by Kat T. Masen
“Here.” Jeff slides over a business card to me. “If you’re wanting to get that degree and looking for something solid, come find me.”
I thank him by smiling and tuck the business card into my wallet. He says goodbye and leaves the room quickly.
“What was that about?”
My gaze moves to Mr. Rich. “That? Mr. Ramsey mentioned something earlier.”
“Right.” He pauses, but his persistent stare is fast becoming annoying. “So, you’re Emerson’s new personal assistant.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting, you look quite young to be her assistant.”
“I’m not sure how my age affects my capability.”
“How old are you?”
I shake my head in a daze. What is with this guy? Yeah, he’s cute and all but bordering on being a dick. “Are you seriously asking my age?”
“You just look young. Em is quite particular with young people working around her.”
I shut my notebook and pack my things before giving him a response. “Well, I can assure you that I’m more than qualified to assist Mrs. Chase. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve done what’s been asked of me and must continue my busy day.”
“So, let me guess, you wanted the job because you’re hoping to hop in bed with Carrington?”
I have no clue what he’s talking about, but his brutish grin and arrogant persona tick the boxes that Emerson warned me about. It’s always the good-looking ones who have to be assholes.
“I apologize.” He stands up tall, inches above me even in my pumps. “How rude of me to presume you’re that type of woman.”
His presence makes me uncomfortable. I’m desperate to ask him why he wants to be in business with Emerson considering he showed no interest in that meeting whatsoever. But then I remember I enjoy my job. Biting my tongue will be beneficial if I want to keep it. Some people were born assholes, and no amount of arguing will change that.
He moves toward the door, reaching the handle before I do and opening the door for me. He waits for me to pass, and I’m feeling rather awkward from his up-and-down personality.
“What’s that smell… it almost smells like…” He points his nose into the air in front of him until he gets closer to my chest. I pull back, embarrassed that I smell like puke and because he’s in my personal space. He could motorboat me with the distance to my breasts.
“Baby puke.” I beat him to the punch. “I got puked on, okay.”
“By your baby?”
“No, not my baby. Mrs. Chase’s baby.”
“So, you’re single?”
“Wha… what? What does that have to do with it?”
That grin, again. What the hell is his problem and why the thousand questions?
“Just trying to figure you out, Miss Milenov.”
His eyes stare with curiosity. Something about him seems familiar. I must have seen his face in some magazine or something, perhaps one of Phoebe’s trashloids. At least, that’s what I call them.
“I need to be somewhere. So unless you have any work-related questions, I need to go.”
He places his arm across the door frame, forcing me to stop in my tracks. I’m not used to being around such dominant men aside from my ex back in college. Creepy would be the better description. Liam and the boys back home were so laid back. Something I miss dearly. Flynn, he’s just a lazy grub. But this, this I’m unsure of how to handle. My instincts say go with your gut, don’t let him get to you, and you’ve got that pepper spray sitting inside your purse if needed.
“Maybe it’s a good idea if you carry some spare clothes with you, you know, accidents seem to be your thing.”
“You don’t know me,” I state confidently, holding his gaze and focusing on the unique color of his eyes. They’re like a golden-ish hazel-green color. I’m certain he uses them to get what he wants. Just not with me. No wonder Emerson warned me.
“Maybe I don’t. I’ll just stand here waiting for my apology.”
“Apology?” I laugh at the stupidity of his comment. “For what?”
He bends down, the essence of his aftershave lingering in the air between us. Okay, breathe, don’t let that scent get to you. His lips shift closer to my ear, and easily he whispers, “You said if we ever cross paths again, you’d take your apology out of my ass and actually mean it.”
My heart stops. The ticking resumes seconds later at a loud and fast rate. No. This can’t be the same guy.
I lift my head so that our faces are inches apart, then I touch his face with my bare hand, without even thinking, and lift his chin, tilting it to the left to confirm my fears.
