by Kat T. Masen
“And let me guess, you came here to be the next biggest porn star!”
I don’t wait for her reaction, turning around and facing the counter desperate for Sarah to return with my cake. Beside me, Mr. Dick is laughing, prompting Bimbo to nudge him with her shoulder.
Sarah comes out of the kitchen carrying my box. Letting out a sigh of relief, I thank her as she slowly passes it over. I won’t open the box this time, turning my back to them while I walk to the exit.
“Hey!”
I stop for a moment, contemplating whether or not to turn around and bother giving him another minute of my time.
“What?”
“I still didn’t get an apology.”
The box is steady in my hands as I turn around to argue with him one more time.
“Since I’ll never see you again, you can take my apology and shove it up your ass.”
His lips curve upward into a wide grin. “And if you do see me again?”
“Then I’ll take it out of your ass and actually mean it.”
I refuse to entertain him any longer, pushing the door open and leaving the shop in a mad rush to Emerson’s house.
***
“This cake is divine.”
Emerson takes another bite as we sit outside on the back patio. Her house is enormous, surrounded by the greenest grass I have ever seen and views of the valley that stretch beyond the horizon. Toward the right, there is an Olympic-size pool with a small pool house on the opposite side. It’s just like out of a magazine, picture-perfect and could fit the tagline of Dream Home.
“Thank you. Again, I’m so sorry about my appearance. I’m not usually like this, I just… I can’t believe the nerve of that guy.”
She smiles softly. “It’s okay. Once I almost walked on stage with toilet paper hanging out of my butt, so I understand completely. Though, that was entirely my fault.”
We both laugh with a mouthful of cake. Emerson’s easy-going, spending some time to explain the role and parts of her personal life. I have a good feeling about her. She seems nothing like the other snobs I have encountered.
“I have a daughter. She’s six months old. Her name is Lola.” She taps on her phone and proudly shows me a picture. She’s a gorgeous baby with a full head of brown hair coupled with deep blue eyes. “She’s napping now, otherwise I would bring her down.”
It explains why she has a baby monitor on the table beside her phone.
“I try to keep a routine. I work three days a week from nine to five, and then on the remaining days, I work during her naps. When my husband’s in town, I get a chance to work a bit more but to be honest, I just want to spend time with him.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what does he do?”
“He plays soccer. Right now, he’s in Brazil leading a soccer program for youths.”
“Sounds like you have your hands full,” I tell her, with ease.
“Yes, that’s why you’re here.” She laughs, taking another bite of cake. “I’ve got baby brain. I need someone to help me with scheduling meetings, run business errands, and meet with suppliers when I can’t. When I have interviews and appearances, I need someone to coordinate my publicist, stylist, the whole team. It’s a very busy role, but I think you’re the right fit, Milana.”
“I’m dedicated. We simply need to find our groove. Does that make sense?”
Her eyes light up, impressed. “Total sense. So, how about we start tomorrow? If you can meet me here at nine? Just wait here a second…”
Emerson stands, her white shorts and navy-blue tank matching the fabric of the chair she was sitting in. She disappears only to return moments later carrying a laptop, phone, and set of keys.
“This is for you.” She hands them to me, much to my bewilderment. “We can schedule the next twelve months’ of meetings tomorrow and sync our diaries. The keys are for the car you’ll need to run errands. The phone is for business clients to contact you and me.”
“But… this is…” I stumble on my words, feeling terrible for accepting the car.
“All part of the job,” she finishes my sentence. “And, a tax right-off. Charlie, that’s what we call her instead of Charlotte, is my lawyer. She’ll FedEx you the contracts to sign.”
Back home, Mildred Mason had one computer and a landline in the office. It was never an issue, and somehow, we were contactable. Although I had a laptop and a brick, as Liam referred to it, this is all a bit much.
“Are you sure?” I question with uncertainty. “I was going to buy a car. I just wanted to get settled first.”
Emerson places the keys in my hand and rests her palm on mine, reassuring me that this isn’t a pity handout. “I’m sure. There is one catch, though.”
Of course, there is.
“One of my business associates is very difficult to work with. In fact, I limit contact with him because I can’t deal with him anymore.”
Odd, yet I’m curious as to why she doesn’t just cut ties.
“Your business partner?”
“Yes.” The subject appears to irritate her, the smile on her face disappearing, and the grit in her teeth portraying her anger toward this individual. “As much as I would love not to deal with him, he has made it difficult for me to legally pull away from the business.”
He already sounds like a dickhead.
“It’s okay. When it comes to people like this, I can keep my head strong and stay focused on the job.”
She breathes a sigh of relief and ends with a small giggle. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“If today’s debacle taught me anything, it’s to be prepared. You never know who’s just around the corner…”
Chapter Six
There’s a loud thump, thump, thump against the wall.
The room is filled with the beautiful, warm sunlight that California is known for. I appreciate the small things in life, just not the loud banging against my wall. Stumbling out of bed in my sleep shorts and worn-out KISS t-shirt, I make it out to the living room to see Flynn passed out on the sofa surrounded by bags of chips and empty bottles of cola. It suddenly dawns on me that the sound is coming from the wall I share with my elderly neighbors.
