by Kat T. Masen
“I know…” I pause, treading carefully on the giant elephant gracing the room. “About what happened, Logan… I don’t know what came over me, and we need to take this to the grave. Yes, I tell Mom everything, but not this.”
Bowing his head, his mouth widens with a grin as he lets out a loose chuckle, clutching his stomach with his hand.
Oh, why does he have to go and do that—make me look at his damn abs.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, avoiding the rush of excitement which comes from looking at the most simplest body part—his stomach.
“That you didn’t know what came over you.”
I can feel the heat rising beneath my skin, the embarrassment of him witnessing a very intimate moment I’ve only shared with a handful of men. I have two choices—spin through the door like the Tasmanian Devil or take the mickey out of the situation.
“I’m usually not so quick.” The moment it left my mouth I smack my forehead as Logan laughs. “I mean… God, this is embarrassing.”
“I get it,” he blurts out mid-laugh. “You’re usually not an early shooter.”
“I’m not exactly shooting anything, I think. That’s a guy thing.”
“Women can shoot.”
“What exactly are they shooting?” Curious, I cross my arms beneath my breasts, waiting on his response.
With his eyebrow raised, he rubs his chin, delighted at the choice of topic. “You want the medical explanation?”
“You know what?” I shake my head unable to hide my grin. “Never mind. I’m sure if the questions persist I’ll find my answer on Google along with a hundred disturbing sexual facts I didn’t know existed.”
“I’m happy to explain. Perhaps, educate you if needed.” The corner of his mouth curves upward, wickedly teasing and coaxing me to say yes. Yet, I realize from years of experience, that Logan Carrington knows how to manipulate me. Whether it be for the good or bad.
“I’m set.” I laugh. “So, we’re good?”
“We’re good.”
I contemplate hugging it out, but with my bikini on and his bare chest, I decide against it.
Saying goodbye, I leave him standing alone in the pool house with the intention of going home and forgetting our moment in the lake. I’m not sure if it was the shooting talk or our pact to forget what happened, but either way, the guilt’s no longer there.
Our secret will remain our secret.
Chapter Seven
“I don’t ask for much.
Except my freedom.”
~ Emerson Chase
The flight from home was turbulent and long.
After several delays, due to some bad weather, the plane was diverted and landed in Burbank.
I’m glad to get off—my stomach’s queasy from the bumpy flight.
I barely made the flight to begin with being caught up at the repair store that replaced the battery in my cell. Apparently, all it needs is a charge and then it will be good to go. Thank God, because I feel naked without it.
Jimmy, my occasional driver-bodyguard, greets me at the terminal. Jimmy is six-foot-two, built like a soldier and could probably beat the shit out of anyone. Nina schedules him for events or times when she’s worried about my safety.
I only notice a few paparazzi in the terminal all dressed in their usual attire and snapping pictures hoping for some scandal. I’m not sure why she’s worried but nevertheless, I greet him and we walk alongside to the black SUV which is parked curbside.
We drive straight into traffic—a sea of tail lights that seem never-ending. As I lay back into the leather seats, attempting to cure my stiff neck from the awkward position I fell asleep in on the plane, the constant vibration of my cell disrupts my struggle to get comfortable.
I close my eyes, which lasts a minute before my hand moves of its own accord and I’m reading a text from Nina.
Nina: Meeting scheduled with the board tomorrow morning. I’m confident we can fight to have you end your contract. Don’t stress Emerson—I’ve got this.
Finally, something going my way. I have faith in Nina to follow through with what I requested—terminating my contract so I don’t have to work with Wes. I’ve had many hours to think about what I will say to Wes when I see him, yet a few blocks from home I’m left with nothing to say. Instead, my focus has been on Logan and the way we left things, amicable and friendly.
We agreed to remain friends, and with friendship comes the expectation that I can text him. Quickly typing a message, I hit send before changing my mind.
Me: This guy on the plane smelled like weed. Remember the time I smoked it and you gave me a lecture about how it would stunt my growth? Such a lie. What did you do with the bag you stole off me?
I don’t expect him to respond, knowing they’re on a plane to England and probably out of cell service. With the apartment only a block away, I throw my cell into my purse and straighten my posture, staring out the window at the familiar houses lining the street.
Jimmy enters the code for our garage, parking his SUV in the same spot near the stairwell. The apartment block has four units and they all overlook the Pacific Ocean. Ours is located on the top level beside an entrepreneur, who divides her time between LA and Boston.
Jimmy takes my luggage upstairs, and with my feet dragging, I follow until we’re inside the living room. He places the suitcase to the floor and quietly exits the apartment, leaving me alone with Wes who’s sitting on the sofa.
This apartment used to be home only a few days ago. A place we both purchased and made ours. I remember the moment we got the keys, Wes carried me through the door and into an empty apartment. We both screamed with joy before making love on the cold tiles in the middle of the living room floor. Our bodies covered in sweat, clothes surrounding us as he cradled me in his arms while we stared at the ocean, talking for hours about our childhood.
