Dirty Bad Boys Box Set: Forbidden Romance Collection

by Kat T. Masen

The poor lighting makes it hard to read the tombstone’s inscription. Gone too soon. Those words stand out.

  “That’s sad. I wonder how he passed?”

  “He threw himself off a cliff.”

  I stop breathing, resuming seconds later. “How do you know this?”

  “I come here often, just to think.”

  “How very Gomez Addams of you.” I attempt to lighten the moment, terrified that I have accidentally stepped on someone’s grave.

  “Come.” He leads me through a pathway, down a small hill until we reach a large tombstone. It’s very run-down—almost neglected—with dead flowers wilted against the old stone.

  “Adrian Lovelock. Walked into the ocean and never returned.”

  My palms begin to sweat as my grip tightens. I hold my breath, almost choking on my fear. I don’t understand why he’s brought me here, and the thought of these people passing in very unfortunate circumstances terrifies me.

  “Why… or how… do you know this?” I stumble on my words, my thoughts so scattered and overcome by nerves. “Wesley, please answer me.”

  His posture falls, hunched and nothing like the confident asshole who picked me up at my apartment or the person in the club who asked me if I was a nun. Another side to the ever-so-mysterious Wesley Rich.

  “This could be me.”

  I release my hand from his, taking a step back and careful not to tread on a tombstone, folding my arms, confused.

  “What do you mean ‘this could be me?’ Have you thought about throwing yourself off a cliff or walking into the ocean?” My tone, though unintentional, comes off harsh. He doesn’t answer immediately, walking us in the opposite direction, the sounds of waves crashing becoming closer.

  Wesley stops at the metal railing protecting us from the steep fall off the cliff. “Yes, I have. Their lives, my life, same path.” He lowers his head, slightly turning away.

  “So, change it. No one creates this path but you. You see a fork in the road, go the other way. Follow your instincts. If it doesn’t feel right, then don’t do it.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Look…” I calm my voice to match his, pulling him away from the edge, “… I don’t know anything about you. Whatever it is, I’m sure you can change it.”

  “I’m not a good person, Milana,” he admits, finally raising his eyes to meet mine. “I’ve done bad things. Things you wouldn’t…” he trails off, the same time an owl hoots in the background.

  As long as he isn’t an ax-wielding murderer, it can’t be that bad. Nobody is perfect, including me. Perfection is so overrated.

  “Wesley, stop. Please. Give yourself a break from your inner demons. You have so much ahead of you. We all make mistakes. It’s how we redeem ourselves that matters.”

  Truth is, I know nothing about him. I’m not even in a position to say ‘you’re only thirty, everyone knows that life begins at thirty-five.’ Wesley rubs his face with the palm of his hands, shifting seconds later to run his fingers through his hair with obvious frustration.

  “I can’t stay away from you.”

  His words are like fireworks, beautiful yet frightening and loud at the same time.

  “But you don’t know me. What is it I’m doing that makes you feel that way?”

  “Nothing. You don’t ask me much, you don’t follow me, you don’t hang onto my every word and beg for me to take you to my bedroom and fuck you in every which way because I’m Wesley Rich.”

  I cling to every word he says, startled by the way it makes me feel. The way he makes me feel. I’m not surprised that girls throw themselves at him, but that isn’t me. I’m not into that whole lust for a movie star. The men I lust for do something that sets off a trigger warning inside my usually quiet mind.

  And Wesley is doing both.

  “See, you just don’t say anything. If I asked any other girl to come back with me to the bedroom, she’d be naked in two seconds.” He kicks a rock in front of him, the both of us watching it disappear into the night.

  I keep my arms folded, shielding my chest from the cool air. “But what gain will I have following their actions?”

  “Ouch.” He smirks, stabbing his heart in jest.

  It takes a moment for my words to click, and quick to correct myself, I add, “I don’t mean it like that… it’s just… argh…”

  “You’re rambling. It’s cute,” he whispers.