Oh, dear God, no.
I ignore the mental images. Never in my wildest dreams did I picture myself living in a run-down apartment block surrounded by neighbors who were one step away from a grave yet having more sex that I am at this point of my life.
The universe works in mysterious ways.
The empty coffee pot that sits on our old countertop is the only thing I want right now, distracting me from my wandering thoughts and desperate need to check in on Liam because sex is on my brain. With a pot brewing and some cereal in a bowl, I sit at the table with my planner instead.
My first week on the job was chaotic. Emerson introduced me to many of the staff who work for her which meant driving around Los Angeles and being stuck in traffic for most of the day. My to-do list is a mile long, but I’m determined. I will do this and do a damn fine job. The busy workload distracts me from being homesick and the ill-feeling that constantly sits in the pit of my stomach.
On today’s agenda, I will be accompanying Emerson to the studios. To be honest, I’m rather excited. I don’t consider myself a star-struck fan-type person, but something about this place brings it out of me. That, and Phoebe is relentless, texting me a thousand times a day with celebrity sightings. It’s the reason I haven’t mentioned that my boss is Emerson Chase.
“Grrr…”
The groan interrupts my thought process. Flynn sits up on the sofa, rubbing his eyes and coughing out what sounds like a furball. I feel terrible that I have been so busy with work the past week, never getting a proper chance to spend time with him and see what he’s up to.
“Big night with a bag of potato chips?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, eyes closed, half asleep. “What time is it?”
I pick up my phone to see the time. “A little after six.”
“In the morning?”
“Uh, yeah.” Pointing out the obvious, I notice his eyes are red and very tired looking.
People say that Flynn looks nothing like me. His features are similar to my grandpapa. His light eyes bordering on green and mousy-brown hair with honey highlights, make him look more Russian. He wears it long, the strands falling past his eyes and almost touching his chin. For a growing young man who eats absolute rubbish all the time, his skin is as flawless as a baby’s bottom. Though of late, he appears to be growing a slight beard, which makes him look more mature.
It’s often asked if we are a couple because we don’t appear related. Stupid people with narrow-minded opinions that completely gross us both out. Mama always finds it amusing how two children can be so different. You only have to look at me to see I’m of mixed race. My almond-shaped eyes are a dead giveaway.
“What time did you get home last night?”
“Don’t know.”
“Okay, so what are your plans for today?”
“Don’t know.”
My frustration comes out quickly. “Flynn, I get it. I really do. You don’t want to be here. But making it impossible to live won’t make it easier.”
I pour a cup of coffee and bring it to him, setting it on the coffee table that I bought from a cheap second-hand store a block from the apartment. It’s shaped like an old trunk, made from a combination of hardwood and leather. Flynn hates it.
“If we both work hard, the quicker we can—”
“Yeah, I get it, all right?” He jumps to his feet, almost crashing into me. “I need a shower.”
“Flynn,” I call his name, trying to reign in my frustration. He stops just shy of the bathroom door. “How about we go out for dinner tonight? Your pick.”
“Can’t. Got a gig.”
“A gig? As in you’re playing in a band?”
“Kinda, sorta.”
“Okay, well, either you are or you aren’t.”
Exhaling, he turns around to explain himself. “There’s a group of guys I met. We just play at this local joint. Pays peanuts, but you know, whatever.”
“Wow.” I’m proud of him for finding a band but equally worried about who these people are. “Well, how about I drop by tonight?”
He shrugs his shoulders, which I take to mean whatever, disappearing into the bathroom before saying another word.
***
“Hi, Emerson!” I wave, quick to rush over to her as she carries her daughter, a diaper bag, and juggling a folder with papers inside it.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathes out, worried and anxious about something. Emerson normally dresses impeccably, but her messy bun and crinkled shirt say otherwise.
“Hey, pass me that.” I grab the folder and diaper bag, cooing at baby Lola. I’m not much of a baby person, but Lola is awfully cute. She’s one of those chubby babies with thunder thighs. Completely acceptable as a baby, not so much when you’re twenty-six and trying to shimmy your way into a pair of skinny jeans.
“Is everything okay?”
“Lola woke up with a fever. I don’t want to leave her with anyone, but I have two meetings to attend today.”
I bend down and place my hand on her cheek, noticing the pinkish tinge. Her skin is hot, and something Emerson has every right to be worried about. “Listen, take her to the doctor, and I’ll sit in on the meetings.”
“We can reschedule the studio meeting, but the other—”
“Leave it with me.” I smile and giggle at Lola, hoping it’s a small bug that she needs to get over. “This cutie wants her mommy so—”
My words are cut short as a loud burp followed by warm white liquid hits the front of my shirt. There’s a delayed reaction on my end, falling back as if I have been hit by a bullet.
The bullet just happens to be baby vomit.
“Oh my God! Milana, I’m so sorry!”
Emerson tries to retrieve wipes from the diaper bag, pulling some out to clean my shirt as Lola cries out loud. I’m in shock, the projectile sound still tormenting me.
“Emerson, it’s just a shirt. Take her to the doctor. Family first. I’ve got your meetings on my schedule, so leave it with me, okay?”