It feels like a lifetime ago now, not the reality that’s sitting on the sofa in gray sweats with a black Nike jumper. In front of him is his cell, a bottle of rum and a pack of cigarettes. I don’t allow anyone to smoke in our apartment, and when I go to open my mouth and tell him my thoughts, the sounds of a tiny bell with soft pitter-patters distract me until George is rubbing his face against my leg.
“George!” I pick up his fat little body, cradling him in my arms. The smell of his doggy fur brings me so much joy and knowing he’s alive and well, because the housekeeper didn’t kill him from overfeeding him her exotic dishes from the Philippines.
After smothering him and kissing his little pug face, I put him down to brave the inevitable.
“You look good,” Wes comments dryly, lighting up a cigarette and blowing the smoke into the clean air.
“You look like shit.”
“Nice, Emerson.” He lays back on the sofa, his eyes dark and surrounded by deep lines. Wesley hates growing any facial hair, so his mustache and beard come as a complete surprise. It adds ten years onto his baby face. He looks like utter shit and I reap some sort of joy from that.
“I’m sorry.” Crossing my arms, I try to control the anger that’s brewed—to the point of steaming—inside. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”
“Em... please, don’t. I’m just so—”
“Let me guess? You’re sorry. You don’t know how it happened? It was a mistake and you’ll never do it again?” I finish, placing the words in his mouth.
The room falls silent, the only sounds are the sea crashing against the shore outside. Even George has left the room preparing for the shitstorm ahead.
Wes moves his body and sits on the edge of the sofa. His fingers tapping against his knee rapidly with nervous energy bouncing off him. He’s probably high, and that thought alone angers me even more.
“Are you high now?” I yell, the sound of my voice echoing through the room.
“No.”
My eyes move away, desperate to erase the image before me. This isn’t him. This isn’t the guy I fell in love with. And to make matters worse, I d
on’t know how we got here. What’s troubling him so much he ended up taking this road? Why was sniffing that deadly shit even a thought?
“I can’t even look at you.”
The built-up emotions hit me like a wrecking ball. Hard, fast, and knocking the wind out of my stomach making it difficult to breathe. The lack of remorse, the pathetic apology, the disregard for my feelings.
All of it has come to this moment.
The moment I need to tell him what I want.
“I want you to leave,” I tell him in a stern voice, sucking in my breath to control the bile lingering around my throat.
Instantly, his expression changes—eyes full with his cheeks flushed, shading the pale white he reflected only moments ago.
“Emerson, please, don’t. I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’ll make it better. Please! We can move past this. Just give it time. I promise you, I will make it up to you.” He doesn’t move from the sofa, no attempt to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Not that it will help. Stroke my ego, perhaps. But I’m beyond the need for ego-stroking.
I shake my head with a sardonic laugh. “If it was me being fucked by two guys, would you like me to make it up to you?” The minute I say the words, the pang of guilt stabs me as I so easily forget about what happened with Logan.
But this isn’t the moment to think about it.
Logan and I made a pact—keep it a secret.
It wasn’t a big deal. We had some drinks and were frustrated with Ash.
And what Wesley’s done is far worse.
Yet, even as my mind tries to rationalize, the guilt lingers and allows me long enough to hear Wesley out.
“I know I screwed up. Things were just, too... you know... safe between us.”
“Safe? Wesley, I can’t even think right now. Do you know what I was more concerned about?” I pause for effect and then continue, “George… and what would happen to him rather than to us? Maybe that’s saying a lot about our relationship.” I storm past him with my suitcase in hand, straight to our bedroom. Shutting the door behind me, I lean back and close my eyes trying to calm my racing heart. George’s yelp startles me, and with my eyes wide open, I scan the room to see him sprawled across the shaggy white rug that sits near the window. My body falls to the ground, limp and weak with the stream of tears staining my tired face. George senses something’s wrong, stretching his stubby legs, he walks across to me where he lays his head on my knee.
“Tell me I’m doing the right thing,” I whisper into George’s face, holding him close and seeking the comfort of his warm body. “Tell me that somewhere out there, someone better is waiting for me.”
George closes his eyes, resting peacefully as my cell vibrates in my bag. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand then reach over to grab it, welcoming the distraction.
Logan: I sold your weed and bought those expensive soccer boots you said looked like they belonged to a drag queen. Better I look like a drag queen than you stunt your growth.
I smile through my tears, placing my cell down and laying on the floor with George cuddled into my side. Logan has this way of making me laugh, although at times, I’m more annoyed than humored.
But for today, it’s exactly what I need. That one text is enough to ease my troubles.
Within minutes, I fall asleep to the sound of George’s grumbling snore.
***
“This is not how we expected to start the third season.”
Jeffrey Marsh is the executive president of the network. A short, balding man, with a ruthless attitude and known as a shark in the industry. Surrounding him is his team who are all nervous and writing down notes as he speaks.
I sit beside Nina and across the table from Wesley. We’ve spent the last hour hearing Jeffrey crucify Wesley for his actions. You could feel sorry for the guy—if you weren’t his fiancée who’s been screwed over.
