Bad Boy Rich

by Kat T. Masen

  The water almost spits out of my mouth, and with a quick swallow, I stand up and greet the man standing by my side. “Yes, you must be Mr. Rich.”

  “Oh, I’m flattered and wishful to be that young again.” He laughs; his grey bushy eyebrows bopping up and down. “Mr. Rich is running late, as usual. So, let’s get started.”

  Mr. Ramsay had a background in business law. Having worked with lawyers for many years, I understood legal jargon being exposed to it almost every day.

  “I must say Miss Milenov, it’s refreshing to work with someone that has legal knowledge. Have you considered studying a degree in law?”

  “I did. It wasn’t my preference. I just sort of fell into an assistant role. I got a lot of exposure working with my former boss. She was quite a shark back home.”

  “You’ve got a keen eye for detail. You managed to pick up inconsistencies in these contracts that my qualified staff haven’t been able to.”

  I’m about to comment when the door swings open and my vision is met with a pair of tailored charcoal pants. They’re tapered in nice, paired with black shiny dress shoes that made his feet look huge. You know what they say…. I ignore Phoebe’s voice in my head and quickly scan the rest of his body without being too obvious, until our eyes meet.

  It must be Mr. Rich. A very handsome man with a cleanly shaven face and strong jawline. The kinda jawline that made him look very burly and masculine. Even his hair is styled so perfectly, combed to the side like he just stepped off a photoshoot for a designer label.

  “Punctuality not your thing, Mr. Rich?”

  “Jeff, always a pleasure.” He places his cell on the table and extends his hand to greet mine. “And you are?”

  “Miss Milenov.” I stand up as he watches me with far too much curiosity. “Emerson, I mean, Miss Chase, was unable to make it and requested I be here.”

  His face instantly drops, almost of disappointment. He avoids looking at me any longer, taking a seat at the end of the table and rolling the cuffs of his white shirt. I notice the large silver watch on his wrist and no wedding band. I had a fascination with hands.

  “Let’s make this quick, shall we?”

  Jeff jumps straight back to it, talking about the companies that wanted to stock Emerson’s fitness line in Australia and New Zealand. I’m writing down his comments profusely, not aware that Mr. Rich sits at the table looking bored while his eyes are fixed on me. Jeff speaks for another hour before concluding the meeting. I relax my fingers that began to cramp up from all my notes.

  “Here.” Jeff slides over a business card to me. “If you’re wanting to get that degree and looking for something solid, come find me.”

  I thank him by smiling and tuck the business card into my wallet. He says goodbye and leaves the room quickly.

  “What was that about?”

  My gaze moves to Mr. Rich. “That? Mr. Ramsey had just mentioned something earlier.”

  “Right.” He pauses but his persistent stare is fast becoming annoying. “So you’re Emerson’s new personal assistant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting, you look quite young to be her assistant.”

  “I’m not sure how my age affects my capability.”

  “How old are you?”

  I shake my head in a daze. What is with this guy? Yeah, he’s cute and all but bordering on being a dick. “Are you seriously asking my age?”

  “You just look young. Em is quite particular with young people working around her.”

  I shut my notebook and pack my things before giving him a response. “Well, I can assure you that I am more than qualified to assist Miss Chase. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve done what is asked of me and must continue my busy day.”

  “So, let me guess, you wanted the job because you’re hoping to hop in bed with Carrington?”

  I had no clue what he was talking about but his brutish grin and arrogant persona tick the boxes that Emerson warned me about. It’s always the good-looking ones that have to be assholes.

  “I apologize.” He stands up tall, inches above me even in my pumps. “How rude of me to presume you are that type of woman.”

  His presence makes me uncomfortable. I am desperate to ask him why he wanted to be in business with Emerson considering he had no interest in that meeting whatsoever. But then I remember I enjoy my job. Biting my tongue would be beneficial if I wanted to keep it.

  He moves towards the door, reaching the handle before I do and opening the door for me. He waits for me to pass, and I’m feeling rather awkward from his up-and-down personality.

