Dirty Bad Boys Box Set: Forbidden Romance Collection

by Kat T. Masen

“No,” he says with finality. “Milana’s biggest fear is inheriting Mom’s disease. If she doesn’t procreate, no one will suffer. So, in a way, I saw this breakdown coming. I lived in denial hoping she would fall in love with the baby and forget. You can do this… she needs you.”

  The call ends, the tone lingering while I continue to sit motionless. It fucking hurts reliving every moment we were together, searching for signs, clues, or anything that would lead me to where I might be able to find her. And for such a long time, I numbed the pain which made it all the worse.

  Finally, the feeling consumes me, stabbing me in every nerve and crippling my ability to think straight. I can’t escape it, screaming on the inside for some sort of relief.

  And even through these thoughts, I’m reeling, still unsure of how this all happened.

  At what point did this become us? A baby who belongs to the two of us. Something we created out of desperate times, unknowingly. What fucked-up plan did God have in store for us? Yeah, I still fucking pray, all right. I remember being a good little Catholic boy once upon a time.

  Since the moment she left me, I haven’t allowed myself to think about her. My ego, bruised and cut up, has nothing against that constant ache that lingers from her absence. I have spent the time away from home, on remote locations and will do anything I can to not remember her.

  Okay, so I’ve fucked up.

  Felicity’s a big fuckup.

  A weak moment.

  I just want to rub salt into Farrah’s open wound. She wants me, and I love the fact that she begs like a goddamn whore.

  And yeah, being the dick I am, it’s payback for leaking mine and Milana’s relationship to the press. Not only did I begin fucking Felicity, I ran my mouth off to the press about Farrah’s baby daddy being a big Hollywood CEO.

  It took the heat off me, and was fun while it lasted. Nothing more satisfying than watching Farrah scream like a psychopath in the middle of a live show. But like anything, it was short-lived.

  Milana always found her way back to me through my lingering memories.

  To know her is to love her, and never to forget her.

  Occasionally, something will trigger a memory of us. Like the time I was sitting at Olive Garden and Barry Manilow showed up. I remember smiling to myself, wishing she were with me so we could take a selfie. She would have fucking loved it.

  Then, at other times, the taste of her skin becomes this focused memory and lingers on my tongue taunting, teasing, and itching every nerve inside of me.

  Those were the times I would get high, and that cycle’s nasty.

  I stare at my wall for too long, and as the darkness shadows the room, my mind becomes radiantly clear.

  We both need our cards laid out, all or nothing, ride-or-die type of moment.

  Fix what we both simultaneously broke.

  I refuse for Katerina to grow up damaged like I have become. Gina may have fucked me up for good, but I’ll be damned if my daughter has to experience the same fucked-up life I’ve endured.

  And I swear, I will fucking slit Gina’s throat if she dare hurts my kid. Not only her but her pathetic excuse of a husband. I’m done with her emotional blackmail. She may have allowed me to be abused as a kid, but that cycle needs to be fucking broken.

  As for Carson, the sleazy prick, I made sure he got what was coming to him. Tax fraud. It’s a fucking little bitch when the IRS finds out what dodgy deals he’s been doing behind their backs. Jail time suits him. At least he’ll get fucked in the ass more times than he’s attempted to rape women in Hollywood. The man deserves everything he gets. I just should have seen the signs. Never let him lay a single finger on Milana. God, I’ve fucked up so many times. I should have fucking killed the bastard right there and then.

  Okay, stop.

  Focus. I need to find her.

  I text my new personal assistant, Deidre, asking her to book a private plane to Alaska. If Milana will be found anywhere, I suspect it will be near, if not with, her mom.

  Deidre is like my knight in shining armor, or whatever the fuck that saying is. Though, I’m glad to have chosen an older woman to be my personal assistant, my biggest problem is whether she will retire in a year to Boca or Palm Springs. She’s efficient, makes sense of my chaotic life, and invites me to dinner once a week with her and her husband. He’s ex-military but plays a mean game of chess.

