Summer of Love: The Billionaire's Baby (BWWM Pregnancy and Marriage Multicultural Love Story)

by Imani King

  There was a large, clear skylight in my bedroom. I lay on my back in the enormous guest bed and watched a bright full moon move slowly across it until my eyes were too heavy to keep open and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  In the morning, I walked into a sparkling clean kitchen and had another one of those revelations about how the other half lives - the kind I'd been having ever since I first met Blake Charlton. It seems like such a small thing, a clean kitchen. A housekeeper must have come in and taken care of the mess while we were sleeping. But if you add it to all the other small things - never having to cook dinner after a long day at work, never having to worry about where the money for the phone bill will come from, never having to check public transport schedules because there's always a driver in a luxurious SUV standing at the ready to take you anywhere you want to go - it leaves you with so much more free time to do the things you're truly interested in doing. How far could I have made it up the career ladder if I didn't have all those little worries that most of us do? I put the thought out of my mind. Was I envious? Yes, of course there was some part of me that recognized the unfairness. At the same time, it wasn't Blake's fault he was born rich, any more than it was my fault I wasn't.

  I started boiling water for coffee and when it was finished I took it out onto the patio, still in my PJs and listened to the sound of birds singing and wind in the trees, thinking it would be very easy to get used to this life. Rosa joined me a short while later with her phone in her hand and a worried look on her face.

  "Is something wrong?" I asked, taking another sip of my milky, over-sugared coffee (just the way I like it).

  Rosa looked at me, her expression troubled.

  "Yes, Nat, something is wrong."

  What?"

  She handed me her phone and even before I looked at the screen the deja vu was sweeping over me.

  "Oh God," I said, looking pleadingly at her, wanting reassurance that whatever it was, it wasn't a big deal, "what is it?"

  "Nat, look. You have to look."

  So I looked. A gossip site. A couple standing on a balcony outside. I recognized that balcony. I recognized those broad shoulders. It was Blake and Vanessa - his body was pressed tightly against hers and they appeared to be talking. She was facing the camera with a coy smile on her face. It was definitely not a photograph of a couple at odds - they looked cozy, familiar. She was pushing her ass back against him. A wave of nausea hit me. The headline read:

  "Blake and Vanessa Charlton - It's Back On!"

  I handed the phone back to Rosa silently as the blood started to drain out of my face and the breeze, that had moments earlier felt refreshing and clean, became chilly.

  "I'm so sorry, Nat."

  Rosa put her arms around me and I didn't react right away, I just stayed where I was, frozen to the spot. There has never been anything more difficult for me to accept than that photo. I picked up the phone and looked at it again as a blank emptiness took over my mind. There was no chaos, no panic - just a sharp, raw knowledge. He lied. He lied about it being worth it. He lied about his feelings for me.

  I stayed where I was for a long time until hot tears of humiliation welled up and I turned to my friend, looking her in the eye and whispering: "You warned me. You warned me and I didn't listen." I collapsed into her arms.

  Rosa was shaking with anger, trying to console me, stroking my hair. It was in the middle of this that my phone rang. Automatically I reached down to pick it up and Rosa snatched it out of my hand before I could, checking the screen.

  "It's him."

  I shook my head, indicating I didn't want to take it and watched as Rosa walked over to the edge of the swimming pool that lay just beyond the patio and threw the phone into the water before turning back to me.

  "Get your stuff, Nat. We're going back to L.A."

  When I didn't immediately respond she clapped her hands at me, and squeezed my arm.

  "Now, Nat. Get your things now, we're going back to our apartment. Fuck this guy and fuck the paparazzi, we're done with this. Come on."

  I followed my best friend's instructions, operating on a kind of autopilot that, in retrospect, was simply my mind protecting me from the full knowledge of what had happened so I could continue to function until I got myself home - and away from Blake.