  “What’s that smell…it almost smells like…”

  He points his nose into the air in front of him, till he gets closer to my chest. I pull back, embarrassed that I smelled like puke and because he was in my personal space. He could have motorboated me with the distance to my breasts.

  “Baby puke.” I beat him to the punch. “I got puked on, okay.”

  “By your baby?”

  “No, not my baby. Miss Chase’s baby.”

  “So, you’re single?”

  “Wha…what? What does that have to do with it?”

  That grin…again. What the hell is his problem and why the thousand questions?

  “Just trying to figure you out, Miss Milenov.”

  His eyes stare with curiosity. Something about him seems familiar. I must have seen his face in some magazine or something. Perhaps one of Phoebe’s trashloids…at least, that’s what I called them.

  “I need to be somewhere. So unless you have any work-related questions, I need to go.”

  He places his arm across the door frame, forcing me to stop in my tracks. I’m not used to being around such dominant men aside from my ex back in college. Creepy would be the better description. Liam and the boys back home were so laid back. Something I missed dearly. Flynn—he was just a lazy grub. But this, this I was unsure of how to handle. My instincts say go with your gut, don’t let him get to you.

  “Maybe it’s a good idea if you carry some spare clothes with you, you know, accidents seem to be your thing.”

  “You don’t know me,” I state confidently, holding his gaze and focusing on the unique color of his eyes. They’re like a golden-ish hazel-green color. I’m certain he uses them to get what he wants. Just not with me. No wonder Emerson warned me.

  “Maybe I don’t. I’ll just stand here waiting for my apology.”

  “Apology?” I laugh at the stupidity of his comment. “For what?”

  He bends down, the essence of his aftershave lingering in the air between us. Okay, breathe, don’t let that scent get to you. His lips shift closer to my ear, and easily he whispers, “You said if we ever cross paths again, you’d take your apology out of my ass and actually mean it.”

  My heart stops. The ticking resume seconds later at a loud and fast rate. No. This can’t be the same guy…

  I lift my head so our faces are inches apart, then I touch his face with my bare hand, without even thinking, and lift his chin, tilting it to the left to confirm my fears.

  That scar.

  Pink, raw—and exposed.

  It was him.

  I made it to the bar where Flynn would be playing. A place named Locust in a trendy part of town.

  The place is jammed; full of young and old people in small groups, sitting and standing around the high-end bar tables that are scattered around the cozy venue.

  The lighting is poor; a few sconces on the wall and an old guitar hung behind the bar with a spotlight hovering over it. This grunge-type ambience wasn’t my thing, but I was here to support Flynn. I did, however, make a mental note to avoid the restrooms at all costs.

  I’d been nursing a gin and tonic for over an hour, waiting patiently for Flynn to begin his set. Alone, at the bar, I made small talk with the bartender as she kindly offered to top me off every so often. I wasn’t much of a drinker these days, sipping slowly trying to clear my thoughts without much luck.

  I’ll admit it—h
e got to me.

  Wesley Rich.

  Crawled under my skin like a parasite. It wasn’t just the fact that I looked stupid for not knowing he was the same guy I ran into last week, it was the way he spoke to me. Like I was a nobody.

  The music in the room softens to a much more enjoyable level as a guy with long hair—tied into a loose ponytail—tests the mic. His beard almost touches his chest; long and full enough to house a swarm of bees.

  I swivel my chair around to face the set and see Flynn sitting on a stool, practicing with his sticks. He’s focused, narrowing his brow and biting his lip, flicking his piercing with his tongue.

  Wait…a piercing? My foot falls off the stool and onto the ground as I stumble forward only to be pulled upright by an unknown hand.

  “Jesus, can’t take you anywhere.”

  The shock slows me down until I turn slowly and connect the hand with the face.

  Are you kidding me? I didn’t know what messed-up game the universe was playing but I wanted out.