  “Cute is something you say to someone at a theme park, not a cemetery. This place is creeping me out. I’ll say that.”

  He takes my hand and motions for me to follow him. We pass the numerous headstones and the large crematorium on the left. I’m practically on top of him, drowning in fear until we pass the iron gates and end where we left the bike.

  I reach for the helmet, holding it in my hand. “What I said earlier… it didn’t mean you wouldn’t be good sexually. I just… okay, I didn’t mean that, but I don’t know how to explain it.”

  With a grin smothering his face, he leans in and kisses my forehead. His lips linger for a moment, the warmth easing my heightened nerves. Phoebe once told me a kiss on the forehead was the kiss of death. I still don’t know how she hasn’t fallen over more.

  “Relax, I know what you mean. Now let’s grab something to eat. I wanna take you somewhere.”

  “The last time you said that you took me to a cemetery. Look, shouldn’t we talk more? I can listen if you need that.”

  “This place is much more fun.” He smiles, ignoring my plea to help him.

  He drives us in the opposite direction to a less busy part of town. When he parks the bike in the parking lot, I pull off my helmet and fix my hair, trying to untangle the knots that have formed from the wind. I give up, realizing it’s a lost cause. Long hair and wind do not mix.

  The place we stop at is a 1960s-style restaurant called Peggy’s. The neon lights along the roof-line cover the parking lot like in classic movies. Coming out of the front of the establishment is half a Cadillac—red with white stripes and wheels.

  I stare in awe, impressed with how authentic the place looks. “This is pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, been coming here for years. Peggy cooks a mean burger combo.”

  “You mean there’s an actual Peggy?”

  He laughs. “Yes, let’s go meet her.”

  We walk inside and sit at a booth that’s more toward the kitchen and less visible. The restaurant isn’t overly busy, a few patrons scattered around and mainly older folks. No one seems to pay attention to Wesley or even recognize who he is except for Peggy—the lady dressed in a pale green uniform with large permed hair that towers over her head. She walks over to us as she chews gum with a wide smile. She leans into Wesley, kissing the top of his head.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” she teases, chewing loudly. “So, introduce me to your girlfriend.”

  “Uh, just friend,” I pipe up, perhaps too quickly.

  “Double ouch.”

  “Now… don’t you listen to him. You follow your heart. You got me? Don’t let no boy tell you any different.”

  I like Peggy. She seems to have put Wesley in his place. She doesn’t entertain us looking at the menus, instead ordering us her special meal combo. I’m up for anything, starving since I haven’t eaten since Emerson’s place.

  “So, do you come here often?”

  “When I can. It’s hard to go places these days.”

  “I can’t imagine what it must be like. I know Emerson says—” I cut myself off, aware that I’ve brought up the giant elephant in the room. Surely, this would have come up eventually anyway. We both can’t ignore the fact that I work for her, and Logan’s voice replays in my head.

  “Sorry.” I watch him, apologizing to be polite but studying his reaction.

  He purses his lips, busying himself with his cell and pretending to seem uninterested. “What are you sorry for?”

  “Bringing up your ex-fiancée. I know it must be hard.”

  Wesley purposely i
gnores my comment, continuing to tap on his phone. His rude behavior angers me. Odd, since I usually don’t allow this. He lightly throws the cell on the table, the vinyl making it slide to the middle and settling right next to the salt and pepper shakers.

  I’m tired and hungry. Mama used to say that the only way to get me to reason was on a full stomach. I can smell the grease in the air—fries, burgers, onion rings—the same time my stomach makes a rumbling sound which I attempt to cover with my arm.

  Peggy arrives with our food, offloading three plates in front of us. I thank her, then dig into my burger devouring every bite. Wesley barely touches his food, picking at the bun then shoving his plate away from him.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask, stopping mid-bite.

  “I need to go.”

  “Okay.” I wipe my hands on the napkin and grab my purse. “We can go.”

  He stands abruptly, walking toward the counter. For a brief moment, he says something to Peggy, and she looks my way. I’m not sure what I did wrong, aside from mentioning Emerson, and continue sitting here waiting like an idiot.

