Chapter 2
Helllllooooo. I'm Reese. This is my story. I hope you enjoy it. I should be updating every Wednesday and Friday :)
"If this is heaven, I need something more. Just a place to be alone, 'cause you're my home."
I hum along to the lyrics as I clean my apartment. I pick up stray clothes strewn across my flat, take the stray cups and plates, place them in the sink, and then put them in the dishwasher. I have three main speakers in my penthouse: One in the living room, one in the kitchen, and in my bedroom. I live on the top floor in the penthouse. It's a great luxury, but I have no one to share the opulence with. It's somewhat of a blessings and a curse.
I want a girl to spend all of my money on, treat like a princess, give her everything she's ever wanted. But more importantly, I don't want her to care about my money. I want her to care about me. Rich or poor. Every girl I've tried to date the past four years has only cared about my income. Hence the reason I don't date anymore. I'm simply putting my heart on hold. And if I catch feelings, then we'll see where it goes, I suppose. I really just want to remain single though. I'm done searching. Whatever is meant to happen will happen all in good time.
Seeing the red light of the buzzer light up, I press the button for the receptionist on the bottom floor to speak.
"Yes, Michelle?" I ask.
"There is someone down here for you. Want me to send them up?"
"Go for it."
I went back to the sink and finished up the last of the dishes.
A ding of the elevator made me turn to see who it was.
To say the least, I was pleasantly surprised.
The very provoking Tris Prior is the masterpiece that walks out of the elevator.
She immediately gives a coy smile. "Arcade Fire. Good band," she yells over the music.
I scramble for my phone and turn the music to a low volume so we can speak at a normal volume, but still listen to the music.
"Sorry about that," I say awkwardly. "I wasn't expecting anyone. I was just tidying up."
She gave a shy smile. "It's okay. I'm sorry about just popping in here. I contacted your editor and she gave me the address. I hope you don't mind. I just wanted to swing by to give you a last minute answer about what we talked about on Wednesday. Oh," she said, holding up something in her hand. "And this." It was a newspaper. A bullshit gossip newspaper that nobody believed. "The National Enquirer."
I gently grab it from her hands and read the headline: "PROVOKING PRIOR AND FOUR: BUSINESS OR LOVE?"
There was another legitimate and honest local newspaper behind it that read: "TRIS AND FOUR: FINALLY FRIENDLY?"
I chuckle and toss it onto the coffee table. "Only one of those things is true," I say.
"The business part, I presume," she says with a chuckle. "I would like to accept your offer. I talked to my editor about what we spoke about, and she loved the idea. The only thing is that she wants us working on it right away. As in tonight," she chuckled. "She wanted me to ask if you were free this evening, but, you know, it's a Friday so—"
"I have no plans, Tris," I chuckle. "Come in, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything to drink?"
She smiles. "I have a feeling we'll be at this for a while. Any coffee?"
I nod and wave her into the kitchen. "Of course. Come pick out what kind you like."
She tiptoes into the kitchen in her bare feet, since she was previously wearing sandals. She wears jeans and a plain, cream-colored, loose top. Her hair is naturally down, not curled or straightened. She wears a minimal amount of makeup. She is her own kind of beautiful.
She stands on her tiptoes, reaching for the french vanilla coffee grounds.
"Shorty," I say, smirking. I easily reach over her and grab the bag. "How tall are you?"
She frowns. "5'2."
I chuckle and put the grounds into the filtered cup. "You're pretty short."
She leans against the counter. "Tell me about it."
"There's creamer in the fridge, if you'd like some."
She grabs the french vanilla creamer and sets it down.
"Why do you have such an ancient coffee maker when everything else is so…"
"Modern?" I finish for her. "I've had this sucker since I was sixteen. Besides, I drink my coffee black, so I don't really need anything fancy."
She scrunches her nose. "You're one of those people?"
I laugh. "So what if I am?"
She just smiles.
"Funny how, since we're rivals, we're having a not-so-bad time," she says.
I smile. "I've never despised you as a writer. Mostly just your personality. I always thought you were too nice."
