Bad Will Hunting

Bad Will Hunting

Heather Wardell

SmashWords Edition

Copyright 2014 Heather Wardell

http://www.heatherwardell.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should visit your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Book Description

In the sequel to Seven Exes Are Eight Too Many, Angry Ashley plots revenge on her reality-show producers. But when she gets double-crossed by sexy attorney Will, she instead takes on a Bad Will Hunting mission. Ashley turns up a ton of dead ends, but also some exciting life-changing possibilities. But with so much bad will in her way, can Ashley ever find true happiness?

Author’s Note

Bad Will Hunting is a direct sequel to my earlier book Seven Exes are Eight Too Many. You’ll still understand the story here if you haven’t read the previous book but you will definitely get spoilers, so if you plan to read Seven Exes are Eight Too Many you should do that first.

Whether you’ve read all of my books (starting with my free novel Life, Love, and a Polar Bear Tattoo) or are just finding me now, thank you so much! If you’d like a free short story every month, please check out my newsletter at http://heatherwardell.com/newsletter.shtml.

Heather

BAD WILL HUNTING

To: editor@RealityTV-MyGuiltyPleasure.com

From: geneeTVaddict@gmail.com

Subject: Some tweets for the show

Hi! Now that Ragged Royalty has aired two episodes, I thought I should write some promotional tweets to let people know who’s who on the show, and especially to get them to read our articles about it! You can stick our link at the end of each, right?

-G-

They all expected a reality show... but not like this! MC & Kent & 7 exes each, all dumped on an island together! Craziness!

Ragged Royalty: 2 ex-lovers + 7 exes each = 1 winner of a million bucks! Who will it be??

Our Princess MC - does the girl ever TALK? What do you think she’s thinking?

Prince Kent’s spending a LOT of time with his wild and sexy ex-wife Summer. Friends... or getting back together?

Aren’t Sam and MC cute so far? First loves reunited! Think they’ll end up together? Let us know!

What did you think of Ashley’s outburst on the first episode? #angryashley indeed!

Oh, Aaron. Sexy crazy Aaron. We all love you. But does MC?

Chapter One

Returning to the same hotel where everything started only makes me angrier. After everything they put us through, after the show ruined all my hopes and plans, to be here again?

Most of the other exes look around as if enjoying the luxury after twenty-one days on our horrible islands, but seeing the ballroom’s same plush carpet and fancy wallpaper revives my memories of the moment I learned of the show’s betrayal and sends such fury through me I can hardly breathe.

Okay, folks, listen up, Peter says, and I realize that I probably won’t have to see the smarmy host more than today and on the reunion show in a few weeks. Good. I can’t stand him. Or anyone involved with putting this awful show together.

Peter goes on. Welcome back to civilization. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that spilling the beans about anything that happened before it airs will cost you a million-dollar fine. Best not to say a word about any of the island events, just in case.

Works for me. I want to get this mess over with and never think of it again.

Kent and the ladies will be staying at this hotel, and MC and the guys are moving elsewhere. And no, Summer, I will not tell you where.

Summer chuckles, no doubt taking this as a challenge, and Aaron calls to her from across the room, Come find me, gorgeous!

She will not, Peter says before Summer can answer. Cast your mind back to your contract. No contact with opposing contestants before the reunion show unless we say so. And I do not say so.

Aaron pouts, Summer laughs and winks at him, and I fight off the urge to roll my eyes. She’s always so friendly and flirty, even with her ex-husband Kent, and it grates on me. Nobody can really be that happy all the time.

Although maybe she is. She’s probably had a charmed life. Unlike me.

I shoot a glance at MC, standing beside Aaron, and wonder what if anything she’s thinking of her ex hitting on Summer right in front of her. Who can tell, with her usual blank expression? The girl never reacts to anything.

But she must be reacting on the inside. Maybe not to Aaron, but... after all, only a few hours ago in that last contest Kent threw away a million dollars for her.

A million dollars that should have been mine.

Mine and Brett’s.

Even thinking my cousin’s name fills my mind with the image of his death, and I dig my nails hard into my palm to keep from screaming about how unfair it is that I ended up on this crappy show instead of the one Brett and I had planned to win. As pain floods me, Peter says, So, Kent’s team can come get their room keys from me and MC’s can head out into the hall to be driven to their hotel, and then all of you can take real showers!

The others chorus their agreement at once. Earlier that day, before leaving the island, we were allowed to take the closest thing most of us had had to a shower in three weeks, but the water had been lukewarm and there’d hardly been any of it, and though I don’t respond out loud because I won’t give Peter the satisfaction I do agree most emphatically in my head.

