by Kat T. Masen
But not this time.
I walked.
She is in New York, and I’m here, holed up in a penthouse suite in Vegas surrounded by lines of coke though my appetite is non-existent.
Farrah is riding my tail, texting me nonstop with empty threats. I need to cut this bitch loose once and for all. Her name, and mine, in the same tabloid isn’t what I need Milana to stew over. She already questions me, though not forcefully, and I say the bare minimum. Farrah doesn’t deserve an explanation, her train-wreck of a life says it all.
I sit here on this fancy king-size bed, scrolling through my phone. Image after image of Milana, shots she doesn’t know I took. My favorite ones are of her sleeping, sprawled naked across my bed. This woman is so deliciously beautiful that it fucking hurts.
My grip tightens on the bedspread, the temptation all around me. Gerry—head of penthouse suites—hooked the room up with my usual stash and some girls on tap if I want. I don’t care for it, any of it.
I crave the taste of her skin on my tongue.
Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it makes the heart craft its own tragedy. My sickening desperation in the pits of my loneliness has me calling her nonstop. Each unanswered call only feeds my insecurities.
Does she not understand how my mind works?
Does she know that avoiding me will only hurt herself?
I envy those around me, the ones who found their happiness within themselves. They don’t need anyone to survive, nor bring them happiness. My switch is jammed on self-destruct, and nothing can change that. There is a certain satisfaction in bitterness, but this time, I’m left unsatisfied.
It’s because my heart is beating erratically, pumped full of adrenaline every time I picture her face and imagine myself inside her. I once felt something similar with Em, but not like this. Not to the extent that I struggle to breathe and everything hurts like fucking hell.
I clutch my chest in a state of panic when my cell rings, blasting its annoying sound all over the large room.
Farrah.
“What do you want?” I grit impatiently.
“Always the nicest of greetings, Wesley. So, when are you coming to visit your son?” She laughs, and I know that laugh. She’s high on coke. Fucking whore doesn’t know how to control herself.
“Quit the fucking daddy talk. Seriously, what the fuck do you want?”
“So, tell me about this girlfriend of yours? Aside from the fact that she’s a nobody and from Alaska. C’mon, Wesley, Alaska? What are you doing? You can do better than that.”
I clench my jaw, the stubble sharp and wildly grown. She’s gotten to me in the worse possible way—talking smack about the woman I love.
“Leave her alone. What I do is my business.”
“Sweetie…” she sings, annoyingly, “… you should know that I like to make other people’s business my business. I will say her brother is a dud in the bedroom.”
“You fucked Flynn?”
“I didn’t fuck him. Please, give me some credit. I gave him what he wanted… he’s cute but argh… I would have preferred you.”
I’m void of any emotion toward Farrah. She plays the game and never by the rules.
“We’re so done, Farrah. Leave Milana alone, leave Flynn alone, and go back to Marsh. Shouldn’t you be riding his alimony train by now?”
“Don’t worry, I have Marsh covered. You, on the other hand, how can I get you in my bed again? We had some great times, you can’t deny that.”
The thought alone disgusts me. Farrah is that disease you just can’t get rid of no matter how hard you try, a parasite that crawls under your skin.
“Nothing you say or do will get me anywhere near you,” I state, adamantly.
“Not even when I tell you I have an email ready to go to Entertainment News with pictures of you and Milana? There’s a nice one of her leaving your place wearing your shirt. The media will love this story. Can you imagine Emerson’s reaction? Her assistant banging her ex-fiancé. Where’s the trust?” She laughs again, the edge of insanity in her tone.
“Why would you do that? Honestly, you’ve got no gain.”
“Why? Because it would hurt everyone you love, then they will leave you, and you will have no choice but to crawl back to me because I’m all you’ll have.”
“You’re fucked. I don’t care what you do, Milana won’t care. As for Em, she’ll get over it. We’re tighter than you think.” I grin, remembering how to get to Farrah and expose her insecurity. “I know how much you hate that. Gorgeous Emerson with her perfect life, natural body, husband you can’t seem to get your hands on, and wait… everybody wants Emerson. Didn’t she just get the cover of Vogue? It’s like she has the whole package… and once upon a time, I loved her. Not you… but her.”
The pleasure of hurting Farrah is far too much fun. I lick my lips, listening to her heavy breathing that follows with an hysteric scream and a glass smashing against the wall.
“Are you done?” she cries dramatically.
“Why yes, sweetheart.”
“Goodbye Wesley. Oops… click.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Milana
“What would you say is your greatest fear?”
Emerson is sitting with her legs crossed in front of Entertainment News’ ruthless reporter, Kitty Seinfeld.