  We were ready within ten minutes, and Rosa was calling the driver. Just before she left, she turned back and marched into the kitchen, grabbing a huge cast iron Le Creuset goose-roasting pot, so heavy it almost made her topple over.

  "Rosa," I asked, dazed and uncomprehending, "what are you doing?"

  "What am I doing? I'm taking a casserole dish, Nat, because we don't have one and because this guy is a total asshole who doesn't deserve it."

  I surprised myself by laughing out loud, following Rosa to the waiting SUV and chuckling to myself the whole way, even as the laughter felt uncomfortably close to sobbing.

  Six hours later we were home. There were a few paparazzi waiting outside the front gate to our building, but not as many as before. They weren't as aggressive this time, sensing correctly that the real story, the true juiciness, no longer resided with me.

  "How does it feel Natasha? Do you feel used? What would you say to Blake Charlton if he were here right now?"

  I kept going, head down, and Rosa flipped them off. The next day a photo of her with her middle finger extended appeared on a few of the more low-rent celebrity websites.

  I went straight into survival mode as soon as the door to our apartment closed behind us, and Rosa was right there with me. Our other roommate, Mark, was home and he immediately gave me a huge hug and kissed me on the cheek.

  "He may be rich, Nat, and he may be handsome, but is that the kind of man you want to be with?"

  "No," I answered, collapsing onto our worn-out sofa and grabbing a pile of pizza delivery flyers, suddenly realizing I was starving, "no, it isn't."

  Waking up the next day was the opposite of waking up from a nightmare. I had a few sweet seconds of peace before remembering what was going on in my life and feeling a strong temptation to curl up in a ball under the covers and stay there all day. I knew I couldn't do that, though. The money from the surrogacy agreement was in my account, but I needed to get up and go about my life for mostly psychological reasons - I knew I couldn't let myself give in to the miasma of despair that was clinging to me like a bad smell. I don't mean I toughed it out like a champ and never cried, but I refused to let myself wallow. A few indulgent tears in the shower where no one could see me were all that I allowed.

  Rosa spent that first day with me, driving me around to various different offices to drop off resumés - the job Blake had promised to arrange was either off the table or, if it wasn't, it was no longer something I could take part in anyway, because Blake Charlton was not my savior and I had to stop childishly hoping that he was.

  It was hard, though. It was so hard. The amount of strength it took just to keep up the appearance of being a normal person was so high that by the time we got back to our apartment that night I was shaky with the fatigue - with the effort of holding back the tide of sadness that constantly threatened to submerge me. It knew it wasn't going to get any better anytime soon, either. I knew the hard part - the continuing on with my life as if I had never met Blake, the missing him so deeply it physically ached, the loss of hope for a future so cruelly dangled in front of me before being snatched away - was still to come, still to be endured.

  The next day I woke up to the sound of a commotion outside and just assumed it was the paparazzi. There was a female voice this time, though, and she sounded angry. I got up and went to the small window in my room, straining to hear.

  "I'm telling you! Leave right now! Get the fuck out of here!"

  It wasn't Rosa. Who was yelling at photographers so early in the morning? One of my neighbors? I got dressed and was just walking into the kitchen to fix some breakfast when the doorbell rang. No one else was up so I tip-toed up to the grimy peephole and peere
d through it. There was a petite, well-dressed woman standing there. She didn't have any cameras in her hands and she looked pissed off - something about her expression told me it was probably her who'd been giving the paps hell a few minutes earlier.

  "Yes?" I asked through the door, unwilling to open it yet.

  "Natasha Ray?"

  "Uh, who's asking?"

  "It's Lisa Cohen, Blake's publicist. Can I come in?"

  Ah, the formidable Lisa - Blake had told me all about her.

  "I'm not interested in anything Blake Charlton has to say to me." I said, biting back an extra comment on how cowardly it was to send an employee to my house instead of coming himself.

  "Yes, of course. I only need a few minutes of your time."

  I stood with my hand on the doorknob for a few moments and then decided to let her in. As soon as we were face to face she smiled at me and shook my hand warmly.

