by Kat T. Masen
“You look confused.” He belts out a laugh. “C’mon, you’re her assistant. You don’t need to pretend you don’t know.”
I raise my hands in defeat. “I’m confused because I have no clue. I don’t really watch television or keep up with this stuff. I had no clue who Emerson was or you. I’m sorry. Life back home is different.”
“Really? But you must have Googled her and all this shit would have come up?”
My head swings left to right. “Nope. I prefer not to let that get in the way of our working relationship. I’m here to help her. I don’t need her life story to do that.”
“I like you. Every assistant she’s employed has had an ulterior motive. You’re different.”
“I hear that a lot.” I sigh, still unsure whether ‘different’ is a good thing.
“It’s not a bad thing. Look, you’re young. Just keep your head strong. You seem to come from a stable family background, so don’t let people out here sway you into a different lifestyle. Emmy changed when she moved out here. She became one of them, but things changed one day. The moment she withdrew herself from that life.”
“I’m assuming you mean the reality show?”
“So, you do know.”
“Only that much. Not the details of it,” I tell him.
Logan places his cell down, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his temple. This topic appears to be a sore point. His body language immediately shifts, on guard and strained with anger.
“Wesley needs to not to be around her.”
That name. Anytime it comes up, it’s bad news. But here is my chance. Without typing his name in a search engine, I will get the truth about Wesley.
“It’s none of my business, so please, tell me to butt out. I understand why Emerson is attached to the business, but why on earth would she choose a business partner like Wesley?”
There’s an unopened bottle of water in the middle of the table. He grabs it with force, screwing the cap off and drinking the water, stopping mid-way.
“Wesley’s her ex-fiancé. He’s being a dickhead and holding on just to stay close to her. That’s why I need you to keep an eye on him. I mean, you have to deal with him now. That’s what I told Emmy.”
The other day both of us were supposed to meet with him. I didn’t know whether he knew that she was meant to be there. The last thing I want to do is cause an argument between them, so I keep that information to myself.
Then, the penny drops loud and clear. Did he say ex-fiancé?
Emerson steps outside, singing Baa Baa Black Sheep to baby Lola. She hands her over to Logan, and he throws her into the air, laughing at her small giggles.
I’m confused, dazed, and the vibration of my cell doesn’t register until moments later.
Wesley: I need to see you.
“Milana? Milana, are you okay?” Emerson leans in, breaking my trance.
“Boyfriend,” Logan mutters.
“Oh, right. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
“It’s complicated,” Logan fills her in.
Emerson crosses her arms in a huff. “Logan, can you let her answer? Maybe you need to leave. Girl talk.”
He mumbles something beneath his breath while standing up and cradling the baby in his hands. There’s a patch of grass near the patio with a small swing set. Moments later, Lola is giggling in the baby swing as he pushes her gently.
“Okay, that man can be a painful ass sometimes. I’m sorry about him. You look upset?”
“No, I’m fine,” I reassure her, not wanting this to get in the way of work. “How about we finish reading over the contracts? I’d like to head home soon and work on your itinerary for your trip to Phoenix.”
She rolls her eyes, sweeping her hair into her hands and tying it up into a messy side bun. Emerson is very laid back. Nothing like the Hollywood Divas who seem to be around every corner. It’s why Logan’s comment surprises me, and then, my thoughts lead back to Wesley.
I read the text again quickly. He needs to see me, but why? A man sends you a text like this, and there’s usually a sexual connection of some sort. Wesley’s actions make it clear he isn’t interested in sex with me.
And I’m not interested in sex with him. My internal voices scream at this thought.
Sex with Wesley shouldn’t even be a topic worth thinking about. Just because he’s hot in that bad-boy type of way and does those things with his eyes means nothing. Nothing.
Wesley: Milana, answer me, please.
Emerson is listing items she needs me to find before her trip. I jot them down quickly, ignoring his persistent texts until my cell beeps again, and the temptation is too great that my eyes glance sideways and see his words sit on the screen.
Wesley: I’ll be at your place at eight on the dot.
My eyes widen in panic, he can’t just come to my house. How does he even know where I live? This is textbook stalker behavior. Phoebe warned me about this during one of her many lectures before I left and—I had been through this before. The memories—though distant—come flooding back in a whirl of emotions.
Me: You’ll do no such thing! What do you possibly need that is so urgent?
Fifteen minutes pass with no response. I suspect that my forwardness shut him up for good. I place this nonsense aside and finish working on some things with Emerson. As the afternoon creeps in, I say goodbye to Emerson and Logan, hoping for a smooth ride home.
It’s warm again this afternoon, my skin getting used to the California sun. Inside the car, I blast the air conditioner and crank some radio station playing a ‘90s remix. My wish for a smooth ride home vanishes as soon as I hit the 405. It’s standstill traffic, a sea of red lights, and the is sun glaring in my direction. It takes me another hour to get home, which should have been a twenty-minute drive. By the time I arrive at my apartment, I manage to crash on my bed with exhaustion.
I wake up with the sun setting and the sounds to some ghetto beat out on the street. Rubbing my eyes and propping myself up against my headboard, I fumble for my cell beside me to see the time.