“I find that my answer continues to change as I grow older. What I once feared, I no longer do. I guess it would be having my daughter learn some lessons the hard way as I did.”
Kitty is quick to fire off another question. “What if your daughter chooses your same path? If we’re being candid here, you’ve made some questionable choices in your personal life, and it has attracted drama.”
Kitty is a machine—a machine of drama. She’s a typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful woman with a face that screams cheerleader back in high school. I often think that women or girls like this had it easy. Never having to defend their ethnicity or explain why they don’t look white, nor look full Asian. Fits into a size two and hasn’t dealt with trying to find a foundation that matches your skin tone because your skin is this weird, pale-looking color that’s not considered ‘normal.’
Breathe. Nonsense rambling isn’t helping calm your agitated mood.
Truth. I don’t like the way she drags Wesley’s name through the mud. Though he probably deserves it.
She isn’t the only interviewer who asks about him. Frankly, I’m sick of it. No matter where we go, people are desperate to know about him. How he’s doing, if Emerson and Wesley still remain friends, who he is dating. It surprises me how little they focus on Logan given he’s her partner, not Wesley.
The interview carries on for another thirty minutes. Question after question, and despite Kitty’s forwardness, Emerson is a pro. Emerson dominates the room, and it’s clear that it puts Kitty in a foul mood. By the end, her questions are just stupid.
“Thank you.” Kitty extends her hand to Emerson, a fake smile in tow. It’s brief, and the moment she pulls away, she shouts for her assistant and demands that she get out of this rat hole.
I purposely make it my mission to block the exit to say a few words. “You know, Kitty, it sounds like you have an obsession with Wesley.”
Kitty lifts her head with a confused expression, quickly belting out a laugh shortly after. “Me? An obsession with Wesley Rich? Oh honey, been there, slept with that.”
My fists clench unexpectedly inside the pockets of my pants. With difficulty, I keep my eyes still, refusing to give away the jealousy that makes my blood boil especially since the image of Wesley fucking this woman is all I can think about now.
“Classy,” I respond. “I better not keep you waiting. I’m sure your vagina is looking for its next victim.”
“Excuse me?” Kitty folds her arms in disdain the same time her assistant yells that the driver is parked out front.
I lift my head and walk away. When I hear her heels click away from the room, I’m quick to yell,
“I hope you get crabs.”
Those who heard me, turn around in bewilderment. Not wanting to draw any more attention and make a further spectacle of myself, I focus on doing what I’m paid to do—assist.
Georgia, Emerson’s makeup artist, touches her up with some foundation before her next interview.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, rather quickly.
“I’m fine, Milana. Go get yourself a coffee. You look beat, and that crab comment…” she giggles lightly, “… gold.”
“I’m sorry, she just… irks me.”
“It’s fine. But you really need to let these things go. I’m used to it, and the questions they throw at me… same, same.”
I smile weakly and make my way to the small kitchen adjacent to the room. I’m utterly exhausted. Time zones are a bitch. Coffee has never smelled so good percolating. I pour myself a cup, bringing it to my lips to inhale the heavenly aroma.
My emotions are running high. I read, once, that sleep deprivation is the number one reason why people are emotional messes. That outburst toward Kitty is driven by my lack of control over Wesley’s and my relationship. I know he has baggage as do we all, I just don’t expect the baggage to be following me around wherever I go—a broken record of how the bad boy is a destructive bed hopper.
I wish I was like Emerson—confident and in control of her life. The question that Emerson was just asked replays in my head.
What is your greatest fear?
Emerson had answered that question so easily. Comfortable in telling the world exactly what she feared. I could barely admit the truth to myself. My greatest fear involves Mama, and every time I think about it for a split second, that sick feeling crawls into my stomach and forces me to heave from panic. And running a very close second is Wesley’s need to forward our relationship.
He’s the bad boy, the one who’s not supposed to get attached or even think about the future. It’s not like I don’t want to move forward, but many times in the past week, he threw in quips about marriage and babies. A joke in his eyes, yet nevertheless it makes me extremely uncomfortable given that we have technically been together for weeks. We haven’t even hit that one-month anniversary.
Things between us are moving too fast, and I have no idea how to slow it down.
We left on unusual terms. After the night I stayed at his place and witnessed what I believe to be an exchange of narcotics, I put distance between us as much as I can allow. I came up with many excuses, like Emerson needs me to work on some projects, I have my period, and trivial things like I’m going shopping for New York. Anything to create some space between us and gain some perspective.