  "Natasha! I'm so glad to meet you, even if it is under less than happy circumstances. Do you have anywhere to sit down? I promise I'll be brief."

  I led her into the living room and couldn't stop myself from asking if it had been her yelling outside.

  "Oh, yeah," she pulled out a small compact mirror and checked her make-up, "that was me - they shouldn't be allowed to harass innocent people - it makes my blood boil."

  We made small talk for a few minutes until I couldn't stand it anymore and just asked her directly why she was at my apartment. At that point, she leaned in close to me with a concerned look on her face and squeezed my hand - a rather intimate gesture that managed to both flatter and slightly throw me.

  "Do you really want to know, Natasha?"

  Lisa Cohen was one of those people who used your first name repeatedly in conversation - a habit that always makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, like I'm being sold something. I nodded in response to her question and she continued:

  "The truth is, I'm here for you. I feel terrible about what's happened and I just wanted to stop by and make a personal visit, to see if everything is OK with you. I know you probably miss Blake very much, but he is trying to work it out with his wife."

  I cringed at Lisa's words and blinked hard against the tears that threatened to spring up in my eyes. I don't consider myself a naive person, at least not generally and not when it comes to other human beings. But Lisa Cohen was so good, so casually convincing. She seemed truly sincere, looking me in the eye and talking to me like I was one of her girlfriends and just oozing the kind of sisterly compassion I craved at the time.

  "So, Blake is-?"

  "Blake Charlton - I love the guy, but he is a complete idiot - do you think he could have faced this himself?" she laughed, "I'm here for you, too, Natasha. We need to talk about how we're going to get you out of the tabloids and back to your normal life."

  We talked for about twenty minutes and Lisa was full of questions about who I'd spoken to in the press and what offers I was getting for my story. I hadn't purchased a new phone yet, though, and my e-mail still appeared to be unknown, because no offers had come in for my story. She seemed suspicious when I told her this.

  "Are you sure? Natasha, let me just say this straight out - going to the media would be a very bad idea. For you, I mean. You don't know what the press can do to someone like you, someone with no experience in dealing with them - they'll ruin your life, I guarantee it."

  It took a while but I managed to convince Lisa that I wasn't going to sell my story - which I wasn't, even if someone offered me a nice chunk of cash to do so. She was right that I wasn't experienced with that world, but I'd already seen enough to know I never, never wanted anything to do with the Hollywood machine ever again. When she left, she pressed her business card into my hand and gave me a quick hug before pulling away and giving me a sympathetic smile.

  "Natasha, call me anytime. Anytime. I usually charge for these services but I just feel so terrible for what's happened to you I'll do it for free. If anyone tries to contact you or makes you an offer, just call me - doesn't matter what time it is, I'm here for you. You'll forget about him in no time!"

  Then she was gone, although the scent of her strong, floral perfume lingered in our apartment for hours. When Rosa and I left about half an hour later for another round of job-hunting, there was a single, sleepy looking paparazzi lounging on the curb outside the gate to our apartment complex. When he saw us he made a cursory attempt to engage but I sensed that interest in me was dying down. Rosa had barred me from reading anything about Blake online so I didn't know how the gossip sites were handling things but it did seem like the overt interest in me specifically fading.

  "Huh."

  Rosa was looking down at the curb and I followed her gaze. The ground was absolutely covered with pale pink petals - they looked almost like snow piled up in the gutter. I didn't pay it any attention, though, focused as I was - once again - on making it through the day without breaking down and without crying in front of anyone.

  A few days later, I got a job - another temp job. The woman who did the interview obviously recognized me but she said she needed someone for a client in need of an editor. It paid eleven dollars an hour for six hours a day and I was able to work from home. I couldn't say no, even though taking a wage like hurt a little.

  "I guess my mom was right," I said to Rosa as we ate pasta in our kitchen later that night, "I should have studied chemistry."