Seven forty-five.
And a text from Wesley.
Wesley: You.
My skin begins to swelter in the confinement of my room. I rip my shirt off, taking deep breaths to ease this feeling of I don’t know what. Nerves and fluttering? Like something is loose in my stomach and running wild.
The tips of my fingers type on their own accord, communicating what my mind thinks, but my body argues. But halfway through my text, he sends another text.
Wesley: Fifteen minutes.
I give up texting, rush to the bathroom and turn the shower on cold to cool my body. My hair is tied into a bun to avoid the soak, and moments later, I’m dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and emerald green blouse. I take my hair out, brushing it and letting it sit against my back. It’s grown so much, now reaching the small of my back. I’ve always worn it long, a habit I guess from when I was a kid.
Flynn has left a note on the coffee table informing me he has another gig tonight. I quickly grab my purse and head outside, deadlocking the door before running downstairs and almost tripping on Joe from apartment one who’s passed out with a bottle of bourbon.
A loud roar rips through the street, catching the attention of my neighbors. People stare, some with curiosity and some with fear. The orange and black motorbike is pulled up at the curb with Wesley sitting on it. He puts his foot on the gas, revving his exhaust, causing more attention.
I don’t do bikes. Correction, I doubled on a scooter once in college and never again. This is a death trap on wheels.
What if I fall off?
What if he falls off, and I go with him?
“I can’t get on that.” I shake my head in panic. “I could die. I don’t want to die.”
He doesn’t say a word, handing me a helmet.
I stand still, frozen almost. He pulls off his helmet, his hair a wild mess but looking so sexy that my insides do that fluttering backflip a
gain. Calm down, it’s all a ploy to get me on the bike. I’m not sure why I take the helmet from him, staring at it with fear. The warmth of his finger graces my cheek, tracing it down until he cups my chin and raises my eyes to meet his.
The weight of his stare is deep, drawing me in with its dangerous intentions. “Don’t you think it’s time to start living?”
“I’m living,” I whisper at his touch.
His hand guides my chin closer to his, creating this small gap between us. It’s so small that his breath reaches my lips, and nothing makes sense. I have no thought process, I have no words. He’s doing something to me that I can’t explain, breaking my walls down into a crumbling mess.
His lips graze across my mouth, sensually and with a slow burn. My eyes close on cue, allowing myself to feel this sensation of lust.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
I react timidly. “I’m scared.”
His forehead presses against mine, his words are strained. “I won’t hurt you.”
I pull my body away from his, distancing this closeness and placing my helmet on. He can hurt me. Yet, I get on his bike, wrapping my arms around his body which comforts me instantly. He jumps on the gas, rubbing his hand on my thigh, warning me to hold on.
I do exactly that, awaiting this adventure with Wesley Rich.
Chapter Ten
The tires brake hard against the gravel, causing a whirl of dust to float in the air around us. My hands are shaking uncontrollably, making it difficult to peel them off his chest and the leather jacket he wears.
My foot touches the ground giving me the confidence I need to get off the bike, take this stupid helmet off, and shove it into his body.
“Hey,” he yells, off guard. “What the hell was that for?”
“You’re a jerk!” I huff, angered by his reckless driving and not paying attention to the way I dug my hands into his chest in fear.
“Milana, calm down.” He rolls his eyes with annoyance. “You’re alive. See, you just need to live a little.”
“Living a little is eating a whole cake by yourself or jumping in the ocean naked,” I respond hastily, still shaking, “Not driving like a maniac almost killing me.”
He grabs the helmet from me, hooking it on the handlebar. “You want to jump in the ocean naked? I’m all for doing that next. Malibu is only a few miles from here.”
“What?” I shake my head, confused by his suggestion. “No, it’s just rambling. I don’t want to actually do that…” I trail off, distracted by my surroundings. It’s incredibly dark, the moon hiding behind a scattered cloud. I scan the area in front of me that appears to be a large park of some sort. It’s only when I focus on the lawn that I notice the tombstones. We’re at a cemetery.
“What are we doing here?” My hand latches to his arm, my body closing in on his to shield myself from the terrifying thought of where we are standing.
“Do you trust me?”
“Are you going to kill me and bury my body in the middle of the night?”
Even in the dark, I see a smile grace his handsome face. He drops his hand, intertwining his fingers in mine. He pulls me along the pebbled path, confident and familiar with where he’s leading us.
“Watch your step.”
The cool night air and fear of dead people surrounding me cause my skin to break out in goosebumps with my hairs standing on end. I don’t want to let on I’m shitting my pants, keeping my thoughts to myself, though my eyes tell a different story.
“See this grave here? It belongs to an actor, Jesse Lane. He was a rising star back in the sixties.”
The poor lighting makes it hard to read the tombstone’s inscription. Gone too soon. Those words stand out.
“That’s sad. I wonder how he passed?”
“He threw himself off a cliff.”
I stop breathing, resuming seconds later. “How do you know this?”
“I come here often, just to think.”