  She’s a blessing and nothing like the women before her, who just wanted to suck my dick and have me take them in like a stray cat.

  I explain to Deidre my reason for going, knowing she will be supportive. So, she’s done her duty, booked the plane which is due to leave in two hours.

  Fuck. How can I pack a bag, shower, and take care of the baby?

  I contemplate calling Em, but know she will give me her typical bullshit response and ramble on about me taking charge of my life. That, and Carrington will probably come looking for me with a baseball bat. The fucker’s a possessive prick. Ironic, considering Em was mine first.

  So, I make the executive decision to leave the baby in her carrier, watching her stir softly while I bring it into the bathroom. I spend one minute in total, not my usual hour and jacking off time. As soon as I get out of the shower, I throw on whatever’s clean I can find—jeans, white tee, and my gray hoody. Grabbing a small backpack, I throw in boxers, toothbrush, and a spare set of clothes.

  My driver, Jerry, arrives promptly, looking at me with curiosity.

  “Don’t ask.”

  Within an hour, we make it to LAX without any attention from the paparazzi.

  As the plane begins to take off, Katerina sleeps peacefully and gives me the much-needed time to close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

  My eyes open upon the captain announcing our descent, five hours later. Jesus Christ, the exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks. My body aches all over, and even when I stretch my arms above my head, I can’t remove the stiff neck or painful lower back that irritates me.

  It’s very early in the morning, the sun only just rising behind the mountains. I haven’t even thought of a plan. I’m running low on diapers and formula. Katerina needs feeding and a bath. Fuck, I’ve forgotten how often Em said I should bathe her.

  Flynn texted me the address of Phoebe, Milana’s best friend, suggesting I visit her first. If anyone knows Milana, it’s her.

  A driver is waiting on the tarmac, and as soon as we’re cleared for exiting, I make my way to the car and direct him to the nearest open drugstore.

  “Yes, sir. It’s about five miles from here.”

  I had no idea babies could sleep for long stretches, but remember Em’s advice, “You need to feed her every four hours, even if she’s sleeping.”

  I whip out the bottle, carefully measuring the formula while sitting in the back of the car. The water is reasonably warm, this black insulated bag that houses her bottles is a godsend.

  I’m desperate to get to Phoebe’s house, but know that Katerina needs feeding and she’s my priority. Pulling her out of her carrier, she squirms with an odd expression, then lets out a long-winded fart which sounds airy and runny.

  Fuck. Here we go again.

  I swear, this kid shits like twenty-four-seven. As soon as she’s done, the last diaper comes out, and I’m changing this gross yellow shit that looks revolting. The bile in my throat rises, and I’m dry heaving trying to clean her up. Goddammit, it’s so fucking difficult. What do I know about cleaning girlie parts?

  Fuck, I swear, this is not as easy as Em makes it out to be.

  To make it all the worse, it’s gotten onto her onesie.

  I changed her outfit, taking a good ten minutes to figure out what button goes where, my frustration mounting as her cries sound louder. Finally, I’m done and shove the bottle in her mouth, welcoming the silence.

  After a full feed, burp, then burp again, she’s settled.

  It fucking wasted an hour.

  I ask the driver to mind her while I quickly duck inside the drugstore. The as
sistant who’s young and notices who I am, offers some advice on different brands. There’s no time for this bullshit, so I purchase what she recommends only to be asked for a selfie. I decline, telling her it’s for personal reasons. My biggest worry is the paparazzi tracking me down right now.

  I don’t want anyone scaring Milana away, and the paps are ruthless disgusting pigs.

  She appears embarrassed, cheeks flushing red and barely making eye contact after that. And unlike my normal behavior, I pull her into a hug, kiss her cheek, and say, “Thank you.”

  “Where to, sir?” the driver asks, opening the door for me.

  I read out the address that Flynn texted me.

  “And quick, please.”

  ***

  “You must be Phoebe.”

  Her face tightens, arms folded with an irritated stance as she blocks the doorway. Milana never described her. Quite ordinary with ginger-colored hair and bright green eyes. Much like Milana, there is an innocence about her. I bet the woman has never been laid. She has that prissy, uptight look about her. The pajamas she’s wearing have unicorns all over them, it’s a dead giveaway.