  That night, in bed, I wept again - as I seemed to be doing every time I was alone. I've gone through hardship before - hell, most of my life has been hard - but there's usually a goal in mind, some point in the future that I can look to with hope. After seeing that photo of Blake and Vanessa, though, the goal was simply getting back to normal. Back to the place I'd been before I met him - not an easy place, but one where I felt up to the challenges I was faced with and not borderline miserable every waking moment.

  Being strong is so damned hard. All I wanted to do was grab Blake by the lapels and ask him why. Why tell me all the things he told me? Why make those promises?

  "I miss you," I whispered into the quiet heat of the night, a sentiment I was too scared to give voice to in front of Rosa or anyone else. I did miss him. So much my body felt stiff and achy most of the time and I woke up repeatedly during the night, nauseous with my mind playing tricks on me, trying to convince itself it was all a bad dream and I was still back in Italy with him, drunk with love and sex and the way he used to look at me.

  Chapter 16: Blake

  Natasha must have turned her phone off or thrown it away. I tried to call her a thousand times - more, probably - but I knew enough about her to know she wasn't the type of girl who suffered fools gladly. Especially cheating fools, which I was not, although I couldn't blame her for thinking otherwise. The photo was very convincing. I saw it the next day and caught myself wondering if it had been photoshopped or taken at some earlier date. It hadn't been though, it had just been taken at the exact moment when Vanessa pushed herself against me on the balcony.

  I suspected her, of course. When confronted, she denied everything - she even feigned confusion at the photo's existence, as if she expected me to believe she hadn't been googling herself every half hour as was her usual habit. I had no proof, either. Maybe she hadn't called the photographers, who had apparently snuck into the bushes that bordered one side of the Three Palms property and taken their shots from there. Barrington said I could sue but that there was only a fifty-fifty chance of winning and the truth is, I didn't have the heart for it at the time. I didn't have the heart for anything. Natasha was unreachable - not on her phone, not responding to e-mail and not in Colorado anymore. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of total spiritual bleakness without her - it was one of the first times in my life that I truly felt the uselessness of all my money. It could buy me almost anything - almost anyone - but not Natasha, not the one thing I wanted in the whole world.

  Flowers. I tried flowers. I sent almost an entire truckload of pink roses and peonies and white lilies to her apar
tment, hoping that her roommates would see them and tell her but there was no response from her at all. Total radio silence. I was just about to retreat to my office with a bottle of whiskey when Lisa showed up. She spotted the whiskey and threw me one of her familiar judgmental glances before settling down on the sofa.

  "I spoke to her."

  "What?" I asked, wondering if it was possible to be less interested in work at that moment.

  "Natasha Ray, I spoke to her."

  The mention of Natasha had me paying complete attention: "You spoke to Nat? When? Where is she? The driver in Colorado said he took her to the airport."

  Lisa put her hands up in a 'calm down' gesture. "Blake, I'm not sure it's a good idea if I tell you where she is but I can tell you this - she wants to get on with her life. Without you. Try and look at this from her perspective - you came into her life, seduced her, lied to her and now she's a tabloid punchline, the party girl who almost broke up Blake Charlton's marriage."

  "Except I didn't lie to her, Lisa, and you damn well know it, you know that photo was bullshit."

  "Was it?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Yes, it was. I haven't laid a finger on Vanessa since I've been back here - not that she hasn't tried - that photo was just another one of her attempts. Mysteriously, the photos of the aftermath, where I walked away from her, weren't published."

  Lisa shrugged. "Either way, Blake, Natasha is adamant that she doesn't want to see you - she even mentioned a restraining order if you tried."

  "Did she?" I asked, shocked, as Lisa nodded sadly.

  There was a sinking feeling in my heart at that news. Just days ago she'd been in my arms, her head nestled into my chest as we basked in the Italian sunshine and made plans for the future. Now she was talking about restraining orders? I had to see her. I had to explain things.