“How very Gomez Addams of you.” I attempt to lighten the moment, terrified that I have accidentally stepped on someone’s grave.
“Come.” He leads me through a pathway, down a small hill until we reach a large tombstone. It’s very run-down—almost neglected—with dead flowers wilted against the old stone.
“Adrian Lovelock. Walked into the ocean and never returned.”
My palms begin to sweat as my grip tightens. I hold my breath, almost choking on my fear. I don’t understand why he’s brought me here, and the thought of these people passing in very unfortunate circumstances terrifies me.
“Why… or how… do you know this?” I stumble on my words, my thoughts so scattered and overcome by nerves. “Wesley, please answer me.”
His posture falls, hunched and nothing like the confident asshole who picked me up at my apartment or the person in the club who asked me if I was a nun. Another side to the ever-so-mysterious Wesley Rich.
“This could be me.”
I release my hand from his, taking a step back and careful not to tread on a tombstone, folding my arms, confused.
“What do you mean ‘this could be me?’ Have you thought about throwing yourself off a cliff or walking into the ocean?” My tone, though unintentional, comes off harsh. He doesn’t answer immediately, walking us in the opposite direction, the sounds of waves crashing becoming closer.
Wesley stops at the metal railing protecting us from the steep fall off the cliff. “Yes, I have. Their lives, my life, same path.” He lowers his head, slightly turning away.
“So, change it. No one creates this path but you. You see a fork in the road, go the other way. Follow your instincts. If it doesn’t feel right, then don’t do it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Look…” I calm my voice to match his, pulling him away from the edge, “… I don’t know anything about you. Whatever it is, I’m sure you can change it.”
“I’m not a good person, Milana,” he admits, finally raising his eyes to meet mine. “I’ve done bad things. Things you wouldn’t…” he trails off, the same time an owl hoots in the background.
As long as he isn’t an ax-wielding murderer, it can’t be that bad. Nobody is perfect, including me. Perfection is so overrated.
“Wesley, stop. Please. Give yourself a break from your inner demons. You have so much ahead of you. We all make mistakes. It’s how we redeem ourselves that matters.”
Truth is, I know nothing about him. I’m not even in a position to say ‘you’re only thirty, everyone knows that life begins at thirty-five.’ Wesley rubs his face with the palm of his hands, shifting seconds later to run his fingers through his hair with obvious frustration.
“I can’t stay away from you.”
His words are like fireworks, beautiful yet frightening and loud at the same time.
“But you don’t know me. What is it I’m doing that makes you feel that way?”
“Nothing. You don’t ask me much, you don’t follow me, you don’t hang onto my every word and beg for me to take you to my bedroom and fuck you in every which way because I’m Wesley Rich.”
I cling to every word he says, startled by the way it makes me feel. The way he makes me feel. I’m not surprised that girls throw themselves at him, but that isn’t me. I’m not into that whole lust for a movie star. The men I lust for do something that sets off a trigger warning inside my usually quiet mind.
And Wesley is doing both.
“See, you just don’t say anything. If I asked any other girl to come back with me to the bedroom, she’d be naked in two seconds.” He kicks a rock in front of him, the both of us watching it disappear into the night.
I keep my arms folded, shielding my chest from the cool air. “But what gain will I have following their actions?”
“Ouch.” He smirks, stabbing his heart in jest.
It takes a moment for my words to click, and quick to correct myself, I add, “I don’t mean it like that… it’s just… argh…”
“You’re ra
mbling. It’s cute,” he whispers.
“Cute is something you say to someone at a theme park, not a cemetery. This place is creeping me out. I’ll say that.”
He takes my hand and motions for me to follow him. We pass the numerous headstones and the large crematorium on the left. I’m practically on top of him, drowning in fear until we pass the iron gates and end where we left the bike.
I reach for the helmet, holding it in my hand. “What I said earlier… it didn’t mean you wouldn’t be good sexually. I just… okay, I didn’t mean that, but I don’t know how to explain it.”
With a grin smothering his face, he leans in and kisses my forehead. His lips linger for a moment, the warmth easing my heightened nerves. Phoebe once told me a kiss on the forehead was the kiss of death. I still don’t know how she hasn’t fallen over more.
“Relax, I know what you mean. Now let’s grab something to eat. I wanna take you somewhere.”
“The last time you said that you took me to a cemetery. Look, shouldn’t we talk more? I can listen if you need that.”
“This place is much more fun.” He smiles, ignoring my plea to help him.
He drives us in the opposite direction to a less busy part of town. When he parks the bike in the parking lot, I pull off my helmet and fix my hair, trying to untangle the knots that have formed from the wind. I give up, realizing it’s a lost cause. Long hair and wind do not mix.
The place we stop at is a 1960s-style restaurant called Peggy’s. The neon lights along the roof-line cover the parking lot like in classic movies. Coming out of the front of the establishment is half a Cadillac—red with white stripes and wheels.
I stare in awe, impressed with how authentic the place looks. “This is pretty cool.”
“Yeah, been coming here for years. Peggy cooks a mean burger combo.”
“You mean there’s an actual Peggy?”
He laughs. “Yes, let’s go meet her.”