Fed Up

Also by R.D. Power

2020

Fate's Chances

For Power or Love

For Power or Love 2

Forbidden

Self-sabotage

Taylor Made Owens

Thank Sophia for Sam

Copyright © 2015 by R.D. Power

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Written 2014-5

First published in electronic format in 2015

First published in soft cover format in 2016

Edited by Michael Garrett

Cover designed by Rebecca Swift

Formatted by Polgarus Studio

ISBN 978-0-9936682-1-0

The author is not a representative of nor endorsed by any of the trademarks used or discussed in this book, which is a work of fiction and not meant to imply or represent reality.

Dedicated to:

Tyler Durden (zerohedge.com), David Stockman, and Peter Schiff

Thank you for discerning and communicating the truth

Chapter One

October, 2014

Oh, I hate that man! muttered Taylor Rule. And I hate my sister and my father and my stepfather and my ex-stepfather, and I absolutely loathe my mother.

Taylor sat alone in Logan International Airport in Boston, having been to visit her family in Cambridge. She was scheduled to return home to New York, but couldn’t bring herself to board the plane. She sat stewing.

Go back to him, they say. Go back to the man who cheated on you not three months after you were engaged to him. Go back to the man who cheated on you with another man!

Her family had done their utmost to reunite the couple. He’s the best catch any woman could ever hope for, her mother, Elizabeth, had said.

Or man, said Taylor.

He can’t help what God made him, said her sister, Stephanie. He still loves you, Taylor, and he’s pleading for you to come back to him.

Why? Does he want a threesome?

Don’t be disgusting, chided Elizabeth. He’s still the leading trader at the New York Fed, so he can do wonders for your career.

Stephanie added, He’s still from one of America’s best families, he’s still rich, he’s still a Harvard MBA, he’s still handsome, he’s still brilliant, he’s still charismatic …

Taylor tuned out her sister in the middle of her panegyric and said to herself, He’s still a cheater, he’s still humorless, he’s still ruthless, he’s still bi-sexual, or maybe just gay, which would mean I’m window dressing. Why did I ever love him? Did I ever love him?

In her rage at catching her fiancé, Peter Ginzburg, in bed with his best friend, she had screamed that they were through. He’d pleaded for her to calm down; he’d proclaimed his love for her, said he had sexual needs she couldn’t satisfy. At that she’d blown up again. He’d hastened to add that it wasn’t her fault, that that’s the way he was and there was nothing to be done about it.

I love you and only you, he’d insisted. I promise I’ll put men behind me.

That’s what I’m worried about! she’d retorted. She’d gone on to reassert her decree and went home to her family, taking a temporary leave from work. Peter had followed her, but she’d refused to see him. Elizabeth had suggested he go home and that she would work on Taylor, as Stephanie had admitted, and that’s what her sister and her mother did. That’s what they all did. Even her father, whom she’d counted on for support, refused to take her side. In the face of relentless pressure from her entire family she’d finally agreed to return to him, just to shut them up.

Now, sitting at the airport, she’d changed her mind. Cheating was bad enough; cheating with a man was worse, but that was all secondary. She realized she wasn’t distraught. She didn’t even care that their romance was over; indeed, the thought of going back to him was abhorrent, all of which resulted in an epiphany: I don’t love him!

She explored her reasons for agreeing to marry him, and it came down to the list of traits her sister had mentioned. Yes, he was an extraordinary man. Nevertheless, she hadn’t said yes right away when he proposed. She wasn’t sure about him and she wasn’t sure why; he seemed perfect. Now the reason for her misgivings was clear. She didn’t love him and never had. Her family had exerted extreme pressure for her to accept his hand and, as always, she’d followed their wishes. They want to trap me in a loveless marriage with a cold, bisexual man because of the status he confers on the family. What I feel doesn’t matter to them. Tough luck if I’m forever miserable and he makes a fool of me. Oh, I hate them all! God, what I’d do to teach them to stop trifling with my life.

Out the corner of her eye she noticed a man hovering nearby. He stood staring at the departures screens with a face that conveyed frustration and dismay. Thinking, wouldn’t my family flip if I came home with that? she started chuckling.

This guy looked like a hillbilly. He had a bushy brown beard that splattered down to the middle of his chest and scruffy brown hair that splayed across his back like a dirty string mop. He had horn rimmed glasses and wore a tattered black t-shirt, faded blue jeans, ancient work boots, and a filthy baseball cap with a Patriots logo. He made the men on Duck Dynasty look like marines.

