by Kat T. Masen
I choose my words carefully. “You didn’t murder them.”
Okay, dumb choice of words.
“I fucked Janet, the blonde. I didn’t know she had taken anything, and I didn’t know she would go for a swim in the ocean in the middle of the night.”
It hurt, though, that I asked, but I can’t blame him for sharing this with me.
“And Farrah?”
He lets out a groan. “What about her?”
“You know what?” I stretch my head, kissing his lips. “I don’t want to know.”
“Good, because I don’t want to waste another moment discussing her.”
The exhaustion begins to creep in, and my eyelids become so heavy that I can’t keep them open nor carry on a conversation. My limbs feel like jelly, and slowly, I fall asleep.
***
My eyes open wide as a noise wakes me from my deep sleep. Wesley is snoring softly beside me. The noise is voices, a few of them, coming from outside. I nudge Wesley softly, which prompts him to roll over. I call his name, shaking him to wake up.
He finally reacts, annoyed as I tell him there are voices outside. Without saying a word, he gets out of bed and puts a robe on, leaving the room. I’m utterly exhausted, worried, though trying to keep my eyes open. Again, my eyes open wide when Wesley kisses my lips.
“The voices,” I croak.
“Shh,” he whispers. “I’ll take care of it.”
He disappears from the room, but this time, I’m aware that he’s gone. The noises are still outside, so I grab the sheet around me and walk toward the window almost stumbling on some shoes.
The moon is out, bright and round. It provides limited light but enough for me to see a Jeep in the driveway. There are two passengers in the car, and though in the darkness, I can barely make out who they are.
A man, tall and wearing dark colors, stands in front of Wesley. They’re talking, nothing alarming, and seem to know each other. They’re standing too far away for me to hear their conversation even if I open the window. I continue to watch them, cautiously, until their hands meet, a handshake that lasts too long. The man pulls his hand back, laughing before entering the car. Wesley lingers, then heads inside the house.
I scramble to the bed, my heart racing a million miles a minute as the reality of what I witness sinks in. Wesley Rich is a bad boy, and once again, another piece of his life begins to unravel.
There’s no point in asking him point blank what I just saw until I figure out what I will do if he admits the truth.
And I admit to myself that I can possibly be sleeping with the enemy.
Chapter Twenty
Wesley
I could feel her pulling away, slowly. Painfully.
I’m about to lose my mind. Desperation intensifies my irrational and self-destructive thoughts.
Mind games.
Carnage.
No good can come to me in my own company.
I’ve always done whatever I can to avoid facing my soul, but she makes me do it. She places us in front of each other, spotlight shining above, in the ring fighting an imminent battle. She may not know she’s doing it, stripping me to pieces for me to bare my soul.
I’m covered in sins, and she’s my holy water.
She’s the only person left who can save me.
My head tells me to get my shit together. Stakes are high. But my heart is the ultimate decider.
And what do they have in common? They both want to shield her from the pain.
Then, stupidly, I realize I am the pain.
Inside—deep in the troughs of my dark soul—the coldness brings on only hate. I despise everything and everyone, but Milana Milenov—a name so angelic and pure—who finds a way to let the warmth inside.
I feel the sun.
The warmth and its presence every time her body is next to mine.
And, slowly but surely, it’s all beginning to fall apart.
Troy was a goddamn imbecile for showing up at my house and demanding that I owe him. Perhaps I did, but I don’t trust him—not for one second. He fucked shit up wherever he goes, and there’s no chance in hell he’s getting anywhere near Milana. I made sure of that by giving him the stash he wanted, a bonus amount on top and warned him never to set foot on my property again.
I need out of that game.
The high is no longer worth the pain.
I should probably stop using, and it’s not like I do it every fucking day. The second she became mine, I slowed it down. I use only when she isn’t around. It’s why I make it my fucking mission to make sure she’s always around.
She has become my addiction.
The morphine to my pain.
And the fight to keep Em in my life becomes a distant memory. Milana is nothing like Em. Perhaps my initial game is twisted and impure, but Em deserves revenge.
But this isn’t revenge, or is it?
It’s obvious the next morning that things are different. When I fuck her, she tenses, her mind elsewhere and distant. Her body is this sacred temple—one I simply can’t get enough of. She isn’t like other women I’ve been with. She isn’t trying out to be the next biggest porn star. What she does is from pure pleasure. She tests her boundaries with me. I see it, I watch it with an easing curiosity.
And that has become an addiction which remains incurable.
She is beautiful, a beauty who can’t be captured in words. And that’s fine, I don’t want anyone else seeing what I see. She’s mine, and I have to keep it that way. Not let that scum of a hillbilly ex promise her this rainbow-colored life with a ring and three kids.
No, fuck that. I will give it all if only she will let me. If only she doesn’t switch the subject each time I bring up anything to do with commitment. It confuses the fuck out of me. Women want this—babies and marriage. Fuck, I get offers on a daily basis for this shit.
But not her.
She is different.
And it irritates me in ways I can’t identify. Her hot-and-cold personality. One minute she will stare at me with her big brown eyes and equally beautiful smile, and the next, it’s almost an expression of fear.
