Dirty Bad Boys Box Set: Forbidden Romance Collection

by Kat T. Masen

  “Okay, just breathe,” she says, calmly. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

  “My black pantsuit and white blouse.”

  “Too simple. What about your red blouse?”

  “You don’t think it’s too loud?”

  “Milly.” She laughs out of nowhere. “You’re in Hollywood. I highly doubt your red blouse is too loud.”

  True. Earlier today, I saw a man in a pink sundress carrying a straw purse like it was normal. I let out a loud sigh, hoping to alleviate the stress.

  “Hollywood… nothing like what the movies depict it to be.”

  “I’m still jealous,” she reminds me. “Movie stars and fancy cars. Rodeo Drive, the Playboy Mansion.”

  “All of the places that have no interest to me.”

  “I love you, you’re my best friend, but Jesus Christ, woman, you need to live a little. Head out of your sandbox and go have some fun in Tinseltown.”

  This isn’t the first time Phoebe has told me to let loose, often calling me Nanna Milly. A joke that doesn’t bother me since I have no concerns with my social life. I don’t need one, happy to plod along doing what I do. Phoebe is deprived of hurrahs, often telling me that it’s the only place I would let her down in the best-friend department. But despite Phoebe’s eccentric ways, she knows my limits and never pushes me beyond my comfort level.

  We talk for a few minutes before hanging up. I need sleep and pray that I will get some with all this anxiety building up. I have so much riding on this that the more I force myself to sleep, the harder it is to shut down.

  The next morning, I wake up early, just as the sun begins to rise. Flynn is still sleeping, snoring loudly through the thin walls. The coffee begins to brew, the aroma reminding me of back home. I pour myself a cup while reading through my notes. I practice my answers out loud—at least, the questions I expect to be asked in a face-to-face interview.

  The clock ticks past eight, and it’s time to leave. With my purse in hand, I grab my keys just as Flynn stumbles out of his room wearing only his boxers, rubbing his eyes vigorously like a vampire struggling to see through the sun.

  “Hey,” he calls as I open the door. “Good luck.”

  It means everything to me that he had mumbles those two words. I offer him a smile, closing the door behind me, ready to catch a cab to the address scribbled on the piece of paper that sits inside my nervous and drenched hand.

  ***

  “Miss Milenov.”

  My head lifts to face the lady who calls my name. I stand up too quickly and walk toward her as my foot slants to the right almost causing me to lose my balance.

  Dear God, calm the hell down, Milly.

  The three women waiting in the reception area snicker, each of them impeccable in designer dresses and four-inch heels. Between the three of them, there’s so much silicone that my eyes have no choice but to look. My small chest, though natural, looks flatter than ever.

  Inside the office sits a panel of three other women—a gorgeous young woman in the middle, the lady who called me in on her left, and another beautiful brunette on the right. Combined, they shatter any confidence I carry. Each one uniquely stunning in her own way.

  “Sit down, Miss Milenov,” the older lady instructs in a less-than-impressed tone. “I’m Sonia Jones, and I’m Emerson’s publicist.”

  “Thank you.” I smile, politely. “Please, call me Milana.”

  “Milana,” the woman in the middle repeats. She appears to be young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, dressed nicely in a denim blue off-the-shoulder blouse. I’m unable to see her body behind the table, yet she looks fit, typical California girl with dark blonde hair cut to her shoulders and flawless olive skin. “It’s a very pretty name. I’m Emerson Chase. I’m sure you know who I am.”

  The name doesn’t ring a bell, and all eyes stare at me with curiosity, waiting on my response. I don’t watch television, movies, or keep up with social media like Phoebe does. I assume she’s a model. The interviews that I had passed were formal, not once mentioning who this high-profile client is.

  “I apologize for my ignorance, I’m not quite sure who you are. I don’t, um… get out much.”

  The second it left my mouth, I regretted it instantly. I sound dumb.