Her tittering caught his attention. Gazing at her with wide eyes, he said, Uh, ma’am, would it be too much trouble to tell me what gate the British Airways flight to London leaves from?

She stood and looked at the screen. Flight 214?

Sounds right.

What’s your ticket say?

Not sure, he replied, handing her the ticket.

Now thinking he was leading her on, she handed him back his ticket and walked back to her seat. While leaning over to get her suitcase to put some distance between her and the creep, she heard him ask a man the same question. The man told him the terminal and gate number and ambled away.

Now feeling bad because she’d evidently misinterpreted the situation, she went to him and said, I’m sorry; I thought you were messing with me. He nodded. May I ask if you have trouble seeing?

My eyesight is fine, he said as he picked up his bags and strolled away.

Curious and still musing on the amusing fantasy of taking him home to meet mother, Taylor trotted to catch him and said, I’m confused. I thought you were just making an awkward move on me, then I think, oops, he can’t see the screen, but that’s not it either. Now I have no idea what’s going on. He said nothing as he kept walking. What is it? Can’t you read?

He glanced at her with abashed eyes. Ah ha! Hillbilly who never learned how to read. Figures.

Hey, it’s all right, she said. Not your fault if no one ever taught you.

He stopped, turned to her, and said, Listen, princess, take your superior attitude and shove it up your ass.

Embarrassment, irritation, surprise, and something else she couldn’t quite identify jockeyed for supremacy in her mind as she watched him walk away. No one had ever insulted her like that before. Ever! She had just about yelled, How dare you! but reconsidered, as that would seem to prove his point.

Distress! That’s what it was; that’s what she felt most as he receded. Why?

She followed him, having no idea why. Quickening her step, she caught him and said, What say we start over?

Continuing to walk, he responded, Why? without looking at her.

I … I’m not sure. Maybe because I made a fool of myself and I don’t like to do that. My name is Taylor Rule. He said nothing. And you are?

Trevor Freeman.

So, you’re off to London?

Mumbai, actually.

Mumbai? Why?

He turned to her and said something, but she didn’t hear, for all her senses were overwhelmed by maybe the most gorgeous eyes she’d ever seen on a real human being; Paul Newman blue. Somehow she hadn’t noticed them before—or maybe she had subconsciously, and that was why she was drawn to him—but now his eyes were so busy mesmerizing her, nothing else existed in her world. Unfortunately for her, in the real world, objects continued to exist, such as the pillar that came out of nowhere and smacked her on the temple.

He laughed and asked if she was okay.

Mortified, she struggled for a response. She eventually said, You can’t just go around flashing those beautiful eyes, careless of the consequences. You see what they did to me?

Laughing once more, he said, I’ll try to be more careful.

You owe me lunch, she tried as she rubbed her head.

Okay, but my budget restricts me to two glasses of water and a stick of gum.

She said she’d pay and led him into Todd English’s Bonfire for lunch.

• • •

Sitting across from Taylor, Trevor studied her as she read the menu. She wore a lot of makeup—too much, he thought. That was his first clue she was a phony. Her long, lustrous hair was blonde, but looked to be dyed, for her roots and eyebrows were darker; clue two. She likely had the mousy, no-definite-color hair that most North American whites possessed, he reckoned. Her perfect teeth were preternaturally white, probably due to chemical whiteners, he guessed; clue three. And her eyes. Christ Almighty. Spectacular! They were so blue, they bordered on violet. Has to be colored contacts, he concluded. He ran his eyes down her long neck and glanced at her breasts. Big enough to suggest augmentation. He was dying to dive into them to assess their genuineness. Not anxious to interact with the police, he forewent the urge.

The thing was, as far as he could tell, she didn’t need any of these accoutrements. He could only guess, but he thought she was naturally lovely.

Resting on her cleavage and rising and falling with her breathing was a ruby and diamond-encrusted pendant on a thick gold necklace. He glanced at her ring finger expecting to see a huge diamond; bare, but tan lines suggested there had been a ring there until recently. She wore a stylish blue pantsuit that looked professionally tailored. Rich bitch, recently divorced. Probably took some poor bastard for half his millions.

While she continued to examine the menu, he thrilled in exploring her face. His eyes traced the lines of her face: her high cheeks, her plump lips, her sparkling teeth, her patrician chin, her elegant nose, her sculptured eyebrows, and her large, oval eyes. He glanced down once more to check out her cleavage and studied her bare chest above her breasts, her collar bones, and back to her eyes. Her profile was superb, but he could imagine her looking a little stern if she got angry.

She looked up and said, Decided yet?

Uh, no, he said.

