Page 28 of The Southern Submission

“Your editor can eat shit. Your paper isn’t a hard-hitting news organization known for breaking stories about multibillion-dollar conglomerates entering into million-dollar deals with the city to build an entertainment complex and bring a professional sports team to the city. That’s the kind of story that’s better suited to another paper and he can’t deny it. If you want to write up a smaller piece that covers the basics that the Gazette would actually run, he should be grateful you’re willing to do that.”

“You’re bringing in a sports team? What kind? Don’t we have everything already? And an entertainment complex? We have the Georgia Dome, the ballpark outside the city, and the arena where the basketball team plays. What else could we need?” I’m confused. I know this is huge, but my mind is working to figure the details out. I don't follow any professional sports, so this is beyond my comprehension.

Payton looks around us, ensuring there aren’t any listening ears too close before he returns his attention to me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We’re buying an NHL franchise and bringing professional hockey back to Atlanta. The last time we had a team was over a decade ago. Since then, the sport has exploded in popularity. We got into real estate to buy the land and build the complex and entertainment around it. It should be profitable in the long term, but it’s a huge initial investment, which is why the city’s behind the project because we’re willing to take on the financial responsibility.”

“That’s absolutely crazy. Do you know anything about owning a hockey team, or building a sports complex?” I ask. My mind is spinning through the logistics and what it must take to put together this monster of a project. I’m also filing away everything he says for a story.

“We have a team of experts for every part of this project andwe’re already interviewing for a general manager and coaches now. We’ll be hands-off with the actual hockey part since we don’t know anything about it. We’ve learned how to initiate projects, organize what’s necessary, and compile the right teams to run them as needed. It’s called delegating.” He smirks at me and I scowl.

“You’re such a smartass. So hockey and real estate development. I never would’ve guessed this is the direction Olympus International would be headed in after engines and private jets, hotels, shipping, investments, and mining.”

“We diversify our assets and ensure we’re always ahead of the curve.”

Payton tells me more about the development plans while we eat and I’m already planning out the story I’ll write. It has me fully engaged and hanging onto his every word, which keeps him talking. Before I know it, the check’s been paid and he’s holding his hand out to me, signaling that our dinner date is over. Unexpected disappointment floats through me, despite initially wanting to keep this a short outing.

“This wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” I begrudgingly offer as he opens the door of his Range Rover for me. He waits for me to slide in and hands me my seat belt. He laughs and leans on the doorframe, studying me.

“I’m not as bad as you think, Ainsley. You just want to hate me for all the wrong reasons.”

Sixteen

Ainsley

It's been a few weeks of phone calls, texts, and impromptu dates since our trip to Rare, and I no longer have that knee-jerk reaction to piss Payton off every time I hear his voice. In fact, I’ve started to look forward to his incessant chatter, too smiley face, and the attention he’s lavishing on me. I’ve even changed his name on my phone so he’s no longerAnnoying Payton.

The Atlanta Haute List continues to post stories about the questionable state of our evolving relationship, sharing photos of us that strangers take without our knowledge or permission. It’s unsettling to me but good for his end goal of convincing Harlowe and the world that we’re really dating. I just have to keep myself from believing it,knowing I’m prone to attachment given the kind of attention he’s providing.

That attention has been frequent and fine, but it’s not what I’ve come to anticipate from him. Maybe I expected to experience more of the filthy words that have gotten me so hot and bothered in our conversations, or to experience the form of dominance he explained at dinner. Just thinking about that now sends heat rushing to my core and causes me to squirm in my seat.

I look around the newsroom, my face hot with embarrassment over the errant thoughts that drenched my panties.

Thankfully, no one’s paying attention, or even worried about news—or what I’m doing—at a small paper like the Gazette. They’re all complacent with fluff pieces and feel-good stories or ad sales for revenue. No one has aspirations of leaving, of climbing higher than this. I’m surrounded by mediocrity, and it stings extra when I remember Payton asking why I’m working here instead of somewhere better. He can’t know that I’m here due to an epic fuckup that cost me what I’d worked my ass off for. Now I’m in journalism purgatory, hoping to find absolution for my mistakes.

Will I ever truly overcome my failings and finally earn my shot at a bigger newspaper? Meeting Payton and getting a chance to write a profile on him has given me the opportunity to do more with my work and look for something bigger. At the very least, it’s time I get past fucking up royally and embarrassing myself so thoroughly that I was thrown from the path that my hard work at NYU had paved.

Still, it’s safer here, tucked away in mediocrity like a bug under a rock, where the spotlight misses me. Here, my mistakes and failures aren’t held over my head daily.

Despite all that, I want to start in the direction I was once set on, and the story Payton agreed to will be a huge help. I’vebegun to outline the story and know it can be good, great even, with the right hook.

I shopped my piece about the Olympus real estate venture into an entertainment complex and new hockey franchise to the Atlanta Free Press, the largest newspaper in Atlanta, and they were thrilled to run the story. It received a great online response, and other news outlets picked it up. They even offered to buy other stories on Olympus I may write, allowing me to publish my work to a larger audience with a reputable press going forward. Reid wasn’t all that upset about me publishing with another paper because I wrote a story for the Gazette that was more fitting for our audience and I don’t have a non-compete clause in my contract.

My phone vibrates on my desk, breaking me out of my internal musings, and I eagerly snatch it up, thinking it’s Payton reaching out. Why I’m so excited is beyond me when I know he’s just going to be his annoying self. Disappointment fills me when an unknown number greets me instead of his.

Unknown: Why are you with Payton Olsen? Are you fucking him? How do you even know him? He’s so out of your league.

I’ve had a few friends reach out to ask me about the Atlanta Haute List stories when photos of Payton and me started to show up more frequently and my name was suddenly thrust into the limelight alongside his. People really will take photos of the man anywhere. I’m trying to get used to that, knowing I’m going to be around him more.

However, this feels more intrusive than usual and I want to know who feels like they can barge into my life demanding answers when I don't even have their numbersaved. I’m willing to engage instead of immediately block for that reason alone.

Me: Who is this?

Unknown: Are you that desperate to get my attention that you’d pretend not to know? God, you’re so pathetic.

No. It can’t be him. My stomach drops, realizing who this unknown person could be. I hate that he’s reaching out now, just as I was thinking of the reasons I left New York, him being the biggest. I changed my number when I moved to Atlanta to start over. He wasn’t supposed to find me here. I thought I’d successfully cut him out of my life. Yet, here he is, somehow messaging me, his hurtful words bringing me right back to the relationship that nearly broke me. My stomach’s in knots with panic as I read his messages again, trying to control my breathing, feeling like the twenty-two-year-old girl who was under his oppressive control for far too long.

Archer Donovan knows exactly how to turn me into a weak, insecure mess with his words alone. My shaking fingers type out a halting reply.

Me: How did you get my number?

---