That scar.
Pink, raw, and exposed.
It is him.
Chapter Seven
I make it to the bar where Flynn will be playing. A place named Locust in a trendy part of town.
The place is jammed, full of young and old people in small groups, sitting and standing around the high-end bar tables that are scattered around the cozy venue.
The lighting is poor, a few sconces on the wall and an old guitar hangs behind the bar with a spotlight hovering over it. This grunge-type ambiance isn’t my thing, but I’m here to support Flynn. I do, however, make a mental note to avoid the restrooms at all costs.
I’ve been nursing a gin and tonic for over an hour, waiting patiently for Flynn to begin his set. Alone, at the bar, I make small talk with the bartender as she kindly offers to top me off every so often. I’m not much of a drinker these days, sipping slowly, trying to clear my thoughts without much luck.
I’ll admit he got to me.
Wesley Rich.
Crawled under my skin like a parasite. It isn’t just the fact that I looked stupid for not knowing he’s the same guy I ran into last week, it’s the way he spoke to me. Like I’m a nobody. I have been so accustomed to nice guys like Liam that I’ve forgotten that dickheads still exist.
The music in the room softens to a much more enjoyable level as a guy with long hair tied into a loose ponytail tests the mic. His beard almost touches his chest—long and full enough to house a swarm of bees.
I swivel my chair around to face the set and see Flynn sitting on a stool, practicing with his sticks. He’s focused, narrowing his brow and biting his lip, flicking his piercing with his tongue.
Wait, a piercing? My foot falls off the stool and onto the floor as I stumble forward only to be pulled upright by an unknown hand.
“Jesus, can’t take you anywhere.”
The shock slows me down until I turn slowly and connect the hand with the face.
Are you kidding me? I don’t know what messed-up game the universe is playing, but I want out.
Wesley is standing beside me, a smirk the size of Jupiter with that annoying stare that drives me insane. Yeah, I know what he’s thinking—here’s that dumb girl again who seems to manage to make a fool of herself every time I’m around.
I blame my wedges since I haven’t worn them after my ill-fated trip down the stairwell back home. I’m certain they’re possessed, yet I wear them because they match my navy A-line dress and make my legs look slimmer.
“I was distracted.” I clear my throat. “My brother is the drummer, and he has a piercing that wasn’t there this morning.”
“Let me guess. You’re a nun who thinks piercings are acts of the devil?”
“No…” I drag, annoyed at his presumption. “It’s just not like Flynn. Anyway, are you stalking me?”
I don’t know where that came from, but his presence, so close, annoys the living daylights out of me. How can someone so attractive be so unattractive at the same time? He’s changed from wearing a suit, dressed in some light chinos and a dark denim shirt. It’s nothing like the bike gear he wore the other day, nor the suit earlier today, and for some reason, it strikes me as odd that one man can be so versatile.
Okay, admit it for one second, he looks nice in his yuppie get-up.
“Are you done staring now?”
“I wasn’t staring.” I straighten my posture, crossing my legs in an attempt to act confident. “It would be rude to stare, and if I want to be rude, I won’t waste it on you.”
His eyes flare with amusement. “Ouch, you must really hate me.”
“Hate is such a strong word.”
“Well, I can tell you don’t like me.”
“Yet, you continue to stand here, blocking my view when the purpose of being here is to watch my brother.”
Even in the dark, the contours of his face are defined—striking jaw in an upward pose, teasing me like we’re in the schoolyard.
“Sorry,” he apologizes sarcastically. “I’m pretty sure this is a public place, but let me walk away from you because I’m here for another reason. Your clumsiness just happened to catch my attention… again.”
I open my mouth to respond back, but it’s too late. He walks away in the opposite direction, suddenly crowded by a bunch of women who appear to be literally throwing themselves at him. They’re young girls who don’t even look of legal age and shouldn’t be in the bar. He doesn’t seem to care, lapping up the attention with his arms wrapped around two of the girls and easily ignoring my presence.