“I don’t know what the fuck you were thinking, Rich? Do you know how damaging this is for the network? Drugs... really?” Jeffrey continues to pace the boardroom, up and down, repeating the same things over and over again.
I hate this.
No couple should have to sit in a boardroom and have their relationship dissected by money-hungry executives. Another reminder of why I want out.
“It’s not going to work with Wes and me. We’re not together anymore. I think it’s best if I leave the show,” I raise my voice, making myself heard and my demands perfectly clear.
Jeffrey sits in his chair, swinging back and forth while staring at the door. He finally speaks, filling the silence. “I understand your predicament, Emerson. But we’re only a few shows into filming the third season. We’re rating number one in our timeslot. The fans are obsessed with watching the both of you as a couple. Even if I said it’s okay to leave, it’s not just the network that suffers. It’s all our sponsorships. They’ll withdraw and it will affect the future of the show.” He swivels his chair to face me. “Everyone who works on the show’s future may be in jeopardy. Do you really want to be responsible for that?” He poses the question so lightly like he’s asking me if I wanted fries with that.
Nina looks just as confused, after promising me it wouldn’t be a huge issue given the circumstances.
Across the table, Wes stares at me. I swear he’s smirking, but he’s quick to change his expression when I make eye contact with him. I want to grab the glass of water in front of me and throw it in his face. This is all his fault.
“What are you trying to say?” I ask, heated.
“You’re contractually obliged to film for another two seasons. Remember? You signed the contract last year while negotiating more money per episode.” Jeffrey slides the contract toward me. “So, to answer your question… you’re going to film, and you’re going to stay with Wesley for at least this season. Now, toward the end of the season, I’m happy to show the cracks in the relationship. It will make for a good cliff-hanger for season four.”
“You’re joking, right?” I laugh nervously while looking around the room, but I’m met with blank faces. Blank because no one’s standing up for what I want.
“I’m not joking, Chase. In fact, read your terms and conditions.”
I don’t listen to Jeffrey, begging Wes with my eyes to say something. He doesn’t seem to follow, gazing at me oddly while remaining silent.
“Okay, I think we’re done here.” Jeffrey leaves the room followed by his shark posse.
Nina’s quick to open her mouth the moment the three of us are remaining. “Emerson. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s not your fault,” I respond, still in shock. “I guess I should go home.” So, I mumble goodbye and ignore the rest of the staff as I exit the room and wait for the elevator. Wes follows quickly and enters the lift with only the two of us occupying it. I watch the numbers count down, keeping silent until the doors open into the lobby. Walking outside, swarms of paparazzi are on standby. Suddenly, warmth graces my hand. I look down and see Wes’ fingers intertwined with mine.
“What are you doing?”
“What I’ve been asked to do. Make everything look normal. You’re still my fiancée as far as the network is concerned,” he responds eagerly, holding tight and pulling me along. “C’mon, let’s go home.”
“Wesley. Stop!” I pull my hand away, the both of us standing in the middle of the lobby. His body is stiff, his jaw tight and eyes impatiently waiting for me to talk.
As I’m about to tell him, no, the automatic doors open and the noise of the paparazzi, together with the non-stop flashing halts my original plan. They’re watching, taking photos of this moment.
This is precisely what I want to avoid—looking like a fool to the world.
I stare at them one more time, then to Wes. His crooked smile soon follows, taking a step forward, wrapping his arm around my waist. With the bright lights hurting my eyes like they have always done, Wes leans in and plants a kiss on the side of my neck. “You’re still my fiancée, whether
you like it or not.” The change of tone, grit in his voice, leaves me feeling unsettled.
I tried my best to walk away but was told I have no choice.
I’m forced to live with a man I no longer respect.
A man who’s broken me.
A man who’s made it his mission to make me as miserable as possible.
And the icing on the fucked-up cake? The whole world will be watching him do just that.
Chapter Eight
“It’s the little things that make you happy.
Sometimes those little things can turn
into something greater.”
~ Emerson Chase
Several weeks have passed since that meeting.
A day that cemented the truth in my mind—my life does not belong to me.
I had no option but to keep myself busy—photoshoots, interviews, and drinking whenever we were out at social gatherings.
Twitter’s buzzing with some story calling me an alcoholic train wreck. It happens to be a coincidence that every photograph snapped of me is with a glass of wine in hand.
After that story broke loose, I made a mental note to stay clear of drinking in public. The network executives don’t want my squeaky-clean image to be destroyed and ruin the show.
Yet, Wes could fuck two hookers. Go figure.
There’s one thing I’ve made perfectly clear to Wesley—we are over.
The betrayal doesn’t erase because we’ve been told to continue the show. When the cameras are on, we act as if nothing’s happened, but as soon as they leave he sleeps in the spare room and he knows not to come anywhere near me.
I have to give it to him, he’s tried his best to apologize through romantic dinners and roses being delivered. I’m just not interested. At least, in my eyes, the love has diminished to the point that I don’t see any kind of future with him.