by Kat T. Masen
He didn’t touch me.
Not a single time after the moment he asked me to stay.
We sat in his den, watching a black-and-white movie play on the screen. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t anything.
We had moments when we watched quietly, engrossed in the storyline. Moments when we spoke about the scene that had just finished or some random topic he would bring up, and somewhere during the night, I fell asleep on the brown leather sofa only to wake in the early morning covered by a blanket.
Wesley was nowhere to be seen.
His housekeeper woke me up, speaking her native Spanish. I couldn’t understand a word. It took me ten minutes to figure out she was offering me breakfast, and that’s only because she dragged me to the kitchen.
Wesley didn’t leave a note, nothing to tell me why he left. I didn’t know what to feel.
His company comforted me in ways I never imagined a stranger could. Then he goes and does something like this—abandonment.
I’m left questioning what last night meant. But I give up when my brain begins to hurt, and conclude that I’m just convenient for him, and in the end, he simply lost interest.
“Drink up, you need a caffeine hit if we’re going to get through these contracts.” Emerson creates a pile for me and opens the first page. “So, Wesley said nothing in the meeting?”
“Not really. Jeff kind of spoke and Wesley just sat.”
“How predictable,” Logan snarks.
Emerson raises one eye at him, quick to ignore his childish comment and move on.
“I thought he would sign it over.”
“The business?” I’m confused by her question, and maybe the whole situation. “He mentioned nothing of the sort. I mean, he seemed distracted.”
I said too much. I sensed it when Logan’s brows raised. Emerson looks disappointed. I’m not the type of person to pry, but I had managed to foolishly spend the night with a stranger. A man who held secrets that Emerson looked like she knew.
This business arrangement of theirs makes no sense. She doesn’t want to work with him, and he seems uninterested.
Logan taps his knuckles on the table, his fist curling into a tight ball driven by frustration and anger. “I don’t understand why you don’t just let go. We’ve got money.”
“Because I built this from nothing. I can’t just give up…”
His stare is anything but sympathetic. It’s cold and unforgiving. “It’s like you don’t want to let go.”
“Logan,” she warns. “Not again. Please.”
It’s like a car crash. You want to turn around because watching is painful, but at the same time you need to know if the victim pulls through. Logan drops the subject, and Emerson is quick to talk about something else.
For the next thirty minutes, we go through the contracts, highlighting questions for Jeff. We talk until the baby wakes, and Emerson leaves the table to retrieve her. With Logan busy on his cell, I decide to check mine.
There are a dozen messages from Phoebe in a state of panic that only Phoebe can find herself in.
Phoebe: Talk me out of getting bangs
Phoebe: Like right now…
Phoebe: I think it will make my face look skinnier.
Phoebe: Like Reese Witherspoon.
Phoebe: I got bangs.
Phoebe: Why didn’t you talk me out of this!
Phoebe: I look like a ten-year-old boy.
The messages went on and on, pictures of her new do attached. I laugh quietly, not arguing that the hairdresser did a poor number on her hair. I respond quickly, fielding through her regrets. In the middle of my best-friend duty where I begin to tell her it’ll grow back, a message appears from an unknown number.
Unknown: Sorry I left. Not sure why I did.
I stare at the few words. I’m unsure how he got my number or even how to respond. I look up at Logan. He’s busy typing something on his phone. It gives me a few moments to think about what to say. My gut tells me I should just cut ties now. Wesley has issues I should probably stay away from.
Then my secret gut—the one underneath that gut—types faster than I can think.
Me: I don’t even know how to respond.
I hit send, instantly cringing at my honesty and letting out a frustrated sigh.
“Is everything okay?” Logan asks, lifting his eyes away from his screen, though he’s still typing.
“Uh, yeah. Just did something I probably shouldn’t have. You know, stupid text.”
He nods his head. “Boyfriend?”
“Um… no. Boyfriend is back home.”
Liam. How the concept seems so foreign.
I need to stop now. This isn’t right. My head’s been all over the place, and Wesley fills this emptiness that has consumed me. None of this is right, and as long as I distance myself from Wesley as much as possible, last night will just be added to the list of regretful nights starring Milana Milenov and a bottle of wine.
“Alaska, right? Emmy was telling me. You must think it’s crazy out here. I know I do.”
Logan tells me about Emerson and him growing up back East. How simple their lives were and how family means everything to them. Emerson’s brother, Ashley, was Logan’s best friend. He was also a soccer player and the three of them being in the limelight was a far cry from their simple upbringing.
He’s so proud of her, that much is obvious. When he speaks about her, his eyes lit up. The contours of his face change, and he speaks with adoration. Though, in her presence, he plays the ignorant card and purposely riles her up to goad some sort of reaction.
“Sounds like she was the one all along.” I smile softly, admiring their love story.
“Yeah.” He grins. “Just don’t tell her that. She gets a big head.”
“I won’t, though, I’m sure she knows it. So, you guys have been together for how long?”
He raises an eye, thinking for a moment before answering, “Almost two years.”
“Oh, I somehow thought it was longer.”