  “Yes. And you must be the douche who knocked up my best friend.”

  “Kinda harsh, considering it takes two to tango?” I smirk, not appreciating the label.

  “Yeah, it also takes two to parent—”

  Quick to intercept, I grit, “If you know you have a kid.”

  “Oh… c’mon, Wesley,” she drags, raising her voice, with a matching cold stare. “You would have told her to abort the baby. She doesn’t fit into your lifestyle.” She uses air quotes around the word lifestyle.

  My head shakes, unwillingly, a lack of respect for this nobody standing in front of me thinking she knows who I am and what I would have done. Yeah, all right, kids aren’t on my agenda. Big fucking deal.

  Phoebe’s eyes divert to the carrier, narrowing her brows in confusion. “Why do you have her, anyway?”

  “So, you’re not aware that your best friend dumped her baby with her brother and ran away?” I tell her, frustrated at this conversation.

  Phoebe appears stumped by the revelation, pulling her hair into her mouth and chewing it, annoyingly.

  “She said she would be away for a few days. She needed to get away and clear her head. She never mentioned leaving Katerina,” she says, faintly.

  “Well, clearing her head means dumping our kid. Where is she?”

  “I don’t k-know…” she stammers, nervous and upset. “I knew it.”

  “You knew what?”

  “That she wasn’t coping. Mom told me she was probably going through postpartum depression, given everything that’s happened.”

  Phoebe extends her arm, prompting me to come inside, finally.

  The house is small with brown furniture and pictures hung all over the walls. There’s a glass cabinet in the corner housing creepy porcelain dolls dressed in fancy dresses.

  An older man, assuming it’s her dad, is sitting in his rocker and reading a book with a pipe and steaming coffee beside him. There’s a sweet smell in the air, and moments later, Phoebe’s mom comes out with a plate of breakfast, which she hands to her husband.

  They all have matching ginger hair. Comical, to say the least.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were expecting a visitor, honey?”

  “Neither was I. Mom, Dad, this is Wesley. Katerina’s…” she coughs, purposely, rolling her eyes, “… the father.”

  I’d like to think it isn’t intentional, the shock of the news which explains their expression. Eyes wide, mouth gaping, and silence follows. Phoebe’s dad is quick to break the stance, placing the pipe back into his mouth.

  “Mom, Milly’s gone missing. She left the baby with Flynn. We need to find her. Can you watch her for a few hours?”

  Phoebe’s mom clutches her chest, worried. “Honey, should we call the police?”

  “No, Mom, it’s not like that.” Phoebe shakes her head with a forced smile, turning to me for reassurance.

  “Um… no,” I speak up, clearing my throat. “We will find her, won’t we, Phoebe?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure she’s just visiting her mom. You know, after the news and all.”

  What news? I wanted to ask Phoebe, but time is of the essence, and we need to get out of here.

  “Of course, sweetie. Come here, baby girl. I’ll run to the store and grab some extra diapers and formula.”

  Handing the carrier over, something odd washes over me. Worry. Panic. It feels sickening and begins to make my stomach curl.

  What is the feeling? It’s almost like anxiety from separating.

  “I already packed plenty, stopped off at the drugstore and got some.” I hand over the bag.

  “Oh, well, aren’t we the organized parent,” Phoebe snickers. “I’ll go get changed.”

  “Please,” I tell her with a sarcastic smile.

  Good. I’m not going anywhere with her dressed like that. No matter how desperate I am. That getup is not cute.

  Phoebe’s mom takes the carrier, lifting Katerina out and cradling her. She smiles, sings a nursery rhyme of some sort before Phoebe’s dad rattles off about not getting clucky ’cause his shop is dusty and old.

  Ten minutes later, Phoebe enters the room again, this time dressed in a pair of jeans and a Rams hoodie. My favorite team. Maybe this bitch isn’t so bad, after all.

