Bad Boy Rich

by Kat T. Masen

  The sadness lingers in his tone, and after a quick moment of silence between us—he walks to his car and drives off. As soon as his car is out of sight, the baby begins to stir. What the fuck do I do? Okay, breathe, take her inside, that would be the first step. I grab the carrier and the bag beside her. A balancing act which had me almost dropping the carrier.

  Placing the carrier down on the lounge, I sit beside it and gaze at her face.

  I had no connection to this kid. I thought that when you had babies, you supposedly looked at them and became overwhelmed with this love that was impossible to explain.

  My anger towards Milana—overshadowed this moment. How the hell did she keep this from me? We were careful, used protection most of the time and I recall her telling me she took the pill religiously. She wasn’t interested in starting a family, odd yet I respected that decision. I only brought it up occasionally because I thought that’s what all women wanted and in order to keep her—I had to sacrifice a little, or a lot.

  But this…this was fucking unbelievable.

  And how could she abandon our kid? What type of monster had she become?

  “Baby, where are you?” Felicity calls out, stumbling on the bottom step of the staircase and lunging forwards to the ground. With a delirious cackle, she searches the area, locking eyes with me in the living room.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  I keep quiet. I needed to process.

  “Wesley… who is that?”

  “Mine.”

  “Yours? Is this some sort of sick joke? Let me see.”

  Felicity moves closer, naked and barely able to compose herself. Armed with a look of disgust, she complains, “Jesus, Wesley, get rid of her. What a killjoy.”

  This woman—an accessory to my over-indulging lifestyle—is the wake-up call I desperately needed. A snippet of my life, what it had become and who I had become. The more she breathed in my space, the more I am revolted by the person that I allowed myself to be. This is exactly what Milana envisioned. Why would she want me? A man that depended on pills, drugs, and anything that would erase the fucked-up life I built for myself.

  I don’t know what came over me, this protective beast that wanted to unleash on Felicity. With a deliberate slow breath, my teeth clench upon saying, “Leave.”

  Chuckling at what she thinks is a joke, “You want me to leave?”

  “GET. THE. FUCK. OUT,” I bellow, almost lashing out. “Take your fucking dirty ass out of my house…NOW.”

  Crossing her arms to cover her fake tits, she huffs at my request.

  “You wouldn’t dare do this.”

  This time, I laugh, foolishly. “Try me. Now get the fuck out.”

  I remove my attention from her and back onto the baby. She stirs, again—no doubt from our raised voices. I didn’t have the nerve to remove her from the carrier but knew that I would need to, eventually.

  Felicity shouts profanities into the room, dressed and with a bag in hand. I ignore her spiteful comments, welcoming the silence after she slams the door.

  Then—the panic sets in.

  I’m alone…with a baby that needed attention. As if she could read my thoughts, she begins to wail, only adding to my anxiety about having to lift her. The panic grips my throat, and with a mad rush, I run upstairs to grab my cell and call Em.

  I’m talking, fast and incoherent. Trying to explain it all but not believing the words spilling out of my mouth.

  “Slow down, you have what there?”

  I take deep breaths, trying to calm the nervous energy and explain it again, slower.

  “Wesley, I can’t believe it.” She sighs, loudly.

  “Just get here, please, the kid is crying, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Pick the baby up, watch its head and I’ll be there soon.”

  She hangs up. What does she mean watch its head? Was it going to fall off? Fuck, this is stressing me out. I take more deep breaths, pushing aside the sickness settling in my stomach. I had seen this in movies, and I recall holding a baby once, maybe, years ago.

  It takes me five minutes to get the goddamn seat belt off. After it finally unclasps, I try to figure out how to get my large hands under the baby and pull her out without her head falling off. Fuck—why is this so hard?

  Sliding one hand under her head, and the other under her bottom, I pull her out, gently and slowly, holding her in the air because I didn’t know how to bring her close to me without moving one hand. What if I fucking dropped her? Shit, don’t fucking drop her.

  After many failed attempts, and my poor judgment almost dropping her—I ease her into my chest which seems to calm her down until Em arrives.

  “Did you know about this?” I question her, my voice low shielding the baby from the noise.