  “You don’t know who Emerson is?” Sonia questions with slight mockery, scribbling something on her notepad and sliding it across to Emerson.

  Again, I smile, hiding my nerves and sounding my words in my head so as not to sound like a bigger fool. “My life back home consists of two things… work and family. I’m a hard worker, perhaps a workaholic. I take things seriously and wish I had time to relax, but unfortunately, time just gets away from me.”

  “Understandable.” Emerson smiles warmly, flashing her perfectly white teeth. “You sound like what I’m looking for, a hard worker.”

  Sonia clears her throat, quick to interrupt. “Well, let’s get down to it then, shall we?”

  She proceeds to ask me a string of questions, many that I can easily answer and some that are out of my comfort zone. Scenarios like how will I react and what will I do. They are odd and judging by the type of questions, I conclude that Emerson Chase is a household name, just one that hasn’t made it to mine.

  I could feel myself breaking out into a sweat, question after question with no end in sight. Sonia Jones is relentless, not allowing Emerson or the lady on the right to get a single word in.

  “Hi, Milana.” The woman on the right, a stunning brunette wearing reading glasses, introduces herself as Charlotte Edwards, Emerson’s lawyer.

  “I want to make you aware that this role deals with many confidential matters. If you were successful, you would need to sign a confidentiality agreement.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, my previous role dealt with highly confidential legal matters, so I understand and have no intention of breaching my employer’s confidentiality.”

  She smiles in response, jotting down some notes while I continue to sweat like crazy, riddled with nerves and praying that my deodorant works the magic it says it will.

  “Milana,” Emerson speaks while reading my resume that sits on the woodgrain table in front of her. “This role will involve round-the-clock work, including traveling. How does this sit with your personal life?”

  “I don’t have one,” I answer honestly. “I moved here with my brother. I don’t have friends or acquaintances. I’m here to work.”

  The three of them turn to look at each other, no facial expressions to indicate they are pleased with my answers.

  “I’ll be honest, Miss Milenov, I’m not sure you truly understand the pressure of this role. After all, you only worked at a small law firm in Alaska.” Sonia pulls a face like Alaska was breeding lepers.

  I’m gobsmacked at her arrogance, desperate to give her my two cents and walk away if it weren’t for my low bank balance and the fact that Flynn and Mom need me.

  “I assure you,” I say, biting my tongue and straining my words. “Working for Mildred Mason was anything but small. If anyone understands pressure, it’s me. I worked two jobs to support my sick mother and would have gladly stayed in Alaska and taken on a third if she allowed me.”

  “My dear…” she says, patronizing my ability, “… Hollywood is not Alaska. I mean, you’re not exactly dressed for the role. Appearance is everything.”

  I look down at my suit then gaze at theirs. So what if it isn’t designer? I don’t understand why that would influence their decision to hire me. I can do the job, that should be all that matters.

  “I can do the job,” I reiterate, though struggling to compose my words. “I wouldn’t have come out here if I didn’t think I could do the job.”

  Sonia laughs, strategically placing the pen on the corner of her red, plump lips. “You’ll get eaten alive.”

  “Sonia,” Charlotte and Emerson mouth beneath their breaths, their face shadowed by disappointment.

  “With all due respect, Ms. Jones, pressure is knowing
that time is ticking, and for every minute that passes, I have a mother who slowly forgets who I am.” I stand up with a wobble, leaning on the table for support. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’m sure you’ll find the right person sitting in reception.”

  My smile is forced, my confidence completely shattered with emotions running high as I walk fast, out of the room, toward the elevator with my tears held back. How dare she think I’m incapable and don’t understand the meaning of pressure. My anger, combined with the lack of sleep, pushes my sanity over the edge. As soon as the doors open into the lobby, and my face is met with the scorching sun, I burst into tears in front of random strangers who make no effort to console me, simply staring at me like I’m some kind of fool.