  Peggy walks over as Wesley goes in the opposite direction, toward the exit.

  “It was so lovely to meet ya, doll.”

  “And you, Peggy. The food’s amazing… I mean, sorry I didn’t get a chance to finish it.”

  She pats my shoulder, lowering herself to my eye level. “He’s a complicated boy. Just give him his space.”

  I smile politely, thanking her again, and then make my way outside.

  On the fast ride home, I think about Peggy’s comment in an effort to stomach my food. Driving what feels like a hundred miles per hour with a belly half-full of burger and fries makes it difficult to concentrate.

  Wesley may be a complicated man, but I don’t think I’m crowding him. He keeps pursuing me. Wesley is nothing like Liam. They’re polar opposites. Liam is so predictable. He’s like a safety blanket you carry around. If you need him, he’s there. He never makes you feel unwanted or carry any sort of complication with him.

  We arrive at my apartment, Wesley making no effort to move off the bike. The frustration comes over me, gripping his shoulders for support to get myself down from the bike. I take off the helmet and shove it into his body. He removes his, though not making eye contact. “See ya.” It’s all he says before placing his helmet back on and not giving me a chance to voice my frustration at him. He twists the handlebar, roaring the engine before screeching off and leaving me alone on the street.

  He’s every bit the complicated man that Peggy said.

  And I need answers.

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s time to get answers.

  I stare at the computer, fighting back the excessive blinking from the strain of the flickering screen.

  My vision is blurred, a rainbow of colors and shapes that make no sense at all. The palm of my hand is covered in sweat, nervously twitching on top of the mouse. My chest tightens, my heart beating erratically like a crazed lunatic trapped inside an asylum.

  The clock on the wall is loud. Every sound in the room is amplified.

  Or perhaps, I’ve officially gone insane.

  The tips of my fingers move of their own accord, typing so slowly that each key echoes inside our barely furnished apartment.

  His name sits within the search engine. All I need to do is hit search. Simple, right? There will be no turning back. No erasing of information that will find a home inside my reactive brain and remain there forever because it has this stupid way of retaining information I don’t need.

  Like the time I accidentally read a love letter from my dad to Mama. It started like a romance novel then quickly progressed to X-rated porn. And the time I walked in on my brother helping himself to a copy of Hustler perched on his bedside table. Information I retain, yet am desperate to erase.

  Click.

  My eyes wander hastily across the screen. Millions of findings and an overload of information that seems too much to handle.

  Where do I start?

  How and why is there so much information on one human being?

  The second finding from the top is a popular website. I figure it will be the most trustworthy resource, and within seconds, his profile appears.

  There’s a picture of him in the top right corner, dazzling smile with hair styled like a movie star, dressed in a black tuxedo and matching bowtie. He looks nothing like the man I know. Facial hair non-existent and skin that appears flawless. There’s no dark circles around his eyes and more notably, the scar that scrapes the bottom of his jawline can’t be seen.

  Okay, breathe. Just read the bits you want to read and forget the rest.

  Wesley Wade Richland, born September 3, 1987, known professionally as Wesley Rich, is an American actor. Rich became famous on reality television as one of the leading stars in Generation Next.

  He most recently starred in the controversial movie Riding the High playing a troubled man, Dexter Dickson, who was born to an addict mother and shows how it impacted his life. Critics praised Rich on his ability to portray such a disturbed character, and many believed that the fictional story was not so far from the truth.

  In 2013, Rich was scouted to appear on an upcoming reality show that followed the lives of young adults and their generation. It was during the first season that viewers watched Rich fall in love with co-star, Emerson Chase. Their relationship became a media frenzy with Forbes dubbing them the next power couple. It was estimated that their combined fortune was over $80 million after negotiations for a third season leaked, and the two stars were reportedly earning $1 million per episode.