She nods, almost on the verge of tears. “This single-parent thing is hard.”
I offer her a sympathetic smile, ignoring the smell of vomit on my shirt. I’m this close to dry heaving, keeping the lump in my throat at bay. “I’m sure if Lola’s daddy could be here, he would.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We walk back to the car and settle Lola into her seat then load the rest of the stuff. Emerson warns me about the business meeting I will attend this afternoon, scattered in her thoughts while trying to start the car.
“Just listen to Jeff. He’s an excellent business manager, and all you need to do is take notes.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t stress.”
***
After sitting in the car for over an hour, I’m confident that the smell of baby puke no longer lingers or I’ve become immune to it. I sprayed my shirt over and over again, placing my jacket on once I exit the car, ignoring the sweltering heat. Thankfully, it’s dried up in the car ride over and no longer clings to my skin.
The meeting is supposed to be short, just her business manager and business partner. All I have to do is take down some key notes and bring back the contract. Easy.
The building is ultra-modern with a view of downtown Los Angeles. There are white leather lounges in the lobby, and bright paintings hang on almost every wall. One particular painting captures my attention. It looks like a big pink vagina and is probably worth a fortune. Again, LA people are weird.
I find my way to the elevator, and when it opens, it’s all gold. I press the number eight and wait patiently with the elevator music surrounding me. It doesn’t take long for my head to bop along to some familiar tune that sounds like a Barry Manilow song. It reminds me of Mama. She has this odd crush on Barry. And then my heart begins to ache, missing her like crazy. One week, and I have spoken to her three times on the phone, each time for over an hour, chatting about trivial things, anything just to hear her voice.
The elevator slows to a stop and dings as the door opens. I step out and see the reception desk instantly. There’s a young girl with enormous—albeit fake—breasts smiling back at me. They are so large, I’m terrified they will burst in her teeny-tiny blouse.
Her platinum-blonde hair is long, the same length as mine, falling just above her waist. On closer inspection, they appear to be extensions. Nothing is ever real in Hollywood.
“My name is Milana Milenov. I’m here to meet—”
“Oh, yes.” She doesn’t allow me to finish, smiling while extending her hand with fake acrylic hot- pink nails out. “You’re Mrs. Chase’s assistant. Please, follow me.”
She quickly stands, adjusting her skirt to an appropriate length and requests I follow. She’s wearing tall, gold platform pumps. They make my pair of black ones look like I shopped in the grandma aisle in Target.
“Take a seat, please. Would you like a coffee or tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
I’m inside a boardroom. It’s small and uninteresting. I pull out a black leather chair and place my items on the table. My notebook, pen, and laptop are ready for the meeting. There’s a glass of water in front of me. I take a small sip, careful not to smudge my lipstick on the glass.
“Miss Milenov.”
The water almost spits out of my mouth, and with a quick swallow, I stand up and greet the man standing by my side. “Yes, you must be Mr. Rich.”
“Oh, I’m flattered and wishful to be that young again.” He laughs, his bushy gray eyebrows bopping up and down. “Mr. Rich is running late, as usual. So, let’s get started.”
Mr. Ramsay has a background in business law. Having worked with lawyers for many years, I understand legal jargon, being exposed to it almost every day.
“I must say, Miss Milenov, it’s refreshing to work
with someone who has legal knowledge. Have you considered studying a degree in law?”
“I did. It isn’t my preference. I just sort of fell into an assistant role, but I did obtain a lot of exposure working with my former boss. She was quite a shark back home.”
“You’ve got a keen eye for detail. You managed to pick up inconsistencies in these contracts that my qualified staff weren’t able to find.”
I’m about to comment when the door swings open, and my vision is met with a pair of tailored charcoal pants. They’re tapered in nicely, paired with shiny black dress shoes that make his feet look huge. You know what they say. I ignore Phoebe’s voice in my head and quickly scan the rest of his body without being too obvious until our eyes meet.
It must be Mr. Rich, a very handsome man with a cleanly shaven face and strong jawline. His jawline makes him look very burly and masculine. Even his hair is styled so perfectly, combed to the side like he just stepped off a photoshoot for a designer label.
“Punctuality not your thing, Mr. Rich?”
“Jeff, always a pleasure.” He places his cell on the table and extends his hand to greet mine. “And you are?”
“Miss Milenov.” I stand as he watches me with far too much curiosity. “Emerson, I mean, Mrs. Chase, was unable to make it and requested I be here.”
His face instantly drops, almost of disappointment. He avoids looking at me any longer, taking a seat at the end of the table and rolling the cuffs of his white shirt. I notice the large silver watch on his wrist and no wedding band. I have a fascination with hands.
“Let’s make this quick, shall we?”
Jeff jumps straight back to it, talking about the companies that want to stock Emerson’s fitness line in Australia and New Zealand. I’m writing down his comments profusely, not aware that Mr. Rich sits at the table looking bored while his eyes are fixed on me. Jeff speaks for another hour before concluding the meeting. I relax my fingers that begin to cramp from taking all my notes. A week into this job, and I’m thinking that typing would be much easier. Emerson wasn’t joking when she said this role would be full-on.