  Wesley is standing beside me, smirk the size of Jupiter with that annoying stare that drives me insane. Yeah, I know what he’s thinking: here’s that dumb girl again that seems to manage to make a fool of herself every time I’m around.

  I blame my wedges since I hadn’t worn them since my ill-fated trip down the stairwell back home. I’m certain they’re possessed, yet I wore them because they matched my navy A-line dress and made my legs look slimmer.

  “I was distracted.” I clear my throat. “My brother is the drummer and he has a piercing that wasn’t there this morning.”

  “Let me guess. You’re a nun that thinks piercings are acts of the devil?”

  “No…” I drag, annoyed at his presumption. “It’s just not like Flynn. Anyways, are you stalking me?”

  I don’t know where that came from, but his presence, so close, annoyed the living daylights out of me. How can someone attractive be so unattractive at the same time? He’s changed from wearing a suit, dressed in some light chinos and a dark denim shirt. It’s nothing like the bike gear he wore the other day, nor the suit earlier today, and for some reason it struck me as odd that one man could be so versatile.

  Okay, admit it for one second, he looks nice in his yuppie getup.

  “Are you done staring now?”

  “I wasn’t staring.” I straighten my posture, crossing my legs in an attempt to act confident. “It would be rude to stare and if I wanted to be rude, I wouldn’t waste it on you.”

  His eyes flare with amusement. “Ouch, you must really hate me.”

  “Hate is such a strong word.”

  “Well, I can tell you don’t like me.”

  “Yet you continue to stand here, blocking my view when the purpose of being here is to watch my brother.”

  Even in the dark, the contours of his face are defined. Striking jaw in an upwards pose, teasing me like we’re in the school yard.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes sarcastically, “I’m pretty sure this is a public place but let me walk away from you because I was here for another reason. Your clumsiness just happened to catch my attention…again.”

  I open my mouth wide to respond back but it’s too late. He has walked away in the opposite direction, suddenly crowded by a bunch of women that appear to be literally throwing themselves at him. They’re young girls that don’t even look of legal age and shouldn’t be in the bar. He doesn’t seem to care, lapping up the attention with his arms wrapped around two of the girls and easily ignoring my presence.

  I force myself to ignore him, finishing the gin and tonic and waiting for the set to start. The entire band is on stage, and with a short introduction, they open up with a remake of Help! by The Beatles, remade to sound like rock which appears to be a big hit with the crowd.

  Flynn is in his element. His talent to play music in beat with the band comes natural to him. I wish Mom could see him now. She would be proud of him, watching him perform and come out of his shell, something he struggled with back home. That piercing though… I highly doubt she would be proud of that.

  The atmosphere is buzzing, people congregated in circles enjoying the time with friends. I had never felt so lonely. Aside from Flynn—who rarely spent time with me—I had no one here. Emerson was a great manager but she wasn’t exactly someone I hung out with and poured my guts out to. I missed Phoebe. She would have been drunk already, picked up several guys and managed to climb onstage to play air guitar with the band.

  And then, there was that longing to just feel wanted.

  Something I took for granted with Liam. Liam was a great boyfriend, but I guess over time like many relationships, we just fell into the comfortable basket. It never bothered me at all, we would easily spend our time in the basement watching David Attenborough documentaries with a tub of popcorn between us. It was simple, yet comforting.

  This new life I had created in just two weeks was slowly growing on me. I enjoyed the drive around LA, although traffic was a bitch. Visiting new places and talking to different walks of life if only for a few minutes. My neighbourhood—while completely ghetto—was even growing on me a little.

  The loneliness was the only thing bringing me down.

  I stir the straw in circle motions trying to rid myself of these thoughts when a whiff of cologne strikes me. Trying not to seem obvious, I slowly peek at the arm beside me with the corner of my eye. It’s all muscle; nice and hard. Taking a deep breath, the part of me below that stirs, does nothing to cure my blues. As if I could hook up with someone. One: Liam and I weren’t over. Two: this guy could be really unattractive and three: I wasn’t that person. Sleeping with someone else was completely out of my comfort zone. I had been with one guy for four years. I might as well have been a nun. It’s like my past never existed.

