by Kat T. Masen
His eyes are distracted for a moment, watching people walk past, a bunch of girls who giggle and call his name. That’s it. This, whatever this is, needs to stop.
“Thanks for calling me dumb. You seem to have this knack for making me feel pathetic. Run off to your posse of girls, I can take care of myself.”
I don’t give him a chance to respond, abandoning him and walking at a fast pace in the exact opposite direction with no clue where I’m heading. I hear him call my name, once, twice, but ignore him. When a cab drives past, I wave my hand repeatedly until it stops along the curb. I jump in, shutting the door behind me, letting out a breath of air and allowing my head to fall against the headrest before the tears escape, and my homesick-self begins its plea to head back home.
Wind sweeps through the cab and the door swings open. The cab driver yells, and Wesley has jumped in the back with me.
I straighten my posture, restraining my hands that want to push him out of the cab and onto the pavement.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell at him.
He runs his hands through his hair and bites his lip with an irritable twitch. There’s this nervous energy about him like he isn’t thinking straight and is on edge. “I don’t know. You’re… annoying, frustrating, clumsy, and dress like you belong in a nunnery.”
I stare down at my navy dress. His terrible words make me want to cry, but as stupid as that sounds I won’t give him that satisfaction. I will cry behind closed doors with a tub of ice cream and be that type of girl I swear I’ll never be because of a mean boy.
“Well, you’re a conceited snob who’s probably riddled with diseases from all the hoochies hanging off you.”
“You’re just…” He curls his fist into a ball, stumbling on his words.
“What, Wesley?” I laugh out of nowhere. “You have no clue who I am. You don’t know me from a bar of soap. Whatever opinion you’re forming of me, go ahead. I honestly don’t care.”
He raises his head and opens his mouth, my heart beating like a looming thunderstorm from the anger consuming me. I know his next words will be cruel and heartless, so I prepare myself, biting my lip and scrambling for the right words to use against him.
Then I stop.
I’m staring directly into the eyes of a man who hates me.
I want to hate him back.
But his stare changes, and it’s something I can’t figure out. It is still anger, and there’s a wild flare.
He leans forward, my body pushing into the door as our lips touch. It lasts only seconds, him pulling away, leaving me shaky and confused. I’m deafened by the thumping of my heart, catching broken words as he directs the cab driver, giving him an address.
My voice wavers, scared to ask the question. “Where are you taking me?”
Silence. He says nothing, staring deeply at the front window, nostrils flaring with lips pursed so tight they’re almost stark white.
“Wesley,” I push with desperation. “Answer me!”
His head turns swiftly, angrily. “I’m taking you back to my place. Now shut up, you’ve done enough damage tonight.”
I’m blown away by his disrespectful tone, his hurtful words, and equally confused at the same time of his need to kiss me. That strong, independent woman inside of me is sobbing at this unnecessary mess.
I want to push him out the door.
Or jump out myself.
It’s now or never.
Yet, that little devil, the one sitting on my shoulder with a heated pitchfork, wants answers.
And the only way I can get that is to stay in this cab and follow his lead.
Chapter Eight
It’s just like stepping into a car museum.
In front of the garage sit four cars. Three of them sporty and shiny, and the last one on the end, a black truck with large wheels and dark windows.
There are two motorbikes on the side—some sort of racer bike with orange pinstripes parked next to a Harley Davidson. It seems excessive and unnecessary to waste so much money on these possessions, but then I remember something that Liam once said to me. “A car to a man is like shoes to a woman, you can never have enough.”
Liam would be in heaven.
I’m overwhelmed with guilt. I shouldn’t be here in another man’s home. The same man who violently kissed me in the back of a cab without an explanation then remained silent during the next twenty minutes to his house.
But I have this odd feeling.
Maybe not a feeling but something unusual drawing me in.
I follow Wesley’s lead, standing in front of the wide, clear glass door. The house is very modern perched in a secluded gated community. The lights turn themselves on, almost blinding me as we walk inside. My curiosity is piquing more than it should, my feet moving against the polished concrete floors, staring at the pictures hanging on the wall and furniture placed around the home.
It’s simplistic. It screams ‘bachelor.’ He takes me inside what I assume is his living room. There’s not much to see—a white leather modular lounge with a shaggy black rug on the floor in front of it. There’re pictures on the wall, artwork that gives it a splash of color but far from that homey feel.
I hadn’t realized that Wesley had left the room. “Wanna drink?”
He opens a beer, consuming it within a beat, while handing me a bottle with his other hand.
“Uh… no thanks.”
He shrugs his shoulders and disappears again, leaving me alone in this big room. What the hell do I do? Take a seat? Stand here looking like an idiot? I’m not sure how to escape. I didn’t pay much attention on the drive over here with my mind all over the place. There’s no way I can tell what suburb I’m in, let alone his house number. The room spins slightly, the dizziness induced by the panic of being in a stranger’s home, becomes apparent.
The smell of his cologne graces the room as he returns moments later, and suddenly, I manage to calm myself down.
