Tom glares at me. “Stay away from this, or I’ll make you regret it.”
“How? Got more trashy shit to say about my family?” I ask extra sweetly, even though I’m seething inside at the memory of what he did say, specifically to embarrass us and make money for himself. “My family tolerated your bullshit long enough. The next time—if there’s a next time—will not end well for you.”
Hands on his hips, he sticks his puny chest out. “I’m a journalist! I’m protected.”
“I know. So I’m not going to punch you. That’s beneath me”—I study my fingernails—“and I’ll be damned if you get to get my money for pain and suffering and whatever bull crap you throw in my way. But what I can do is sue every publication that buys your articles.”
His shoulders slouch a little. “You can’t do that!”
“Sure I can. All I need to do is find the people you write about. They might not have the ability to sue you or the paper, but I do. All I got is money and free time.”
“But…you can’t do that!” Tom says as though by repeating it, he can convince me.
I smirk. “That’s the beauty of being a billionaire—doing whatever the fuck I want. And you harassing my girlfriend really makes me want to ruin your career.”
Tom turns to Skittles. “Tell him to stop being an ass. He’s violating my First Amendment rights.”
She shrugs. “I don’t think it says thou shalt not be sued.”
I snort-laugh.
“You’ve turned into a complete bitch!”
Maybe I should kick his ass. Nobody calls Skittles a bitch.
“No. I just know what I want, and what I want is never seeing your face again,” she says, putting a hand on my arm.
“Hear that?” I say. “She doesn’t want to see your ugly mug again. If you ever show your face or call her or even breathe too hard in her direction, I’m going to do exactly what I told you.”
“You asshole! You think money makes you better than me, but you aren’t that cool. You’re just a punk with money, but guess what? Money doesn’t buy you happiness!”
Skittles covers her face and groans. “What the hell did I ever see in him?” she mutters.
I pat her thigh. “It was before me, so I understand. You didn’t have a good, objective measuring stick. Anyway…” I turn to Tom and raise my voice. “Poverty doesn’t buy you happiness, either, Tom. So I guess we’re even...except that when I’m lying in my bed, on my five-hundred-thread-count Egyptian organic cotton sheets and feeling depressed about all the happiness I can’t buy, my girl here will be using hundred-dollar bills to wipe away my tears.”
Tom’s face turns redder than a baboon’s ass. “You’ll be sorry!” he cries, shaking his fist like some third-rate actor. For a writer, he sure has crappy comebacks. The sight is even more ludicrous, since his arms are about as thick as carpenter’s nails.
Could a sinkhole open up underneath Tom’s feet and suck him down into the magma, where he’ll be stuck for eternity? Somebody should invent that technology.
He manages to walk safely back to his car, then peels out.
“I actually hope he tries,” I say, watching Tom drive away, then starting toward the penthouse. “Then I’ll show him I wasn’t making an idle threat.”
The look she gives is intense and scrutinizing. “You don’t make empty threats, do you?”
“Nope. It’s bad for the image.” I grin, remembering what Tony told me. “Once you start making examples out of a few people, others will to get the hint and toe the line.”
Her eyes shine, and she learns over and kisses me, licking my mouth.
I savor the moment, trying not to wreck the Maserati, before she pulls back. “What was that about?”
“You. Being sexy as hell.” She runs her tongue along the seam of her mouth. “Tasty, too.”
I groan as lust pounds through me. “Fuck. We can’t do it in the car again, and especially not in your parents’ neighborhood.”
“Drive faster,” she says, laughing.
Chapter Forty