had one, it would be set to go off in March when I’ll go public, not August for my birthday. Which means I should follow his lead and appreciate the time we have left.

Liquidity.

12:30am

I flip open my screen to find B waiting for me.

He looks upset. Or pissed at me, I’m not sure.

“Hey. You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies, but I don’t believe him. Something’s off.

“Did something happen?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Oh, good. I’m kinda nervous about this call. I know nothing about this stuff.”

“Me either. That’s why I set you up with Michael. So, conference him in, then I’ll introduce you and let you two talk.”

“Wait? What? You’re not staying on the call?”

“There’s really no reason to.”

“Yes there is! I can’t do this without you.”

“Look, finance is not something I really give a shit about and I don’t care to learn. As long as I have my board, I’m happy.”

“We’ve had that conversation before, B. It was bullshit then and it’s bullshit now.”

“Whatever. I’m traveling and I have to practice. I don’t have time for it. Do you still want me to introduce you or what?”

I push back tears and force myself to stay calm. “Yes, please.”

B goes, “Hey, Michael. Keatyn is on the line, so I’ll let you take it from here.”

Then there’s a little beep indicating that he left the call.

Michael is talking, listing his qualifications, but I’m looking at B. He gives me a sad smile, a little finger wave, and then logs off.

“So, a hostile takeover—how long will it take?” I ask Michael, trying to cut to the chase. I mean, I’m assuming it’s not really that hard to buy a company.

“Let’s talk about whether it’s even possible first.”

“What do you mean? Of course it’s possible. He’s, like, leveraged, right? And that’s bad.”

“Yes, he is. The company is ripe for a takeover, but you have to be able to make it happen.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You offer to buy his investors out. If enough people sell, then you end up with the majority of the stock, which means you control the company. That’s what you want, right?”

“Yes. Are there any other benefits?”

“Well, the obvious one would be that you vote the current Chairman of the Board out of office.”

“Is Vin, um, Mr. Sharpe the chairman?”

“Yes, he is.”

“That’s perfect. I want to do both. Buy them out and appoint someone else. What will it cost?”

“That all depends on what his stockholders want. I’m emailing you a simple document so you can follow along.” The way he says “simple” makes it sound like he thinks I don’t have a clue.

I mean, I don’t. But still, I’m not loving his attitude.

I don’t say anything, though, because I desperately need his help.

“I have the email,” I tell him, pulling the document up on my computer.

“His company isn’t publicly traded, so it’s hard to get financial information. The numbers you see are what I believe it to be worth. And, from the digging I did as a favor to Mr. Wright, I have a list of investors along with their initial investments. Those are below. Do you see them?”

“Yes.”

“The next document shows the company’s liabilities. And the next is Mr. Sharpe’s balance statement.”

I scroll through page after page of spreadsheets, trying to keep up. “Uh, huh.”

“As you can see, his asset to debt ratio is very high.”

“Okay. And why is that important?”

“That ratio refers to his liquidity. He’s borrowed money on all of his assets, meaning he won’t be able to personally fight a hostile takeover. From on-the-ground intel, he’s invested a lot of money in a single movie and is betting the farm that it’s going to be a blockbuster.”

Mom’s movie could financially ruin him?

Wouldn’t that be poetic justice?

“But, as you can see from the figures on the last page, acquiring this company will take a substantial amount of capital.”

I look at the very big number on the last page. One that would require more than my entire trust. I think about the scholarship check I just wrote.

For a second, I reconsider it.

I quickly shake my head, clearing the thought. I can’t take it back and I don’t want to.

Besides, B promised his trust to help.

I’ll be fine.

“How do you plan to raise these funds?”

“Well, I have my trust fund, and Brooklyn said we could use his for whatever I’m short.”

“That’s what I thought. Unfortunately , Brooklyn doesn’t have control of his trust, nor will his father authorize the early release of any funds. So, unless you can arrange financing, there’s nothing further to discuss.”

This is why B didn’t want to be on the call.

Freaking chicken shit.

“I can get the money,” I say quickly.

“And how is a seventeen-year-old going to do that?” he asks condescendingly.

“I don’t know exactly,” I admit quietly.

“That’s what I figured.”

I bite my tongue, thank him for his time, and hang up.

I set the phone down in my lap, feeling paralyzed, like I’m lost at sea with no land in sight.

How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to win without B’s help?

I can’t.

That means prong two of my attack is out, which blows my whole plan to smithereens.

Damnit!

He has to help me. He promised! This was his idea!

I call him.

He doesn’t answer.

I hang up and call again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I keep punching the button over and over.

By the time he finally answers, I’m pissed and crying frustrated tears.

“You should have told me yourself if you didn’t want to help me! I can’t believe you would bail on me like this! I need you!”

“This hasn’t exactly been easy on me. I’ve gotten shit from every direction for what I said about you. God, it was spur of the moment! I am grateful that you encouraged me! And I care about you. I wanted to help. My dad was willing to help, but he freaked the fuck out yesterday when he heard about the photo. Told me if I have anything to do with you it will jeopardize everything we’ve worked so hard for. My career. My future. He trashed the takeover idea. Said it was like poking the hornet’s nest. Said I can’t use my trust. So, I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. And, come on, don’t I get some credit for what I’ve already done? Michael did all sorts of research.”