  Back home, I curl up into a ball on the sofa, nursing the chamomile tea in my hand. The mug I hand-carried from back home, made by Mama during one of her pottery classes. Cradling it in my hand brings me closer to her. I want so much to pick up the phone and call her, but the humiliation of today is too much.

  Flynn left a note that he’s out. Desperate to find a piece of home, I call Liam and tell him what’s happening, needing to hear a familiar voice.

  “They just don’t know you, Milly. It’ll work out. I’m sure there’s another job waiting that will see you for who you truly are. I really hate that you feel this way.”

  “You should have seen her, she acted as if I was a five-year-old applying for the job. I’ve never felt so humiliated. California is different…”

  “It’s not home.”

  I miss him so much. The smell of his skin when he sweats in the workshop. The way his hair falls over his eyes—much to my annoyance—only for me to sweep it away. Four days and this is the longest we have been apart.

  “I want to come back home,” I cry openly into the speaker, tasting my tears as they fall to my lips. “I miss you, I miss Phoebe… and Mama.”

  Liam remains quiet, allowing me to express my emotions in ways he has never heard from me before. After several minutes of listing all the things I miss about home, I quieten down, enough for him to finally get a word in.

  “Have you spoken to your mom?”

  “Not yet. I was going to call her after I got the job. God, how stupid was I to think I was good enough.”

  “Hey, don’t you dare for a second think you’re not good enough. What makes them better, huh? Just because they have money doesn’t make you less worthy. They’re not us. They’re not bred to understand what working hard means.”

  I suppose he has a point. I’m just too upset to rationalize with my depressed self. We somehow move onto his work, updating me on what’s happening back home. I miss the boys in the workshop, their antics, and the way they sing country music loudly as they tinker on the cars.

  Just as we’re about to say goodbye to each other, I hear the beep of another call coming through.

  “Sorry, Liam, I’ve got another call. Can I call you back tonight?”

  “Always.” I hear his smile before I say goodbye and answer the other call.

  “Milana?” The voice is familiar. “It’s Emerson.”

  Shit. I straighten my posture and respond with a chirpy tone. “Hi, Emerson.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, just talking to an old friend.”

  “Great. First, I’m sorry for Sonia being so rude today. She’s a great publicist and ruthless when it comes to the media, but sucks at being a human.”

  I smile with relief. Emerson doesn’t come across like Sonia. It’s good to know I’m not the only one who thinks she’s rude.

  “I wanted to offer you the job. If you’ll take it, of course.”

  I almost jump on the sofa Tom Cruise style. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m a hard worker, and I can easily work under pressure. I promise I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t. Are you free to catch up for a coffee this afternoon? We can go through the details of the job and the expectations.”

  She tells me her address, and I scribble it down eagerly. We agree to meet at four o’clock, and when we both end the call, I jump on the sofa and hug the piece of paper, grinning to myself.

  I will show Sonia Jones that I can do the job.

  It is my mission.

  I grab my cell off the sofa and dial Mama’s number, eager to tell her the good news and hear her voice.

  Maybe, just maybe, this will work out after all.

  Chapter Five

  Public transportation in Los Angeles is a joke.

  Without my own car, I have no other means of getting around. Back home, I’m spoiled. Not only do I have my own car, but a boyfriend who makes sure it turns on and gets me from A to B.

  The bus ride is uneventful, folks keeping to themselves and staring out the window in a dull state of mind. I plan to stop off at a coffee shop near a place called The Grove. According to an old newspaper that I found on our doorstep, it’s a popular place to shop and eat with many celebrities frequenting the joint. Not that I care. I just want to get my hands on this ridiculously expensive cake to say thank you for employing me even though I’m a rambling mess.

  The coffee shop is busy, many people occupying the small tables which are scattered around. The glass display is full of delicious desserts. Rows and rows of mouth-watering sweets, making my stomach growl loudly enough that the lady carrying a tiny rat-looking dog in her purse, takes notice.

  “The caramel baked cheesecake with crushed Oreos and peanut butter cups, please.”