I hold back since Kent and the other women are mobbing Peter for their keys, and so as MC’s group leaves I notice Sam falling behind. The poor guy wrecked his ankle a few days into this nightmare, and we were told he had to leave the island, and that moment was the first time I felt bad for anyone but myself on the show. I don’t know his story but he can’t have wanted things to end that way. I assumed he’d gone home, but apparently not. Of course, that would have revealed that he didn’t make it to the end, so they must have brought him back here to get fixed up.

He’s hauling along his left leg with its heavy cast while also struggling with his crutches, and as I watch he loses control on the thick carpet and nearly falls.

Before I know I’m going to, I race over to him and catch his arm.

He turns, startled. Hi. Thanks. Almost did a face plant.

You’re welcome, I say, looking up into his face and realizing this is the first time I’ve actually spoken to him. He’s cuter up close than I’d have thought, with warm brown eyes and long blond hair in a ponytail. I usually like shorter hair on guys, but it works on him. Are you okay?

He shrugs and looks down at his leg. I’ve been better. But at least I didn’t wipe out thanks to you.

I’m sure he has been better. Me too. I feel for him: he and I seem to have been the most abused by the show. Taking a better grip on his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath my hand, I say, Want help to the door?

If you don’t mind, he says, but we’ve only taken a few steps when Aaron comes back in and says, Sorry, man, we forgot about you since you didn’t fly in with us.

Story of my life, Sam says, smiling at me and not looking upset at being ignored. But Ashley took good care of me.

Surprised he knows my name, I don’t do anything but smile back, then Aaron throws a rough arm around Sam’s shoulders and guides him away.

I collect my key from Peter then head to my room full of anticipation for a long hot shower. But since nothing ever works out for me, when I get off the elevator at my floor a woman steps in front of me and says, Ashley, wait.

No. I hoist my filthy duffel bag higher on my shoulder and add, Haven’t you talked at me enough today? as I walk past at a faster clip. I was forced to waste an hour listening to her this morning, but I didn’t say a word. She spent ages with me on the first day, right after I learned the terrible truth of what the show did to me, and nearly every day after that, and I’ve had it with her. The producers can force me to sit with their psychologist, but nobody can make me participate in her stupid mind games.

There’s a lot to talk about.

She’s keeping pace with me, and that makes me speed up even more. Since my room is at the end of the long straight hall, we’re nearly running by the time we get there.

Look, I say, dropping my bag to the carpet and turning on her. Nothing I say to you is going to make a damn bit of difference. Especially now. This nightmare is nearly over, so why are you still insisting on talking to me?

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. We both know that if I refuse her she can tell the producers I need to be under the care of a psychologist and they can force me to let her provide that care. I knew that when I applied.

Of course, back then I thought it’d be me and Brett on a family version of Stranded! the island-survival show, not Brett dead and me alone with my ex Kent and seven of his other exes in a situation that would make anyone need therapy.

I don’t need therapy, though. I need revenge on the show for ruining my life. And I’m going to get it. It’s just a matter of time.

I open my room door and she follows me in.

I don’t even get a shower first? Come on, Dory.

Her name is actually Ellen, but she has a tattoo of Dory the fish from Finding Nemo on her ankle and I’ve been calling her Dory since the first day we met because she clearly doesn’t like it and making her feel bad makes me feel a little better.

The executives are worried about you, Ashley, and so am I. We need to talk right now.

Nothing’s changed since you tried to head-shrink me this morning on the island, so why the urgency?

She takes a seat at the desk. Well, the thing is--

I want to sit there.

Why?

Because it’s my room.

We stare each other down for a moment, then she gets up and says, Since this is the first space you’ve had to call your own in three weeks, I’ll move.

I don’t care why she’s moving, as long as she does.

She settles into the armchair, and I take the desk chair while realizing I have just screwed myself since the armchair looks far more comfortable. I consider insisting on another move but before I can do anything she says, Now, I assume you’ll be checking in with your family and friends, maybe catching up on the news?

Can’t check in with the only one I care about, I say, glaring at her like Brett’s death is her fault.

She nods slowly. Your grandparents, though. Your aunt Elaine. And Shannon and Becky. You’ll talk to them about the show?

I hate that she knows who everyone is in my life, and I hate that there are only five people to know. Probably. Why? What’s it to you?

My tone, as always, rolls right off her. For the first week on the show that made me try harder to get to her, but it never worked so I gave up and stuck to my now-usual level of anger.

To me? Not a thing, she says, surprising me. But to you... well, there are two things you need to know.

"Like what? That Brett is gone and I was robbed of the one thing I wanted to do to honor him? That I missed his funeral to go on the show and you guys pulled the rug out from under me? Are those the two things?"