  “You ready?” Phoebe asks, grabbing the keys off the entry table.

  I take a moment to watch Phoebe’s mom with Katerina. She’ll be okay, right? I mean, it’s just a couple of hours. Why the hell is this bothering me so much?

  It’s almost like I’m going to miss her.

  “Let’s go,” I tell Phoebe, following her out the door until we’re standing in front of a beaten old red Toyota.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “My car. And please, Susan doesn’t like to be looked at that way.”

  “Susan? You named this piece of shit, Susan?”

  “Oh, sorry, Wesley Rich,” Phoebe mocks with a pout. “We can’t all drive Porches like you. Get the fuck in and let’s go find my best friend.”

  “Fine, but if I die, it’s all your fault.”

  She rubs her hands together, purposely lifting her brows, pleased. “Yes, because dying inside Susan would be fun. For fuck’s sake, grow a dick and get in the car.”

  This bitch will be the death of me.

  But I no longer care.

  I’m one step away from finding Milana.

  And that’s all that matters.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Milana

  The lake is beautiful.

  Dark, eerily peaceful with the moon’s reflection adding to its beauty. I envy it. The serenity, the way it’s so peaceful at night but during the day—it’s something else. It makes people happy and brings joy to many.

  No matter what, it’s beautiful inside and out. Nothing at all like me.

  There’s this constant heaviness weighing me down. I’ve been sitting on this rock for hours on end, staring, contemplating, and trying to extract any emotion to give me back my sanity. Whatever this is it has a hold on me, it’s in my bones and blood. It is everywhere I look and everywhere I am.

  And the irony, my memory never falters. Taunting me each waking moment and reliving this nightmare that has constantly become my primary focus.

  “For the love of God, pass me your jumbo Tampax? My nose is bleeding again.”

  Phoebe lays on the floor of my room, head tilted back to stop her nosebleed. She used to get them often as a kid. Her method as she grew older was to shove a tampon inside the nostril.

  I can barely move my limbs from this godforsaken virus I picked up on the plane. Managing to lay on my side, I knock down the pile of tissues that I had thrown onto my nightstand and pull the drawer open. My vision is blurry from the constant sneezing and using my hands to fumble through mess, I find nothing.

  Periods, periods, when was my last
period? I normally had a spare box or two inside my drawer.

  I can’t seem to focus. Phoebe’s cackling about something else, but my mind will not stop questioning. When the fuck did I last get my period?

  October.

  September.

  August.

  My focus becomes incredibly clear. My hands move toward my breasts and cup them. They’re large, tender, and unusually sore. The beat of my heart begins to race uncontrollably, the room spinning in circles.

  The bile rises, my stomach churning, and without notice, the acid runs up into my throat and onto the floor with a large gurgle.

  “Milly! Are you okay?”

  In a state of shock, I know what my head refuses to compute. The signs are all there, and I’m a fool to think he can’t find his way back to me.

  And this time, he played the ultimate game.

  Created the nightmare now inside of me.

  I wish often, just like now, that my memory will fade, disappear into the still of the night. If I can take away Mama’s disease, I gladly will and feel it myself, for I don’t want to remember. Not the moment when my life changes forever. And not the moment when I begin to despise the man who consumes me whole.

  “The baby’s heart rate is high. We need to take you to the O.R. now.”

  Mama and Phoebe clutch both hands, worriedly. Around me, there’s chaos. Beeping monitors and people hustling. The nurse was young, didn’t look a day older than me. What would she know? She did not look like she had been through this, and I didn’t like the way she had a gleam of panic in her eyes.

  I caught a fleeting stiffening of Mama’s face. Her hand was gripping mine, her knuckles almost stark white. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but I’d be lying. I didn’t know if everything would be okay. This could be the beginning or the end.

  “But she’s only thirty-five weeks, surely that can’t be safe for the baby.”

  A man, attractive with two cute dimples nestled into his ebony skin, placed a needle into my wrist, stabbing me and wrapping some tape to secure it. For someone who stabbed people for a living, it would have been polite to ask me if needles freaked me out.