  But I could flirt…harmless flirting.

  “Nice drink. Scotch?” I ask.

  The man stops drinking, holding his glass in mid-air which gives me a chance to look at his face. A little older than what I liked, mature face with slight wrinkles around his baby-blue eyes.

  “Bourbon.”

  I smile, unsure of where to go from here. “Nice.”

  He doesn’t say another word, glass in hand and walking away. Oh…that was terrible. Is it really this hard? Maybe it’s not hard, I’m not exactly a supermodel with a banging body. I had gained weight over the past few months—stress eating as they called it. I’ve always had this complex about my looks, the fact that I looked kinda Asian but also not at the same time. People often asked me about my ethnicity; confused by the almond-shaped eyes and scattered freckles across my nose coupled with my light hair that almost touched my waist.

  Alone at the bar with one failed flirting attempt—I was ready to call it a night.

  Just as I was about to give up and say goodbye to Flynn, a cuter, younger guy walks to the bar, easing his body between myself and another lady, ordering a Corona. He smelled nice. Like fresh waterfalls mixed with something manly.

  “You’ve been sitting on that drink most of the night.” His voice is husky, the kind of voice that would sound great on a sex hotline.

  “Not much of a drinker.” I grin. He’s cute—Ryan Gosling in The Notebook cute. “Here to support my brother.” I point towards the set. Flynn is banging it out to a rendition of Eye of the Tiger.

  “He’s pretty awesome. He should play when the agents visit. I’m Mitch.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, trying to ignore Phoebe’s words about hands and sizes of genitalia.

  “Milana.”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  A deep laugh erupts. He looks confused at my sudden outburst.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just…this is weird.”

  He smiles, raising a brow, resting his elbow on the bar and drawing himself closer to me. “Explain?”

  “I don’t flirt, if that’s what this is.”

  Oh my god that sounded terrible. I should not be allowed to hang around people.r />
  “Sometimes flirting isn’t needed, not when you’re naturally beautiful, Milana.”

  I laugh again, this time clutching onto my belly. It moves up and down, beginning to ache. “Oh my god what is wrong with me! I’m sorry it’s not funny, I mean you’re not funny. I’m seriously laughing at my stupidity here.”

  I bring the glass towards my lips, allowing the remains of the drink to burn my throat to ease my nerves. Mitch whistles for the bartender, ordering me another drink which I gracefully accept, not wanting to be more rude.

  “Okay, maybe you’re right. Flirting isn’t your forte. Let’s start again.” He extends his hand, keeping his smile simple. “Hi, I’m Mitch.”

  “Hi, I’m Milana.”

  “Okay, no. Now you sound like you’re forcing it.”

  “Forcing what?”

  “The flirting. You batted your eyelashes.”

  I scrunch up my face, unsure if I had done that but had not been aware. “I suck.”

  “Maybe, a little.” He laughs, easing my worry. “I don’t know why. You are gorgeous and the thought of you not being taken already piques my curiosity.”

  I contemplate explaining my relationship with Liam, but decide against it.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Ah, the good ole’ it’s complicated status.”

  “We’re not complicated, Liam is so far from complicated. My circumstances are complicated. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

  He places his hand on my shoulder, it’s nice and eases my nerves. “It’s noisy in here, why don’t we head out, someplace quieter.”

  I smile, agreeing, jumping off the stool and bumping bodies with Wesley.

  “Going somewhere?” he grunts, eyes wide.

  “Um, yes. And you’re in my way because?”

  Wesley continues to block my exit, staring Mitch down like he had done something wrong. Was I missing something here?

  “I don’t think you should be leaving with a stranger.”

  I’m confused. It could be the gin and tonic but I’m certain it isn’t. “Mitch is far from a stranger. We’ve attempted to flirt three times. We have a connection. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to continue my attempt at failing with this very nice man.”