Brett dropped dead during what was supposed to be a relaxed training run the day before I had to fly to Vegas for the show, and despite Grandmother’s shock and disgust I’d taken my flight anyhow because I’d been sure Brett would have wanted me to do so. I’m still sure, but not getting to say goodbye with his mom and my grandparents and all Brett’s friends has haunted me since the moment I discovered how the show’s producers lied to me.

No. Ashley, are you aware that the show, the television show, actually started airing at the start of this week?

How would I be? Not like you guys let us look at anything but plants and dirt on the island.

She leans back in her chair. It’s on twice a week, Monday and Thursday at eight, so two episodes have aired now, and... She licks her lips.

Just tell me already. What, did they cut me from the stupid thing? I’m surprised to almost be disappointed at the thought. I hated every second of my time on the island but if they don’t show it it’s like I didn’t exist.

No, you’re included. And, well, the public has formed an opinion of you.

Like I care.

She waits, and I give in. I’ve never been able to make her talk by keeping quiet myself, and I’m craving that shower. Let’s hurry this along, Dory. What do they think?

They’re calling you ‘AA’.

‘AA’? I echo, wondering for a second if people could somehow know how drunk I plan to get tonight then realizing that’s not possible. Why?

For ‘Angry Ashley’, she says, her eyes and voice soft.

How dare they? More like ‘Abused Ashley’, I shoot back, fresh rage flooding me. I was lied to, cheated, dragged on the show against my will--

As were most of your fellow Courtiers and Ladies-in--

I am so sick of princesses and courtiers and ladies-in-waiting and all this garbage. If Brett and I had made it onto ‘Stranded!’ like we’d planned, everything would have been different. Maybe somehow he wouldn’t even have died. That thought infuriates me and I cut her off with, Use that term on me again and it’ll be the last thing you ever do!

She raises her chin and says, Don’t threaten me, Ashley.

There’s no fire in her voice, just a cool calm authority. I’ve never been able to achieve that tone, because my rage always takes me over, and I wish I could because it’s hugely effective on me. Though I hate myself for it I find myself blushing and have to say, I’m sorry. I just...

I can’t say what I’m feeling because it’s all tangled up, but she seems to understand. Only a few of the exes, on either side, actually applied to ‘Stranded!’ at all, and certainly nobody knew what they were really getting into. Everyone was, as you say, dragged on the show against their will. The others, though, most of them at least, managed to make the best of it, and the public has picked up on how you didn’t do that.

"There was nothing for me to make the best of. My voice is getting louder again but I don’t care. For a full year Brett and I worked to get ready for the show, the family show, and then he dies of some stupid heart thing he had no idea he had and I’m there all alone. And then that bastard Kent quits the last contest today and I can’t even win a dollar." I’ll get him for that, on the reunion show. I don’t know how yet but I will. He didn’t have the right to throw away my only chance of getting something out of this whole miserable experience, and he will pay.

You did know that you’d be there without Brett, Dory says calmly, clearly ignoring my Kent rant. Before you arrived, you knew that.

Yes, because the show had accepted me and not Brett. When I’d received that call, four weeks beforehand, I’d been shocked that I’d been chosen over Brett, but when the reveal of Kent and his exes happened I’d realized why. The producers had robbed Brett, and me, of what should have been. "He should have been there, I say, as I’ve said nearly every time we spoke. It’s not fair."

She nods, in that ‘I hear you but I’m not agreeing or disagreeing’ way that must be a huge part of psychologist school, and says, I wanted you to be aware of how the public is seeing you so you wouldn’t be surprised. Now you are. And I also... She pulls a business card from her pocket and holds it out to me. We need to keep talking. Several times a week at first and then--

No, I say. Not a chance.

Ashley, I truly feel you need additional sessions. Your anger is--

"Reasonable? Understandable? Logical?"

Debilitating, she says as if I hadn’t interrupted. I am seriously concerned about your ability to return to your daily life. Your feelings about your parents, combined with--

"My parents? She keeps bringing them up and I can’t understand why. I’ve told you, and told you. They left, it’s been forever, I don’t care."

She begins to respond and I can’t let her. "And as for my daily life, nobody was concerned about ripping me out of that life, were they? So why the concern now?"

I wasn’t involved in-- She cuts herself off, no doubt not wanting to criticize her bosses. Your initial psych exam did suggest you had some issues managing your anger, but they were minor enough not to raise any serious flags with Doctor Lewis. Now, though, given what happened with Brett... She extends the card again. I’m going to speak with you every few days for the next three weeks and then--

"No way. Nonononono. Not happening. I’m going home and going back to my life. Alone. My same old crappy life, the one Brett and I had planned to escape with our winnings from the show, without Brett. How am I going to survive it? Tears tighten my throat, the first ones I’ve felt since the doctor at the hospital confirmed Brett was gone, and I force them away by barking out, I don’t need you. At all."