She laughs. "Same to you. I've just always thought you were an asshole with too harsh of advice."
I smirk. "Only a bit. You just gotta get to know me a little."
"No thanks," she says with laugh.
Laughing, I pour the coffee into a mug. "If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot."
She grabs the mug. "Cliché. But I love that song," she says, sipping her coffee.
I smile. "C'mon. My office is this way."
She grabs her laptop bag and follows me down the hallway.
"Bedroom, bedroom, bathroom, movie room, office," I say as we walk down the hallway. "Mi casa es tu casa."
A pause. "Doesn't look like much of a home," she says quietly. "Just a house."
I shrug. "You're right. I have no one I care about to share it with the make it a home. All it is is necessary living demands with a little bit of luxury. Hopefully one day I can actually find someone I love that loves me as much as Kanye West loves Kanye West."
A chuckle comes from her, but it's a sad one. "Are you sure we should be doing this? Working together, I mean."
"No. It's wrong, but we'll do it anyway, because we love a bit of trouble," I tell her with a wink.
She smiles and sits down in the extra office chair. My "office" is simple. It has paper clips in a little jar, post-it notes, copy paper, a printer, scissors, pens, pencils, a speaker, and, most importantly, a mini-fridge with beer and sodas reserved for the late-night writing.
All that lies in the center is my laptop. I sit in my chair next to Tris and open my laptop, then go to my ideas for a collaborative column.
"So," I say, getting down to business, "these are my ideas. My best ideas or at the top, worst at the bottom. The one I'd really like to work on with you is the very first one. It's a little risky, but I think you'll like it. The readers mostly ask about love. At least 70% of time. So, why don't we do a collaborative on love? A woman vs. man perspective. We do this column twice a week. Fridays and Mondays would probably be our best options. We do a topic for the title, then give our perspectives. For example, 'First Date.' Then we'd give our ideal first date."
Her eyebrows are nothing but risen when I finish. "Four, you are a genius."
I bashfully smile.
She grins wider than before. "This is going to—to blow up, Four! It's—"
"Tobias," I tell her. "You should know that if we're going to be real partners. All I ask is that you don't tell anybody, okay?"
She nods. "Gotcha. So are we going to keep up this false rivalry, or…?"
I shrug. "I was going to leave that up to you."
She nods. "I think we should keep it up. If people read our stuff, they're going to want to see the angst and tension between us. They're going to buy the paper every Friday wanting more conflict. People love watching other people's problems. And we can still do those daily roasts we always do. But to get more attention from the press and public, Saturday of next week, we should be seen out in public together, or something. So if we publish our joined column on Friday, we be seen Saturday, and it'll hit national news by Sunday. Rumors spreading that we're secretly in love or have a love/hate relationship… Tobias, this is going to be a national craze!"
I smile at her excitement. "Yes. Yes, it is."
We discuss our plans and write a little bit of our first column together. She leaves at around eleven o'clock, and we're both pretty satisfied with our writing.
When the elevator closes, I sulk back into my office. I hate my editor. I hate, hate, hate her. I can't do this to Tris. I can't. Not after spending the entire evening with an amazing girl like her.
I click on one of my recent documents on my laptop labeled: "How To Get Your Enemy To Love You In 14 Days."
I look what I have written so far.
"Day #1: Don't act too nice; they'll get suspicious. You gotta play it cool. Act casual. A little bit of winking or flirting here and there. You must keep them much farther than arm's length. Make them wonder. Make them want you before you can even consider wanting them. If you're normally rude, continue doing so, except at a smaller scale."
Day #2: Act as if nothing happened on day one. Completely ignore them. Don't even think about hitting them up. You stand your ground.
Day #3:"
My day three is blank. Today is the third day.
How am I supposed to write this article if I don't actually consider her my enemy? To everyone else in the world, I am her worst enemy, and she mine. It's going to be impossible to bullshit half of this thing. Impossible. How could I do this to her? All for, what—? A job?
Yet I contradict myself once again as I begin to write day three.