“Depends on what you consider together. She was with someone, but the circumstances were complicated. I’m sure you know all about it anyway. The whole world does.”
My expression freezes on a smile, another moment where my lack of celebrity knowledge makes me look like a dumbass.
“You look confused.” He belts out a laugh. “C’mon, you’re her assistant. You don’t need to pretend you don’t know.”
I raise my hands in defeat. “I’m confused because I have no clue. I don’t really watch television or keep up with this stuff. I had no clue who Emerson was or you. I’m sorry. Life back home is different.”
“Really? But you must have Googled her and all this shit would have come up?”
My head swings left to right. “Nope. I prefer not to let that get in the way of our working relationship. I’m here to help her. I don’t need her life story to do that.”
“I like you. Every assistant she’s employed has had an ulterior motive. You’re different.”
“I hear that a lot.” I sigh, still unsure whether ‘different’ is a good thing.
“It’s not a bad thing. Look, you’re young. Just keep your head strong. You seem to come from a stable family background, so don’t let people out here sway you into a different lifestyle. Emmy changed when she moved out here. She became one of them, but things changed one day. The moment she withdrew herself from that life.”
“I’m assuming you mean the reality show?”
“So, you do know.”
“Only that much. Not the details of it,” I tell him.
Logan places his cell down, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his temple. This topic appears to be a sore point. His body language immediately shifts, on guard and strained with anger.
“Wesley needs to not to be around her.”
That name. Anytime it comes up, it’s bad news. But here is my chance. Without typing his name in a search engine, I will get the truth about Wesley.
“It’s none of my business, so please, tell me to butt out. I understand why Emerson is attached to the business, but why on earth would she choose a business partner like Wesley?”
There’s an unopened bottle of water in the middle of the table. He grabs it with force, screwing the cap off and drinking the water, stopping mid-way.
“Wesley’s her ex-fiancé. He’s being a dickhead and holding on just to stay close to her. That’s why I need you to keep an eye on him. I mean, you have to deal with him now. That’s what I told Emmy.”
The other day both of us were supposed to meet with him. I didn’t know whether he knew that she was meant to be there. The last thing I want to do is cause an argument between them, so I keep that information to myself.
Then, the penny drops loud and clear. Did he say ex-fiancé?
Emerson steps outside, singing Baa Baa Black Sheep to baby Lola. She hands her over to Logan, and he throws her into the air, laughing at her small giggles.
I’m confused, dazed, and the vibration of my cell doesn’t register until moments later.
Wesley: I need to see you.
“Milana? Milana, are you okay?” Emerson leans in, breaking my trance.
“Boyfriend,” Logan mutters.
“Oh, right. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
“It’s complicated,” Logan fills her in.
Emerson crosses her arms in a huff. “Logan, can you let her answer? Maybe you need to leave. Girl talk.”
He mumbles something beneath his breath while standing up and cradling the baby in his hands. There’s a patch of grass near the patio with a small swing set. Moments later, Lola is giggling in the baby swing as he pushes her gently.
“Okay, that man can be a painful ass sometimes. I’m sorry about him. You look upset?”
“No, I’m fine,” I reassure her, not wanting this to get in the way of work. “How about we finish reading over the contracts? I’d like to head home soon and work on your itinerary for your trip to Phoenix.”
She rolls her eyes, sweeping her hair into her hands and tying it up into a messy side bun. Emerson is very laid back. Nothing like the Hollywood Divas who seem to be around every corner. It’s why Logan’s comment surprises me, and then, my thoughts lead back to Wesley.
I read the text again quickly. He needs to see me, but why? A man sends you a text like this, and there’s usually a sexual connection of some sort. Wesley’s actions make it clear he isn’t interested in sex with me.
And I’m not interested in sex with him. My internal voices scream at this thought.
Sex with Wesley shouldn’t even be a topic worth thinking about. Just because he’s hot in that bad-boy type of way and does those things with his eyes means nothing. Nothing.
Wesley: Milana, answer me, please.
Emerson is listing items she needs me to find before her trip. I jot them down quickly, ignoring his persistent texts until my cell beeps again, and the temptation is too great that my eyes glance sideways and see his words sit on the screen.
Wesley: I’ll be at your place at eight on the dot.
My eyes widen in panic, he can’t just come to my house. How does he even know where I live? This is textbook stalker behavior. Phoebe warned me about this during one of her many lectures before I left and—I had been through this before. The memories—though distant—come flooding back in a whirl of emotions.
Me: You’ll do no such thing! What do you possibly need that is so urgent?
Fifteen minutes pass with no response. I suspect that my forwardness shut him up for good. I place this nonsense aside and finish working on some things with Emerson. As the afternoon creeps in, I say goodbye to Emerson and Logan, hoping for a smooth ride home.
It’s warm again this afternoon, my skin getting used to the California sun. Inside the car, I blast the air conditioner and crank some radio station playing a ‘90s remix. My wish for a smooth ride home vanishes as soon as I hit the 405. It’s standstill traffic, a sea of red lights, and the is sun glaring in my direction. It takes me another hour to get home, which should have been a twenty-minute drive. By the time I arrive at my apartment, I manage to crash on my bed with exhaustion.