I force myself to ignore him, finishing the gin and tonic and waiting for the set to start. The entire band is on stage, and with a short introduction, they open up with a remake of Help! by The Beatles, remade to sound like rock which appears to be a big hit with the crowd.
Flynn is in his element. His talent to play music in beat with the band comes naturally to him. I wish Mama could see him now. She would be so proud of him, watching him perform and come out of his shell, something he struggled with back home. That piercing, though, I highly doubt she will be proud of that.
The atmosphere is buzzing, people congregate in circles enjoying the time with friends. I have never felt so lonely. Aside from Flynn, who rarely spends time with me, I have no one here. Emerson is a great manager, but she isn’t exactly someone I hang out with or pour my guts out to. I miss Phoebe. She would have been drunk already, picked up several guys, and managed to climb onstage to play air guitar with the band.
And then, there’s that longing just to feel wanted.
Something I took for granted with Liam. Liam is a great boyfriend, but I guess over time like many relationships, we fell into the comfortable basket. It never bothered me at all, we would easily spend our time in the basement watching David Attenborough documentaries with a tub of popcorn between us. It was simple, yet comforting.
This new life I have created in just two weeks is slowly growing on me. I enjoy the drive around Los Angeles, although traffic is a bitch. Visiting new places and talking to different walks of life if only for a few minutes, is fantastic and I love it. My neighborhood, while completely ghetto, is even growing on me a little.
The loneliness is the only thing bringing me down.
I stir the straw in my drink in circular motions trying to rid myself of these thoughts when a whiff of cologne strikes me. Trying not to seem obvious, I slowly peek at the arm beside me with the corner of my eye. It’s all muscle, nice and hard. Taking a deep breath, the part of me below that stirs, does nothing to cure my blues as if I could hook up with someone. One, Liam and I aren’t over. Two, this guy could be really unattractive. Three, I’m not that person. Sleeping with someone else is completely out of my comfort zone. I have been with one guy for four years. I might as well have been a nun. It’s like my past never existed.
But I can flirt—harmless flirting.
“Nice drink. Scotch?” I ask.
The man stops drinking, holding his glass in mid-air, which gives me a chance to look at his face. A little older than what I like, but he has a mature face with slight wrinkles around his baby-blue eyes.
“Bourbon.”
I smile, unsure of where to go from here. “Nice.”
He doesn’t say another word, glass in hand and walks away.
Oh, that’s terrible.
Damn! Is it really this hard?
Maybe it’s not hard, I’m not exactly a supermodel with a banging body. I have gained weight over the past few months—stress eating as they call it. I’ve always had this complex about my looks—the fact that I look kind of Asian but also not is because of my mixed-race background. People often ask me about my ethnicity, confused by the almond-shaped eyes and scattered freckles across my nose coupled with my light hair that almost touches my waist.
Alone at the bar with one failed flirting attempt, I’m so ready to call it a night.
Just as I’m about to give up and say goodbye to Flynn, a cuter, younger guy walks to the bar, easing his body between myself and another lady, ordering a Corona. He smells nice like fresh waterfalls mixed with something manly.
“You’ve been sitting on that drink most of the night.” His voice is husky, the kind of voice that would sound great on a sex hotline.
“Not much of a drinker.” I grin. He’s cute—Ryan Gosling in The Notebook cute. “Here to support my brother.” I point toward the stage. Flynn is banging it out to a rendition of Eye of the Tiger.
“He’s pretty awesome. He should play when the agents visit. I’m Mitch.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, trying to ignore Phoebe’s words about hands and sizes of genitalia.
“Milana.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
A deep laugh erupts from my mouth and he appears confused at my sudden outburst.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… this is weird.”
He smiles, raising a brow, resting his elbow on the bar and drawing himself closer to me. “Explain?”
“I don’t flirt if that’s what this is.”