“Let’s go out back.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, welcoming the fresh night air to ease my unsettled imagination. My wedges produce a clunky sound with every step, making me self-conscious as I follow him through the house and into another living area with glass doors surrounding it.
He taps on a remote which slides the doors open onto a large patio. There’s a lap pool with a small Jacuzzi on one end, steam rising from it like a magical oasis. Even the pool is lit up, showcasing the deep blue water.
The view is something else. The house overlooks the city, and all I can see is the horizon full of lights. It’s breathtaking. Different from the clear sky back home. I breathe out, watching the world outside this house until a warm breath catches my skin, causing me to stiffen.
“It’s a big world out there.” His voice is soft, raspy, yet full of edge. “And I can tell it scares you.”
Acting on defense, I’m quick to respond with my back to him. “Nothing scares me.”
He turns me around, his hands gripping my shoulders with force. The grin on his face disturbs me—it’s not your average boy-next-door smile—it is sinister, the kind of smile that makes the Joker tap his heels in delight.
“You’re awful at lying. Quit while you can.”
I take his hands off me, sensitive to the closeness of his body near mine. I have to turn away from his stare, my gaze drifting around the room we walked through to distract my erratic heartbeat. The doors remain wide open, and I hadn’t noticed earlier, but the glass coffee table inside this larger living room is covered in bottles—beer, champagne, and others I’m not familiar with.
“There’s a saying. Don’t judge a book by its cover. So what if I’m from a small town? Doesn’t make me any less a human than you are.”
My arms fold pressing my breasts together to control this unknown tightness in my chest. This stare of his—persistent and killing me slowly—antagonizes me to the point that I push him away, scared of what might happen.
I turn back around, watching my step down to
the patio and keep my distance as I walk around the pool edge to clear my mind. Why am I here? My loneliness shouldn’t have dragged me here. I have a boyfriend back home and a best friend on call. Never mind that they aren’t actually present. A phone call could have cured that.
“You’re quiet.” Wesley lays on the outdoor chair, leaning against the soft cushion with his arm draped casually across the back. From the man who so abruptly jumped into the back of the cab with this nervous energy, to calm and relaxed laying on a poolside chair, I can’t piece together the complicated puzzle known as Wesley Rich.
“This isn’t like you.”
I laugh quietly. “I don’t know why you think you know me. We’ve known each other for two minutes. I’ve had longer relationships with a box of cereal.”
“Lucky box of cereal.” He snickers behind another bottle.
“Sometimes…” I add, ignoring his comment, “… it’s nice just to think.”
“I hate thinking.” He sits upright, not as relaxed as he was only moments ago. “That’s what gets me into trouble.”
“Into trouble?”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, throwing back the remains of his bottle and placing it on the ground, the glass clinging to the concrete. “Do you even know who I am?”
I don’t. I’m standing in a stranger’s house, open to a massacre of things that can happen because I followed my curiosity. I want to go home, back to Alaska—my comfort zone. This isn’t me, now. This is Milana at fifteen. The girl who would skip school, hang out at boys’ homes and joy-ride to other towns to steal booze.
“I should go home,” I stumble out, searching my purse for my phone, ready to call 911 in a state of panic. He could be a murderer. An ax-wielding murderer who will dump my body in the desert. The anxiety cripples me, my lungs short of breath. My hands shake while I attempt to unzip my purse, the zipper caught on a piece of fabric, which makes me panic even more as I attempt to jiggle it free.
“Relax, will you?” he says with ease, his eyes following with a chilling gaze. “I’m not a murderer nor a rapist. Take a breath, I think you should have a drink and stop thinking so much.”
There’s a large grill area with a glass fridge underneath the outdoor countertop. He removes a bottle of wine and two glasses, popping the cork and pouring it in. Reaching out to me, I willingly accept, drinking the wine so carelessly until my thoughts silence, and my skin tingles with delight.
“I don’t usually drink so much.” I hiccup on cue, embarrassingly.
He grins with amusement. “Tell me more.”
“I mean, I can drink. I just don’t very often. I don’t know why I’m just… boring.”
“Boring. Unusual way to describe yourself.”
“Well, I am. Nothing excites me,” I continue rambling, helping myself to another glass. “You know when you read a book, and there’s that thrill of the chase… like those tornado chasers. Living on the edge ready to get swept away.”
“You want to be swept away?”
“I don’t know what I want.” I sit on the edge of the pool, removing my shoes and dipping my feet into the water, allowing the cold liquid to soothe my sore feet. Maybe it is the wine, or the panoramic views of the city that whisk my thoughts away, but right now, even in his presence, this state of serenity consumes me. My head begins to clear itself from the toxic thoughts and focuses on the deep and meaningful ones instead.
“Life is complicated.”
He sits beside me, placing the bottle between us. Unlike me, he doesn’t place his feet in the water, crossing his legs and resting back on his hands. That scent—his cologne—is fresh and lingers my way.
Okay, he smells damn good.
“A moment ago, you said you were boring. Which one is it?”
“I’m boring. Life is complicated.”