  The cashier, Sarah, packs the cake into a silver box, sliding it over the counter as I hand her some cash. Politely saying, “Thank you,” I turn around deciding to open the carton to catch another glimpse of this oh-so-perfect cake.

  The side of the lid gets caught in the corner. I nudge it slightly to close it shut again when all of a sudden, my body slams into another person causing me to gasp loudly.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going!”

  Frazzled, I look up to see an annoyed guy wearing a thick leather jacket, standing in front of me, arm draped around a pretty girl and carrying a helmet in his spare hand. She appears to be amused by something, and following her eyes, I stare down at my white dress now covered in Oreos.

  Shit. Shit. SHIT!

  “Might want to do something about that dress of yours,” he snorts, arrogantly, twitching his hazel eyes with a fiendish grin.

  “Excuse me?” Perhaps I’m overreacting, but this moron just cost me thirty dollars. Who does this asswipe think he is? “How about you learn some manners!”

  I’m not the type of person to raise my voice at a stranger, usually controlled and able to walk away from such nonsense. Yet something about the way he makes me feel like a pathetic nobody just rubs me the wrong way.

  He—and his Hollywood bimbo—don’t deserve any more of my time. The damage is done, I have a ruined cake and an equally ruined dress. Of course, I had to wear white today.

  I turn back around with a red face, greeting Sarah at the counter. I could see the sympathy in her eyes together with a disappointed smile.

  “You know what?” Sarah is examining the damage. “I’m sure Mona can quickly fix the top. Saves you having to buy another.”

  Sarah disappears into the kitchen only to return with a smile, asking me to wait for a few minutes while Mona fixes the icing. She hands me a small cloth which I use to carefully wipe the excess cake off my dress.

  Mr. Dick, as I like to call him starting from this moment, moves closer to the counter, ordering a triple-shot coffee as if he didn’t do anything. I stand, waiting, impatiently tapping my feet with my arms crossed to cover the hideous stain. I have no time to get changed let alone spend money on another dress.

  He hands over a credit card, trying to eye-flirt with Sarah.

  “You know, you might want to watch where you’re walking. Head buried in a cake box is probably not the smartest thing to do.”

  “Neither is being a dick,” I mumble under my breath.


  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. It’s bad manners not to make eye contact with someone when you speak.”

  My head moves swiftly, eyes wide open, staring at this arrogant ass. He isn’t the first arrogant asshole I’ve encountered in the four days I have been here. Los Angeles is full of them.

  “You want to talk to me about making eye contact? I think you just told me to watch where I was walking, but at the same time, you’re flirting with Sarah.”

  Sarah almost drops the coffee in her hand, embarrassed that she enjoyed his attention.

  He takes the cup and turns to face me, giving me a better chance to get a glimpse of the face attached to the asshole personality.

  The first thing I notice is how light his eyes are—hazel colored—light in comparison to the dark beard sitting across the bottom half of his face. His olive complexion makes them stand out, but beneath them are dark bags. Tired, worn out—something about him looks aged.

  Without trying to make it look obvious, a scar on the side of his jawline catches my attention. It has a pinkish tinge, looking fresh from some accident and buried in his overgrown beard.

  “Are you done looking at me now?”

  I pull back, unaware how obvious I have been.

  “Yes. Just wanted to remember the face of the person who cost me my favorite dress and is making me late to an important appointment.”

  “That dress is your favorite?”

  I look down at my dress. It’s my favorite. I bought it three summers ago at the Macy’s clearance rack during one of our girly road trips to Anchorage. It has this 1950s feel to it—halter neck with three large buttons that run down my chest. The bottom flairs beneath my waist, covering my wide hips.

  “Actually, it is.”

  The blonde bimbo who accompanied him into the shop is by his side, eyeing me again as if I belong in a zoo.

  “I bet you’re not from around here. Let me guess, you came here to be the next biggest movie star.”

  They laugh in unison, only adding to my uncomfortable state.