Oh my God, that sounds terrible. I should not be allowed to hang around people.
“Sometimes flirting isn’t needed, not when you’re naturally beautiful, Milana.”
I laugh again, this time clutching onto my belly. It moves up and down, beginning to ache. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? I’m sorry, it’s not funny. I mean you’re not funny. I’m seriously laughing at my stupidity here.” I bring the glass toward my lips, allowing the remains of the drink to burn my throat to ease my nerves. Mitch whistles for the bartender, ordering me another drink which I gracefully accept, not wanting to be rude.
“Okay, maybe you’re right. Flirting isn’t your forte. Let’s start again.” He extends his hand, keeping his smile simple. “Hi, I’m Mitch.”
“Hi, I’m Milana.”
“Okay, no. Now you sound like you’re forcing it.”
“Forcing what?”
“The flirting. You batted your eyelashes.”
I scrunch up my face, unsure if I did that but hadn’t been aware. “I suck.”
“Maybe, a little.” He laughs, easing my worry. “I don’t know why. You’re gorgeous, and the thought of you not being taken already piques my curiosity.”
I contemplate explaining my relationship with Liam but decide against it. This guy has no clue who I am or what baggage I carry. For all he knows, I could be part of a circus traveling through town as the starring trapeze act.
“It’s complicated.”
“Ah, the good ol’ it’s complicated status.”
“We’re not complicated, Liam is so far from complicated. My circumstances are complicated. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
He places his hand on my shoulder, it’s nice and eases my nerves. “It’s noisy in here. Why don’t we head out, someplace quieter?”
I smile, agreeing, jumping off the stool and bumping bodies with Wesley.
“Going somewhere?” he grunts, eyes wide.
“Um… yes. And you’re in my way because?”
Wesley continues to block my exit, staring Mitch down like he’s done something wrong. Am I missing something here? Only moments ago, Wesley was across the other side of the room surrounded by his posse of women.
“I don’t think you should be leaving with a stranger.”
I’m
confused. It might be the gin and tonic, but I’m certain it isn’t. “Mitch is far from a stranger. We’ve attempted to flirt three times. We have a connection. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to continue my attempt at failing with this very nice man.”
I push on his chest, ignoring this warm sensation that pumps my blood and travels to places that it shouldn’t have. It’s pure anger. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this level of anger with any human being before. Don’t confuse it with anything else.
“Milana.” Wesley pulls me back into him, his deep stare locking into mine as I try to understand what’s happening. What he’s doing?
“Hey, leave her alone!” Mitch steps in front, breaking Wesley’s grip from my arm and creating a barrier between us. “I know you. You’re that guy, the one from that show.”
Wesley’s expression turns into rage like Mitch has offended him by recognizing him. What show? I’ve never seen Wesley before that day in the café. Is this another one of those moments where I have no clue who someone is?
Then it clicks.
Emerson was on a reality television show. This must be their connection.
“You don’t fucking know me, okay?” Wesley spits, pushing past him and penetrating me once again with a death glare.
“Mitch, can you give us a moment, please?” I ask softly, calming the tension that lingers around us.
Mitch takes a step back, touching the small of my back. I grab Wesley’s hand and drag him past the crowd, ignoring his weight and reluctance to follow me. People are watching, curiosity on their faces and a few following us outside.
The cool air graces my face, instantly bringing my body temperature down. I search the area around us and continue dragging him to a more secluded area in the doorway of a neighboring store that’s closed. It doesn’t stop the onlookers and cameras from flashing in the distance. Conscious of the unwanted attention, I raise my arm and cover my face to disguise myself.
I want to tear him apart which is fueled by anger and confusion.
“What the hell is your problem? What was that? You can’t just fight people and throw your fist around.”
“You don’t even know the guy, and you leave with him!” His brows pull down together, agitated, his expression full of animosity. “I know you’re naïve but didn’t think you were that dumb.”