“You don’t know complicated until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”
My focus moves away from the current of the water, my gaze moving toward him. Just like me moments ago, he’s watching the water with a downcast expression.
“I don’t know you,” I tell him, keeping my tone calm. “Who are you?”
With the glass in hand, he drinks it fast, slamming it down before standing up and muttering, “It’s probably better you don’t. Let’s go inside. I hate being here.”
It’s another mood shift, quick and abrupt. I can’t figure him out, or maybe I’m not meant to.
He grabs my hand to lift me up, rushing me like we’re out of time. I carry my shoes, drying my feet against the warm tiles.
“What music do you like?”
“Uh… I don’t know. Whatever.”
“Surely, you must have something you like.”
“Barry Manilow.”
I can hear him choke on his saliva. “Barry Manilow?”
“Yep.” I enjoy teasing him, watching his brows turn in with confusion.
He knows I’m playing, lifting his confused frown and replacing it with that insatiable grin. “Barry Manilow it is.”
The remote in his hand controls the music, and after a few taps, the sound of Barry Manilow fills the room.
“This reminds me of my mom.” I blink my eyes, holding back the tears, not wanting to break down in front of him. Until I left home, I hadn’t truly understood the power of music. A song can evoke so much emotion from a person purely because of memories.
I’m taken back to a simple time with Mama outside potting her new flowers on the rusty old deck with her straw hat and garden gloves on. She sung to herself often, and at the time, I prayed she would stop because it distracted me when I was reading on the porch chair. Plus, I wasn’t a Barry Manilow fan and preferred the upbeat tunes of Hanson.
And now, I would kill to be back in that moment.
I’m quick to distract myself by staring at a photograph on the wall. It’s a bunch of men posed in front of a plane, Wesley included.
“I’m sorry. How did she pass?”
“She didn’t.” I swallow, keeping my sentence short. “She’s back home.”
He nods his head, leaning on the wall beside me. His eyes examine my face, causing that rippling effect to grace my skin. I ignore him, desperate to distance myself away from this feeling. He does something to me. I don’t know what it is. I’m scared of him, yet fearless at the same time. That makes no sense to me whatsoever.
Nothing about tonight makes sense.
“So many secrets… I hate secrets.” His tone is bitter, a sudden change from a moment ago.
“I don’t have secrets. I told you I’m boring. Just a small-town girl making a living.”
We play this game of cat and mouse. I pull away, he finds me once again. This is unlike anything I know. This is something Phoebe would do. Not me. I’m the rational one. Rational Milana would never go to a stranger’s house, let alone drink three glasses of wine while there.
Yes, a third may have made its way into my hand.
“A small-town girl inside my living room… how very dangerous.”
He’s found me again, cornering me across the other side of the room. This time, he leaves nothing to chance, our bodies almost touching, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t want him to see me so vulnerable.
But I cave.
To this lust overcoming me.
“For me…” I watch him, controlling my breathing. “Or you?”
The tip of his finger graciously slides against my hand, rising slowly up my arm until he settles in the middle of my collarbone. I struggle to tame the thump of my heart and hide the way my body is reacting. His response hangs in suspense, and waiting patiently, only builds this wall of fire between us.
“Stay with me,” he whispers against my ear.
“I can’t do that.”
“You will.” He doesn’t say anything else, breathing softly into my hair. “You won’t leave. I know that much.”
I hate the way he does that—makes me feel all these things I shouldn’t even be thinking. He just wants to get m
e into bed, and I’m not that type of girl. I have morals, respect for myself, and a man back home waiting for me.
And then, it all falls apart.
The old me.
Gone, if only for tonight.
I nod, raising my head to meet his lips, watching the depth of his gaze and trying to unravel his intentions. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Nine
We have spoken for one hour straight about different bodily rashes.
Emerson is adamant that the baby has chickenpox. Her husband, Logan, argues that it’s poison ivy. The poison ivy seems far-fetched, but nevertheless, images were sought after on Google, and my appetite dwindled to nothing after the horrendous pictures I saw.
It’s my first time meeting Logan Carrington. He’s exactly how Emerson described him—stubborn, hot-headed, and gorgeous.
He has an athletic build with well-defined muscles from what I can see. And the longer I sit across from him, the more he looks exactly like Lola. I can’t quite work it out, perhaps it’s the light eyes or the way their faces are contoured.
Emerson and Logan have something unique about their relationship, something I haven’t seen before, like he knows what she’s thinking, or she pre-empts his next move when grabbing the last turkey sandwich. They constantly argue, laugh equally, and despite the occasional heated tension, I enjoy being in their company.
I let out a yawn unexpectedly, covering my mouth and apologizing for my poor manners.
“Late night?” Emerson grins while ripping a piece of lettuce out of her sandwich.
“Just a tad over my bedtime.” I don’t want to appear rude or grouchy, offering a weak smile before pouring myself a much-needed coffee and adding a double dose of sugar, hoping for a rush.
Logan begins to tell us about his trip to Brazil, what it’s like to coach a bunch of teenage boys and the pressure of mentoring them. Somewhere during the conversation, I zone out.
Last night wasn’t what I’d expected.