Oh, I’m sorry, she said, do you need me to read off some options?

I’ll have a burger.

The waitress came by, and they ordered. As she walked away, Trevor said, If she stepped into the baboon exhibit at the zoo you couldn’t pick her out.

That’s not very nice, scolded Taylor.

Good; ‘not very nice’ was my aim. She was abrupt and unprofessional.

Then point that out to her so she can improve. Don’t criticize her behind her back.

Confrontational; I like it. Let me try it out. Stop ordering me around, bossy, busy-buddy bitch. By her expression, he could tell that irritated her, so he added, Oops. I guess confrontational works only when it’s not you. If you want to leave in a huff, huff away. Fine by me.

She seemed to be wavering between staying and going. He put his elbow on the table, cupped his hairy chin in his palm and said, Walk away and I’ll tell you what I tell every pretty girl; come back to me when you’re desperate and I’ll give you another chance. She stared at him, still ambivalent. I’m on pins and needles. Will she stay or will she go?

I’d go, but I think you want that, so I’ll stay for now.

At least you know you’re punishing me with your presence; most women never figure that out.

She looked at him with exasperation, as if she was at a loss how to deal with the disrespect he was serving. It was clear she wasn’t used to it.

He, too, was debating within. What the hell does she want? This woman screams high society. She thinks … no, she knows she’s too good for me. The last time a woman like this showed interest in him, he fell for her and she stepped on him; she stole something valuable and disappeared. He was suspicious of this Rule woman. What’s her game?

He’d have made her decision moot by leaving her behind, but he was curious, and he was enjoying gazing at her. Her eyes were certainly easy to get lost in; she seemed to blink in slow motion, gorgeous long lashes sweeping down, then up gracefully … and so expressive. Her eyes betrayed her feelings at any moment, and when she was thinking about what to say next, they’d dart to the left, then refocus on him. Captivating!

She flashed a spurious smile, which was unattractive because it was obviously phony, and said, So, who are you, Trevor Freeman?

Why do you ask, Taylor Rule?

Can’t a girl be curious?

A rich girl can’t be curious over a poor boy. He looked closely at her as he said this to see if her eyes questioned his status. They didn’t.

Who says I’m rich? she said.

The butler at your secretary’s summer home.

This spurred a natural smile, which was becoming, and she said, Well, I’m … well off. Now satisfy my curiosity. What takes you to India?

I’m on a critical mission and nothing will divert my atten … oh! Pie! he said as the waitress passed by their table with someone’s dessert. The two looked at the someone, a man who was maybe three-hundred pounds; he proceeded to share the slice of apple pie with a two-hundred-pound woman. Aw, look, resumed Trevor. They’re watching their calories together. Isn’t that sweet? With Taylor chuckling, he added, That pie might be the cause of our obesity epidemic; look, everyone eating it is fat.

Don’t say fat. They’re overweight.

She likes to give orders, he told himself.

He responded, Okay, you’re right. Calling them fat is mean; I apologize. I’ll bet she uses a sheep for a tampon.

If your aim was to be disgusting, you’ve succeeded; if it was to be funny, you failed.

Wait. I’m trying to think up a witty reply … Got nothing. I’ll have to resort to disgusting again.

Do us both a favor and keep it to yourself.

Bossy bitch is back. Her face now showed anger. Yup, stern. He smirked and said, I can’t stand to see you like this, so I better go.

He stood to leave, but she grasped his arm and said, Stay. Please.

He sat and said, Okay, cards on the table. What the hell do you want? Who are you?

I told you; I’m Taylor R—

Cut the crap! No woman dressed to the nines, obviously classy and used to the high life, would bother with a man who looks like me. You wrote me off as a bum the second you set eyes on me. So, I’ll ask again. What do you want?

I’m not trying to hide anything, but you have me curious now. What do you suspect me of? I’m not trying to make a fool of you if that’s what you think.

I didn’t hear an answer to my question. He stood again.

I caught my fiancé in bed with another man! That turned every eye within thirty feet toward her. She glowed red.

Trevor looked at the gawkers and said, I can’t imagine what’s so fascinating about a beautiful high-society dame in a bi-sexual threesome, so mind your own boring business. They averted their eyes, but kept their ears inclined. He sat and said to Taylor, And I can’t imagine what that intriguing bit of news has to do with me, but I’m all ears.

Intriguing? More like depressing, shocking, and outrageous, said Taylor.

So, what does it have to do with me?

You’re, uh, his opposite. Peter Ginzburg is the ultimate metrosexual; clean-cut, rich, successful, handsome, she said, adding in hushed tone, except he’s a bi-sexual two-timer.

