Page 18 of The Renegade Billionaire
Which should have been easy because she’s spent a good part of the last hour hiding, something I know courtesy of Blissy. Theolder woman filled me in on a little of the Chugaloo’s history while Madison’s been MIA.
She told me enough to know that Madison has dumped her blood, sweat, and tears into this place, and it shows in every piece of local artwork on the walls, in the comfy chairs she chose for the quiet room, and in the relaxed expressions of every person who enters.
I’ve been here for a couple of hours, and before she went into hiding, the woman hadn’t stopped once. She’s the fucking Energizer Bunny for the entire town. So far today, I’ve seen her help Blissy with the trash, work with the football players on a time management plan, and then she helped a group of high schoolers from the local high school sign up for time in the sound booth to record their own podcasts for a class they’re taking.
Does she ever do anything for herself?
Now she’s sitting with her back to me with who I assume are her close friends because the second they walked in, they grabbed her by the arms, dragged her to the table farthest from me, put their heads together, and all I’ve heard are hissing sounds ever since.
Every once in a while, one of them will lift their head to look around, but their gazes always land on me. I know because I haven’t been able to stop staring at them.
When did I turn into a stalker?
When the assertive-looking one with brown hair pulled into a severely high ponytail glares at me, I know it’s time to distract myself.
Opening up the messaging app on my new MacBook, I type out a quick message.
Me: Can you find an address for a college football player at Happiness State University named Ethan—he grew up in Happiness—and then send him a new MacBook so it doesn’t come from Georgia?
Me: Say he won it in a competition or something.
Grey: Is there a reason we’re gifting a $2000 machine to a kid you don’t even know the last name of?
He chooses now to call me out?
Me: I’m sorry, aren’t you the one who encouraged me to do this shit in the first place?
My gaze darts around the room as though I’m about to get caught robbing a bank. When I don’t find any police or Blissy holding a broom to my throat, I go back to typing out another message.
Me: He needs it. And he’s a good kid.
Me: I helped him tape his laptop back together again.
Me: He said he only needed his to last two more years until he graduates and gets a job to afford a new one.
Me: He donated the one the football team gave him to a freshman who needed it more.
Jesus. I just had texting diarrhea.
Grey: Huh.
Me: Huh what?
Grey: An act of kindness.
I groan because I know exactly where this is heading.
Me: You told me to do this shit. And this is exactly why we started the DDD in college. It’s the only way for me to give back without my mother turning it into a PR stunt for herself, which meant I could no longer attend.
Or it was.
If feels different helping now.
When the Montgomerys donate money, they give it to whatever charity will offer them the most recognition, and they never volunteer unless there’s a camera crew following them. The DDD, Discreet Daily Deeds, is something we started after my parents stepped so far over the line that I knew I would never be like them.
That was the year Greyson and I both got our start-up money from Ace and pooled it together. Half of it we invested—luckily Grey is a savant with investments—and the other half we used to buy into an early-stage online commerce website.
Later that year, we left college for good.