I wake up with the sun setting and the sounds to some ghetto beat out on the street. Rubbing my eyes and propping myself up against my headboard, I fumble for my cell beside me to see the time.
Seven forty-five.
And a text from Wesley.
Wesley: You.
My skin begins to swelter in the confinement of my room. I rip my shirt off, taking deep breaths to ease this feeling of I don’t know what. Nerves and fluttering? Like something is loose in my stomach and running wild.
The tips of my fingers type on their own accord, communicating what my mind thinks, but my body argues. But halfway through my text, he sends another text.
Wesley: Fifteen minutes.
I give up texting, rush to the bathroom and turn the shower on cold to cool my body. My hair is tied into a bun to avoid the soak, and moments later, I’m dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and emerald green blouse. I take my hair out, brushing it and letting it sit against my back. It’s grown so much, now reaching the small of my back. I’ve always worn it long, a habit I guess from when I was a kid.
Flynn has left a note on the coffee table informing me he has another gig tonight. I quickly grab my purse and head outside, deadlocking the door before running downstairs and almost tripping on Joe from apartment one who’s passed out with a bottle of bourbon.
A loud roar rips through the street, catching the attention of my neighbors. People stare, some with curiosity and some with fear. The orange and black motorbike is pulled up at the curb with Wesley sitting on it. He puts his foot on the gas, revving his exhaust, causing more attention.
I don’t do bikes. Correction, I doubled on a scooter once in college and never again. This is a death trap on wheels.
What if I fall off?
What if he falls off, and I go with him?
“I can’t get on that.” I shake my head in panic. “I could die. I don’t want to die.”
He doesn’t say a word, handing me a helmet.
I stand still, frozen almost. He pulls off his helmet, his hair a wild mess but looking so sexy that my insides do that fluttering backflip again. Calm down, it’s all a ploy to get me on the bike. I’m not sure why I take the helmet from him, staring at it with fear. The warmth of his finger graces my cheek, tracing it down until he cups my chin and raises my eyes to meet his.
The weight of his stare is deep, drawing me in with its dangerous intentions. “Don’t you think it’s time to start living?”
“I’m living,” I whisper at his touch.
His hand guides my chin closer to his, creating this small gap between us. It’s so small that his breath reaches my lips, and nothing makes sense. I have no thought process, I have no words. He’s doing something to me that I can’t explain, breaking my walls down into a crumbling mess.
His lips graze across my mouth, sensually and with a slow burn. My eyes close on cue, allowing myself to feel this sensation of lust.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
I react timidly. “I’m scared.”
His forehead presses against mine, his words are strained. “I won’t hurt you.”
I pull my body away from his, distancing this closeness and placing my helmet on. He can hurt me. Yet, I get on his bike, wrapping my arms around his body which comforts me instantly. He jumps on the gas, rubbing his hand on my thigh, warning me to hold on.
I do exactly that, awaiting this adventure with Wesley Rich.
Chapter Ten
The tires brake hard against the gravel, causing a whirl of dust to float in the air around us. My hands are shaking uncontrollably, making it difficult to peel them off his chest and the leather jacket he wears.
My foot touches the ground giving me the confidence I need to get off the bike, take this stupid helmet off, and shove it i
nto his body.
“Hey,” he yells, off guard. “What the hell was that for?”
“You’re a jerk!” I huff, angered by his reckless driving and not paying attention to the way I dug my hands into his chest in fear.
“Milana, calm down.” He rolls his eyes with annoyance. “You’re alive. See, you just need to live a little.”
“Living a little is eating a whole cake by yourself or jumping in the ocean naked,” I respond hastily, still shaking, “Not driving like a maniac almost killing me.”
He grabs the helmet from me, hooking it on the handlebar. “You want to jump in the ocean naked? I’m all for doing that next. Malibu is only a few miles from here.”
“What?” I shake my head, confused by his suggestion. “No, it’s just rambling. I don’t want to actually do that…” I trail off, distracted by my surroundings. It’s incredibly dark, the moon hiding behind a scattered cloud. I scan the area in front of me that appears to be a large park of some sort. It’s only when I focus on the lawn that I notice the tombstones. We’re at a cemetery.
“What are we doing here?” My hand latches to his arm, my body closing in on his to shield myself from the terrifying thought of where we are standing.
“Do you trust me?”
“Are you going to kill me and bury my body in the middle of the night?”
Even in the dark, I see a smile grace his handsome face. He drops his hand, intertwining his fingers in mine. He pulls me along the pebbled path, confident and familiar with where he’s leading us.
“Watch your step.”
The cool night air and fear of dead people surrounding me cause my skin to break out in goosebumps with my hairs standing on end. I don’t want to let on I’m shitting my pants, keeping my thoughts to myself, though my eyes tell a different story.
“See this grave here? It belongs to an actor, Jesse Lane. He was a rising star back in the sixties.”