  Emerson remains silent, sitting beside me on the sofa. I could tell she rushed over here; hair barely brushed, tied up and out of her face. She’s wearing baggy sweats, almost too baggy that I suspected they didn’t belong to her.

  “You fucking knew and you didn’t tell me?”

  She rolls her eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh at the same time.

  “I didn’t know, okay. But I suspected something was wrong. It was unlike her to have zero contact. Her brother never breathed a word. Honestly, I thought she just went back to Liam and maybe they got hitched.”

  It hadn’t crossed my mind. He hadn’t crossed my mind.

  “What if it’s his?” I mumble, staring at the baby’s face.

  She had no features to indicate she was mine. There was an Asian look about her, and that would be from Milana’s heritage.

  “Wait…the timing is off,” Em says, counting numbers out loud that make no sense to me. “I don’t think Flynn would have brought her here if he didn’t believe you were her father.”

  “Can’t I get that shit tested? I mean, fuck—what do I do now?”

  “You be a daddy. Man the fuck up. We can start by ridding this place of the shit you’ve been snorting all night.”

  Em disappears, and with the baby still quiet in my hands, I follow closely. Inside my room, Em looks around, recoiling with a disgusted expression, ripping my sheets off the bed and grabbing the small plastic bag that sat on my nightstand, flushing it down the toilet.

  “Emerson, fuck!”

  “Don’t even try to justify it.” She points her finger at me, her face turning red as her eyes widen with anger. “You are it, you are her dad. Until Milana is found, you are all she has. You need to get help, you understand me? For good. Or you’ll fuck her up too and she doesn’t deserve this.”

  Speechless, and with my mouth slightly open, Em’s words begin to resonate. I can’t fuck up this kid’s life. I went through hell growing up and look how I turned out. Everyone’s Bad Boy. The guy that just can’t get his shit together and loses everyone he loves.

  I needed help.

  I knew this much.

  “Stay, please,” I beg, desperately. “Just show me what I need to do with her.”

  She removes the baby from my arms; the sudden loss of contact satisfying yet odd at the same time. Watching her smile and coo at the baby, like a natural-born mother, made me think about us. What we once had, what we could have been.

  And although the thought brought me happiness, it didn’t erase what my heart completely craved.

  I just needed to find her.

  “I’ll show you how to feed her, change her, and bathe her. But then, it’s all you. You understand?”

  I nod my head, grateful that Em still cared enough to help me during my lowest time. And hopefully, care enough to help me find the woman I love.

  Flynn never returned liked he promised.

  Time was lost on me. Minutes dragging on while I sat here in my own personal hell.

  My thoughts became a broken record. Replaying the last eight, nine—or whatever the fuck it was—months in my head, trying to pinpoint exactly how I got here.

  In the dead-silent room, I can hear her breathing.
Soft, almost like a flutter—and eerily harmonious.

  It’s dark, night has fallen, and the silence disappears as my cell vibrates against the glass coffee table. It’s Flynn.

  “I can’t get out of here.” The noise is loud; people and music blaring through the speaker making it difficult to understand him. “Hold on, let me move somewhere quieter.”

  Impatiently, I wait for him to talk, sitting on the sofa with the baby beside me. We had done this for most of the day, sitting, sleeping—drinking the formula that Em helped me prepare, three dumps, and repeat.

  Oh, and one violent burp that resulted in puke all over my shirt.

  I stunk—and was utterly exhausted. I hadn’t had a single bite to eat. Each time I left the room, it’s almost like she sensed it, crying loudly until I cradled and rocked her back to sleep. I managed to down several bottles of water, dehydrated and barely managing to stay still. The surge of adrenalin followed by withdrawals, made it difficult to think straight.

  “Okay, I’m back. Look, I’m sorry, they want me here for the rest of the night.”

  “Just tell me where she is,” I demand, curling my fist into a ball to curb my anger towards him. “I need to find her.”

  “Wes, I seriously don’t know. In the letter, she just told me she couldn’t raise the baby. She thought the baby needed love and she couldn’t give it. She apologized and said she needed to be on her own for a while.”

  With a bated breath, I release, “She wouldn’t, you know, do anything, would she?”

  I had been there. Standing on the ledge ready to end my life. I could almost see the fucker; his dark cloak draping over his face, luring me into his sweet hell.