So, I’m scruffy, poor, a failure, and ugly, but at least I’m a faithful heterosexual? I’m touched.

I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to imply that.

"Hell, you expressed it, but, hey, it’s mostly true."

It’s just … my family pushed me into this engagement in the first place.

Understandable. He sounds ideal, assuming you ignore the occasional cock in his bum.

He is, uh, was, ideal but … I don’t think I ever loved him. My family insisted, so I said yes to him, then instead of backing my leaving him after he cheated on me with a man, they spent the last week convincing me to return to him. I’m supposed to fly to New York to reunite with him, but I … I can’t. You were my excuse for missing the flight.

Okay. Now what? he said as the waitress came with their food.

No idea, she replied. How about we eat?

They dug into their food and said nothing for a time, then she said, Now, divert me by telling me a little about yourself, at least why you’re going to India.

I work for Safe Drinking Water Systems, a company that manufactures water purification systems.

You an engineer?

Not officially. Not being able to read beyond maybe a second grade level was kind of a handicap.

May I ask why? You seem pretty sharp to me.

In fifth grade my teacher gave me an IQ test, and apparently, there’s no category below idiot, but I’m that.

That’s obviously not true. Are you dyslectic?

Lecdystic.

How do you manage?

He dug out his Smartphone, pulled out the earphone, pointed the phone at the menu, and it read out the text on the menu.

So you use technology to read.

Yes. Including emails. He opened his latest one, and the software read the contents.

Please, sir, if we can have one of your water machines, we would be most grateful. My village, Mulindi, in Rwanda …

Trevor ended the message and continued, It’s not perfect, but it gets me by. I can sound out simple words without technology, but I’m embarrassingly slow and often wrong. My stupid brain transposes or inverts letters and numbers, and puts spaces between words in the wrong places, so it’s hard, you know? The minute text-to-speech programs on computers came out I started using them. Now I’m a voracious reader.

It must’ve been frustrating before technology came to the rescue.

Life was … difficult. I was put in remedial classes all the way up; treated as a moron by everyone.

I’m sorry.

I dropped out of school the minute I turned sixteen—officially, that is. I’d stopped going to school the previous spring. You’re looking at a graduate of eighth grade, Lincoln Junior High. He got up and strutted back and forth, then sat again.

Impressive. So, what do you do for, what was it, Safe Water Systems?

Safe Drinking Water Systems—SDWS. On this trip I’ll be installing water purification equipment in two villages near Mumbai.

The waitress stopped by to ask how things were. Taylor said fine, but Trevor said, What kind of meat is this? Skunk?

He’s joking, said Taylor, who seemed embarrassed. The waitress frowned and left. Why do you do that?

What? Tell the truth?

Try to shock people.

I get a kick out of it. If you don’t like it, you’re free to fuck off.

Do you have to use that word? said Taylor.

I don’t have to, but it’s such a useful and versatile word, it’s hard to avoid. It’s the best way to express so many emotions. He gave a few examples, matching his tone and facial expression to the stated emotion. "Anger: fuck you! Fear: fuck me! Hatred: fuck off! Disappointment: fuck! Pain: fuck! Love: want to fuck? Boredom: I’m fucking bored. Sarcasm: whoop dee fucking do."

Enough. I get your gist, but I don’t agree. There are perfectly reasonable alternatives for each of those emotions.

So, I guess if a lion was eating your baby, you’d go, ‘Spit out my baby, you gosh darn beast,’ and if a truck ran you over and crushed your leg, you’d say, ‘Golly, that stings.’

She laughed.

Do you do something, or was everything dependent on bagging a rich man?

That’s very insulting, Mr. Freeman.

Good. I owe you for calling me ugly and stupid.

I never said you were stupid. He laughed, and so did she. And I doubt you’re ugly, with those dreamy eyes. Why the beard?

I smuggle drugs, guns, and Mexicans in it. What do you do?

I’m an economist.

I have only the vaguest notion of what an economist does.

I’ve been working as a risk specialist posted at Goldman Sacks.

So, you’re a banker?

No, I work for the Fed.

As in Federal Reserve? She nodded. You work for the goddamn Fed?

You say that as if it’s a crime, said Taylor.

It damn well should be. Central banks are steering the world into financial Armageddon and the Fed is the pilot.

What are you talking about?

"For years they’ve had a fire sale on money to the point where interest rates are now actually falling below zero. It’s gotten so bad, there are places in Europe where they charge you to put money in the bank and pay you to take out