She often gives excuses like telling me she’s tired, and normally I’d crowd her. Not give her space for the fear of losing her.
But not this time.
I walked.
She is in New York, and I’m here, holed up in a penthouse suite in Vegas surrounded by lines of coke though my appetite is non-existent.
Farrah is riding my tail, texting me nonstop with empty threats. I need to cut this bitch loose once and for all. Her name, and mine, in the same tabloid isn’t what I need Milana to stew over. She already questions me, though not forcefully, and I say the bare minimum. Farrah doesn’t deserve an explanation, her train-wreck of a life says it all.
I sit here on this fancy king-size bed, scrolling through my phone. Image after image of Milana, shots she doesn’t know I took. My favorite ones are of her sleeping, sprawled naked across my bed. This woman is so deliciously beautiful that it fucking hurts.
My grip tightens on the bedspread, the temptation all around me. Gerry—head of penthouse suites—hooked the room up with my usual stash and some girls on tap if I want. I don’t care for it, any of it.
I crave the taste of her skin on my tongue.
Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it makes the heart craft its own tragedy. My sickening desperation in the pits of my loneliness has me calling her nonstop. Each unanswered call only feeds my insecurities.
Does she not understand how my mind works?
Does she know that avoiding me will only hurt herself?
I envy those around me, the ones who found their happiness within themselves. They don’t need anyone to survive, nor bring them happiness. My switch is jammed on self-destruct, and nothing can change that. There is a certain satisfaction in bitterness, but this time, I’m left unsatisfied.
It’s because my heart is beating erratically, pumped full of adrenaline every time I
picture her face and imagine myself inside her. I once felt something similar with Em, but not like this. Not to the extent that I struggle to breathe and everything hurts like fucking hell.
I clutch my chest in a state of panic when my cell rings, blasting its annoying sound all over the large room.
Farrah.
“What do you want?” I grit impatiently.
“Always the nicest of greetings, Wesley. So, when are you coming to visit your son?” She laughs, and I know that laugh. She’s high on coke. Fucking whore doesn’t know how to control herself.
“Quit the fucking daddy talk. Seriously, what the fuck do you want?”
“So, tell me about this girlfriend of yours? Aside from the fact that she’s a nobody and from Alaska. C’mon, Wesley, Alaska? What are you doing? You can do better than that.”
I clench my jaw, the stubble sharp and wildly grown. She’s gotten to me in the worse possible way—talking smack about the woman I love.
“Leave her alone. What I do is my business.”
“Sweetie…” she sings, annoyingly, “… you should know that I like to make other people’s business my business. I will say her brother is a dud in the bedroom.”
“You fucked Flynn?”
“I didn’t fuck him. Please, give me some credit. I gave him what he wanted… he’s cute but argh… I would have preferred you.”
I’m void of any emotion toward Farrah. She plays the game and never by the rules.
“We’re so done, Farrah. Leave Milana alone, leave Flynn alone, and go back to Marsh. Shouldn’t you be riding his alimony train by now?”
“Don’t worry, I have Marsh covered. You, on the other hand, how can I get you in my bed again? We had some great times, you can’t deny that.”
The thought alone disgusts me. Farrah is that disease you just can’t get rid of no matter how hard you try, a parasite that crawls under your skin.
“Nothing you say or do will get me anywhere near you,” I state, adamantly.
“Not even when I tell you I have an email ready to go to Entertainment News with pictures of you and Milana? There’s a nice one of her leaving your place wearing your shirt. The media will love this story. Can you imagine Emerson’s reaction? Her assistant banging her ex-fiancé. Where’s the trust?” She laughs again, the edge of insanity in her tone.
“Why would you do that? Honestly, you’ve got no gain.”
“Why? Because it would hurt everyone you love, then they will leave you, and you will have no choice but to crawl back to me because I’m all you’ll have.”
“You’re fucked. I don’t care what you do, Milana won’t care. As for Em, she’ll get over it. We’re tighter than you think.” I grin, remembering how to get to Farrah and expose her insecurity. “I know how much you hate that. Gorgeous Emerson with her perfect life, natural body, husband you can’t seem to get your hands on, and wait… everybody wants Emerson. Didn’t she just get the cover of Vogue? It’s like she has the whole package… and once upon a time, I loved her. Not you… but her.”
The pleasure of hurting Farrah is far too much fun. I lick my lips, listening to her heavy breathing that follows with an hysteric scream and a glass smashing against the wall.
“Are you done?” she cries dramatically.
“Why yes, sweetheart.”
“Goodbye Wesley. Oops… click.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Milana
“What would you say is your greatest fear?”
Emerson is sitting with her legs crossed in front of Entertainment News’ ruthless reporter, Kitty Seinfeld.
“I find that my answer continues to change as I grow older. What I once feared, I no longer do. I guess it would be having my daughter learn some lessons the hard way as I did.”
Kitty is quick to fire off another question. “What if your daughter chooses your same path? If we’re being candid here, you’ve made some questionable choices in your personal life, and it has attracted drama.”