  The first night with Milana, when I took her to the cemetery, I wanted her to see the dark abyss I had found myself trapped in. She had to fucking save me from myself. So I knew, first hand, how easily we fall into a dark place.

  “Stop.” Flynn’s voice wavers. “She loves Mom too much. She wouldn’t want to inflict pain. She’s around, and knowing Milana, she’ll find her way back to Mom.”

  Of course, I should have known that. If there was one thing that should have been clear as day—it was Milana’s love for her mother. Something I couldn’t grasp.

  Family—what the fuck was that again?

  But then again—I knew very little about her. I was a fucking fool to let her go. I wanted this perfect soul to guide me back and couldn’t fathom anyone needing me.

  “I have to go. You can find her, Wes, she loves you. She’ll never admit it but she never got over you. The baby was just…not planned. That’s what stopped her coming back to you.”

  Flynn made no sense. Babies brought people together, not distance them.

  “Why would it stop her? If anything, it should have brought her back.”

  “No,” he says with finality. “Milana’s biggest fear was inheriting Mom’s disease. If she didn’t procreate, no one would suffer. So, in a way, I saw this breakdown coming. I just 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 would 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 in the inside for some sort of relief.

  And even through these thoughts, I was reeling—still unsure of how this all happened. At what point did this become us? A baby that belonged 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 prayed alright. I remember being a good little Catholic boy once upon a time.

  Since the moment she left me, I didn’t allow myself to think about her. My ego, bruised and cut up, had nothing against that constant ache that lingered from her absence. I had spent the time away from home, on remote locations and would do anything I could to not remember her. Okay, I fucked up. Felicity was a big fuckup. A weak moment. I just wanted to rub salt into Farrah’s open wound. She wanted me, and I loved the fact that she begged like a goddamn whore.

  And yeah, being the dick I am, it was 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 to never forget her.

  Occasionally, something would 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 became this focused memory and lingered on my tongue. Taunting, teasing, and itching every nerve inside of me. Those were the times I would get high, and that cycle—was nasty.

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

  We both needed 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 had 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 had endured.

  And I swear, I will fucking slit Gina’s throat if she dare hurt 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 needed to fucking break.

  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 find out what dodgy deals he’s been doing behind their backs. Jail time would suit him. At least he’ll get fucked in the ass more times than he’s attempted to rape women in Hollywood. The man deserved everything he got. I just should have seen the signs. Never let him lay a single finger on Milana. God, I’d 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 would be found anywhere, I suspected it would be near, if not with—her mom.

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

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

  I wanted to explain to Deidre my reason for going, knowing that she would be supportive, but she did her duty, booked the plane which was due to leave in two hours.

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

  I contemplated calling Em, but knew she would give me her typical bullshit response and ramble on about me taking charge of my life. That, and Carrington would probably come find me with a baseball bat. The fucker was a possessive prick. Ironic, considering Em was mine first.

  So, I made the executive decision to leave the baby in her carrier, watching her stir softly while I brought it into the bathroom. I spent one minute in total, not my usual hour and jacking off. As soon as I got out, I threw on whatever clean I could find, jeans, white tee and my grey hoody. Gr
abbing a small backpack, I throw in boxers, tooth brush, and a spare set of clothes.

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

  “Don’t ask.”

  Within an hour, we made 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 hit me like a ton of bricks. My body ached all over, and even when I stretched my arms above my head—I couldn’t remove the stiff neck or painful lower back that irritated me.

  It was very early in the morning, the sun only just rising behind the mountains. I hadn’t even thought of a plan. I was running low on diapers and formula. Katerina needed a feeding, and a bath. Fuck, I forgot how often Em said I should bathe her.

  Flynn had texted me the address of Phoebe—Milana’s best friend—suggesting I go visit her first. If anyone knew Milana—it would be her.

  A driver is waiting on the tarmac, and as soon as we are 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 housed her bottles a godsend.

  I’m desperate to get to Phoebe’s house but knew that Katerina needed feeding. Pulling her out of her carrier, she squirms with an odd expression, then lets out a long-winded fart which sounded 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 did I know about cleaning girl parts? Fuck, I swear—this is not as easy as Em made it out to be.