  At the beginning of Season 3, Rich proposed to Chase in Paris and soon after, the cracks appeared in each episode. Rich had been caught in a drug scandal which prompted his breakup with Chase. Fans took to social media blaming him for his addiction and infidelity that led to the split. Rich admitted on a reunion show that he struggled being in the limelight and spent time in rehab after the season aired.

  Rich’s personal life made headlines again, including reports of alcohol abuse and allegations of domestic violence against former co-star, Farrah Beaumont, which resulted in her miscarrying a baby. He was arrested for a DUI in Miami on New Year’s Day—the accident he was involved in caused an elderly man to be in critical condition. Rich was sentenced to jail for twelve months, but the judge released him on probation after two months.

  Gina Geller, Rich’s mother, publicly came out that her son had been abused as a child by her former husband and billionaire tycoon, Harold Green. Rich responded to her claims on social media calling her a ‘pathetic excuse for a mother’ and leaked information about her four previous marriages. During this heated family feud that played out publicly, Rich was accused of being an accomplice in the Malibu drownings which saw two ladies’ bodies washed up on shore. The judge ruled out foul play, and Rich was acquitted on all counts, but his longtime friend, Max Kane, was charged with sexual assault.

  I push my chair back as far away from the computer as possible. The heat inside the room is at boiling point. I run to the window in a frenzy to open it and breathe in the fresh air. The outside noise and hustle of the neighborhood surround me, yet I’m deaf. Words after words repeating in my head and taunting me over and over again.

  This man—in my eyes—deserved so much more than a slap on the wrist and a stint in rehab.

  He’s also my boss’s ex-fiancé.

  He is dangerous.

  Danger has a way of finding me, or maybe I’m the dangerous one.

  My cell flashes on my bed, a stream of messages from the man himself.

  Bad Boy Rich.

  I fall onto my bed, the duvet welcoming my fall as I gaze blankly at the ceiling. I’ve stared at this ceiling numerous times. It has almost become a friend—a long-lost pal that opened its arms and let me pour my heart out until I’m all cried out.

  It allows me to stare at it the first night here, the night I struggled to sleep with my impending
interview the next day. When I miss Mama and everyone back home, it will silently watch me as their voices fill my head, and the memories become music to my ears. We have this bond—the ceiling and me. Perhaps we are kindred spirits, or maybe, I’ve officially lost my marbles.

  My cell lights up the room. The vibration is loud and obnoxious with its demanding presence. I guess it’s him. The man who decides to up and leave with no explanation. The man who has so much baggage that the term ‘excess baggage’ would be a complete understatement. He’s carrying a cargo liner of baggage. Destination—wherever you shouldn’t follow him.

  But my curiosity gets to me. My hand reaches over, and as I roll to my side, nestling my face into my pillow, I read the texts that flood my cell.

  Wesley: I keep fucking up.

  Wesley: Milana, answer me.

  Wesley: My head, I’m just not in a good place. Fuck. I’m sorry.

  I should have responded. It’s the noble thing to do. Instead, I leave him hanging. I’m not his shrink. I will help him as much as I can, but I have my own problems.

  Emerson is right.

  Peggy is right.

  The Internet paints a disturbing picture of him.

  I have sense.

  I am intelligent.

  I will stay away because that’s what good girls do.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s an unusually dreary day in Los Angeles. The rain is falling lightly, creating a humid atmosphere and overcasting the normally shining sun.

  I’m sprawled across my bed, head resting on my pillow while I stare up at the ceiling with Mama on speakerphone.

  “It sounds like you’ve settled in well, sweetie. I knew you would be perfect for that role,” she says as I listen attentively.

  “I guess. What about you, Mama? The nurse’s report looks positive. I received it only yesterday.”

  A small sigh escapes and echoes through the speaker. “The grounds are beautiful. The staff is wonderful. It’s just that everyone loves to socialize, and sometimes I simply want to sit and read.” It’s the most honest thing she’s said during our call. “Never mind me rambling, tell me how your brother is doing? I spoke to him last night. His gig went well, and I think the music scouts were impressed.”