She’s still holding out the card. Are you going to make me say it? You have no choice here. By the contract you signed, you need to speak with me when I feel it’s necessary, or I will be forced to have another psychologist--

I snatch the card from her hand. You’re bad enough, I don’t want to start over with someone else.

Incredibly, she smiles like I’ve given her a compliment. Fury rips through me and I tear the card in half then in half again and throw the pieces to the ground.

Her smile crumbles, and a blast of satisfaction at her reaction pushes away my anger. I can’t stop you calling, and I guess I have to answer. But I’ll be damned if I ever call you. I’m fine. I don’t need you.

Well, you’ve got me anyhow. You have a real opportunity to shake things up when you go home, Ashley, not to fall back into your same ruts which I know you were wanting to get out of, and I’m available to help you find the will and the way to make that happen.

Don’t hold your breath, I say, because I can’t think of anything else. "And Brett and I were supposed to get out of the ruts. No amount of will is going to bring him back."

She nods slowly. That’s true. But it might take will to let him go.

If she’d slapped me it would have hurt less. "Get out, I say, pushing back my chair so hard it falls over. Get out and leave me alone!"

She leaves without a word. As the door closes behind her, I see a drinking glass on the desk and snatch it up, hurrying into the bathroom so I can smash it into the empty garbage can while she can still hear me. I want her to know how furious I am.

There are two more glasses on the bathroom counter and they’re soon in pieces too. I hope the show gets in trouble for the damage. Dory and her damned company have shattered my life, so I’ll shatter their glasses. Not even close to enough revenge, but it’s a start.

Chapter Two

At eleven o’clock that night I’m pacing in my room. I’m exhausted, and the bed looks about a million times more comfortable than the shelter I showed everyone how to build from leaves and logs on our island, but I can’t imagine falling asleep when I can’t even sit down with this anger spinning through me.

I did have my shower, although I was so pissed after my conversation with Dory that I ended up scalding myself with too-hot water without noticing, and after that the show’s doctor came in to examine me and reported that I’ve lost fourteen pounds and have a lot of scratches and bruises but am otherwise ‘just fine’. As if.

As I stalk back and forth I hear several familiar voices giggling in the hall and realize some of Kent’s other exes are hanging out together.

Of course they are. And of course they haven’t bothered looking for me. Who’d want to spend time with Angry Ashley? They didn’t on the show either. They talked to me when they had to and that was it. Jerks.

I toy with calling hotel security and complaining about the noise, but the voices fade out and I’m left in my miserable silence again.

No, not miserable. Furious.

It’s so unfair. Everything’s unfair. Brett and I should have gone on the show together and come home in triumph, and now he’ll never come home again and I can’t imagine how I’ll survive in our crappy Portland suburb without him. We were going to leave Oregon together. We had it all figured out, how he would turn his success at training me to survive on ‘Stranded!’ into the fitness business he’d always wanted and I would turn my fame from the show into a following for my hair-braiding videos. We wouldn’t need to make money, not right away, because we’d have the million bucks we’d won, but we would eventually. We’d both known it would all work out.

Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I’d never heard of it before, but now I’m all too aware of what it means. It means sudden unexpected death in a young man who’d never had worse than a cold in his life, and the end of all our plans. I called the ambulance for him, I did the best I could with the CPR he’d taught me, but--

A spasm of pain rips through my hand, and I look down to realize I’ve been digging my nails so hard into my palm that I’ve drawn blood. I scrub it away onto the arm of the chair, hoping the show will be charged for my damage, then deliberately dig my nails into a fresh spot again. I don’t need to bleed, but I do need to hurt. The physical pain makes my anger a little easier to handle.

Only a little, though, and for the next two hours I alternate between lying in bed trying to force myself into the sleep I so desperately need and stomping around the room so angry I can barely breathe. I’d break a window, just to hear it shatter, if I didn’t feel sure the show would make me pay for that. Which I can’t do. My horrible job, which my grandmother got me and insists I should be grateful for, considers me ‘unskilled labor’ even though I’m the only one who can run the machine that packages the water filters without ever mangling one, so I only get minimum wage. I don’t work tomorrow, since I’m flying back to Portland, or Sunday because the hellhole is closed, but I do on Monday and I’d rather rip off my arms.

Or Dory’s.

Damn her for making me think about Brett. Damn her again for suggesting I could find the will to change my life alone. And quadruple-damn her for emailing me her number and reminding me of her plans to poke at me every few days once I get home. How am I ever going to get back to my useless life if she won’t leave me be? I deleted that email without replying, of course, but it still pisses me off even though it’s long gone.

At one o’clock I remember