Kitty is a machine—a machine of drama. She’s a typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful woman with a face that screams cheerleader back in high school. I often think that women or girls like this had it easy. Never having to defend their ethnicity or explain why they don’t look white, nor look full Asian. Fits into a size two and hasn’t dealt with trying to find a foundation that matches your skin tone because your skin is this weird, pale-looking color that’s not considered ‘normal.’
Breathe. Nonsense rambling isn’t helping calm your agitated mood.
Truth. I don’t like the way she drags Wesley’s name through the mud. Though he probably deserves it.
She isn’t the only interviewer who asks about him. Frankly, I’m sick of it. No matter where we go, people are desperate to know about him. How he’s doing, if Emerson and Wesley still remain friends, who he is dating. It surprises me how little they focus on Logan given he’s her partner, not Wesley.
The interview carries on for another thirty minutes. Question after question, and despite Kitty’s forwardness, Emerson is a pro. Emerson dominates the room, and it’s clear that it puts Kitty in a foul mood. By the end, her questions are just stupid.
“Thank you.” Kitty extends her hand to Emerson, a fake smile in tow. It’s brief, and the moment she pulls away, she shouts for her assistant and demands that she get out of this rat hole.
I purposely make it my mission to block the exit to say a few words. “You know, Kitty, it sounds like you have an obsession with Wesley.”
Kitty lifts her head with a confused expression, quickly belting out a laugh shortly after. “Me? An obsession with Wesley Rich? Oh honey, been there, slept with that.”
My fists clench unexpectedly inside the pockets of my pants. With difficulty, I keep my eyes still, refusing to give away the jealousy that makes my blood boil especially since the image of Wesley fucking this woman is all I can think about now.
“Classy,” I respond. “I better not keep you waiting. I’m sure your vagina is looking for its next victim.”
“Excuse me?” Kitty folds her arms in disdain the same time her assistant yells that the driver is parked out front.
I lift my head and walk away. When I hear her heels click away from the room, I’m quick to yell, “I hope you get crabs.”
Those who heard me, turn around in bewilderment. Not wanting to draw any more attention and make a further spectacle of myself, I focus on doing what I’m paid to do—assist.
Georgia, Emerson’s makeup artist, touches her up with some foundation before her next interview.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, rather quickly.
“I’m fine, Milana. Go get yourself a coffee. You look beat, and that crab comment…” she giggles lightly, “… gold.”
“I’m sorry, she just… irks me.”
“It’s fine. But you really need to let these things go. I’m used to it, and the questions they throw at me… same, same.”
I smile weakly and make my way to the small kitchen adjacent to the room. I’m utterly exhausted. Time zones are a bitch. Coffee has never smelled so good percolating. I pour myself a cup, bringing it to my lips to inhale the heavenly aroma.
My emotions are running high. I read, once, that sleep deprivation is the number one reason why people are emotional messes. That outburst toward Kitty is driven by my lack of control over Wesley’s and my relationship. I know he has baggage as do we all, I just don’t expect the baggage to be following me around wherever I go—a broken record of how the bad boy is a destructive bed hopper.
I wish I was like Emerson—confident and in control of her life. The question that Emerson was just asked replays in my head.
What is your greatest fear?
Emerson had answered that question so easily. Comfortable in telling the world exactly what she feared. I could barely admit the truth to myself. My greatest fear involves Mama, and every time I think about it for a split second, that sick feeling crawls into my stomach and forces me to heave from
panic. And running a very close second is Wesley’s need to forward our relationship.
He’s the bad boy, the one who’s not supposed to get attached or even think about the future. It’s not like I don’t want to move forward, but many times in the past week, he threw in quips about marriage and babies. A joke in his eyes, yet nevertheless it makes me extremely uncomfortable given that we have technically been together for weeks. We haven’t even hit that one-month anniversary.
Things between us are moving too fast, and I have no idea how to slow it down.
We left on unusual terms. After the night I stayed at his place and witnessed what I believe to be an exchange of narcotics, I put distance between us as much as I can allow. I came up with many excuses, like Emerson needs me to work on some projects, I have my period, and trivial things like I’m going shopping for New York. Anything to create some space between us and gain some perspective.
At first, he was unforgiving. Fought with me and demanded I drop everything for him. By day two, he was more understanding, though he did come to visit, and while Flynn stepped out with some friends, he fucked me three times and left for the night.
It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, feeling the need for space, but when he touches me, I don’t want him ever to stop. The confusion is overwhelming. I feel used and cheap after he leaves but appreciative at the same time because I simply want to be alone.
He left for Vegas the next day for some business he needed to take care of and told me he’d see me when I came back from NYC.
I didn’t ask another detail.
About the impromptu ‘business’ or if he had a drug problem.
I don’t know how to help him.
The truth is, Wesley frightens me. There is always something about him, this aura of untamed madness that sums up the world he lives in. I get it, I really do. He had a not-so-perfect childhood and a mother who puts her many husbands before her son.
But the drugs are unknown territory for me. I was raised to turn a blind eye to drugs, and Mama instilled in me after my one-time usage of pot, how damaging it could be to my body. I listened, I allowed the fear to be instilled in me, and now, I’m living it.