At first, he was unforgiving. Fought with me and demanded I drop everything for him. By day two, he was more understanding, though he did come to visit, and while Flynn stepped out with some friends, he fucked me three times and left for the night.
It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, feeling the need for space, but when he touches me, I don’t want him ever to stop. The confusion is overwhelming. I feel used and cheap after he leaves but appreciative at the same time because I simply want to be alone.
He left for Vegas the next day for some business he needed to take care of and told me he’d see me when I came back from NYC.
I didn’t ask another detail.
About the impromptu ‘business’ or if he had a drug problem.
I don’t know how to help him.
The truth is, Wesley frightens me. There is always something about him, this aura of untamed madness that sums up the world he lives in. I get it, I really do. He had a not-so-perfect childhood and a mother who puts her many husbands before her son.
But the drugs are unknown territory for me. I was raised to turn a blind eye to drugs, and Mama instilled in me after my one-time usage of pot, how damaging it could be to my body. I listened, I allowed the fear to be instilled in me, and now, I’m living it.
I’m partly grateful that it has been nonstop chaos from the second we landed. New York City is one of those places that you either dreamed about visiting for your entire life or a place you avoid for fear of crowds and dirty streets. It’s like nothing I expected. Compared to back home, it’s loud, overpopulated, and noisy with cabs honking their horns for no apparent reason, driving like maniacs, and almost crashing a dozen times.
I don’t care for that unorganized nonsense. What I love is the culture. The beautiful buildings with so much history behind them. The art galleries that people say is a must-do if visiting the city. Granted, we have been here for only two days, and most of it has been spent indoors, though if I were to get a spare moment, I’m hoping for the chance to explore.
The caffeine begins its journey into the depth of my brain and gives me a much-needed boost of energy. With two more interviews scheduled for the day, we dart between locations and battle the nasty storm that buckets outside, out of nowhere.
My cell is pinging repeatedly, notifications of weather warnings and emails from Charlie. Nothing from Wesley.
It’s odd behavior coming from him. I sent him a simple text yesterday when we landed telling him we were here, and explained that the day would be chaotic so I probably wouldn’t get a chance to chat much.
He simply responded with a ‘K.’
Infuriating, but what do I expect? I want space, and space is what I’m getting.
And how wrong am I to assume.
After Emerson’s final interview, she makes her way back to the hotel, and I decide to explore. With some free time, I head out to the Guggenheim Museum. I absolutely love it, immersing myself in art. I didn’t expect to find art so entertaining, fulfilling, while smiling to myself as I walk around for hours.
Losing track of time, I pull out my cell to call Mama as soon as I exit the building.
Eight missed calls.
Three text messages.
All from Bad Boy Rich.
Wesley: Why do you keep doing this?
Wesley: Milana, please answer your phone.
Wesley: Do you want me to call Em and tell her to put you on the phone?
I don’t appreciate the threat and know he’s capable of doing exactly that. I dread this conversation but know I have to ease his worried mind.
“You’re alive.” I can hear the drag in his voice, the sound of a puff echoes through the receiver.
“I told you I would be busy. This is my work. You can’t expect me to drop everything for you.”
“Funny you should use the term work. Is that what you’re doing now?”
“I went to a museum.”
“Interesting. I thought you have no time to chat since work is so busy.” His maddening laughter annoys me deeper than I care to admit. “Common decency… heard of it?”
The heat in my cheeks begins to rise, the air around me stifling hot as anger consumes me. “I could say the same for you,” I grit, feeling suffocated by this conversation. “I told you I needed space, and you refuse to give it to me. Let me process the fact that I saw you doing some drug deal outside your place in the middle of the night.”
Silence falls on his end.
“Exactly, I didn’t think you would have a response to that.” I shake my head, disappointed in him. “I have to go.” I’m about to hang up since he chooses to keep quiet, and just before I do, he calls my name one more time before admitting he is using right now.
Standing, alone on this busy street in New York, I just want to break down. My short-lived happiness of visiting the museum and wanting to share it with Mama is once again overshadowed by Wesley.
“I don’t know what to say. Or how to feel. Look…” I switch my tone to more sympathetic, “… I’m here until tomorrow afternoon then off to Vancouver. I need to clear my head, I think this will be good for us.”
“If you say so.”
“I believe so. Bye, Wesley.”
I wait for him to say goodbye, but it doesn’t happen, forcing me to end the call.
With a heavy heart, I battle the fierce
wind that makes it difficult to walk, and hail a cab back to the hotel where Emerson and I are sharing the penthouse suite.
Back at the suite, I find Emerson laying on the sofa FaceTiming with Logan. She ends the call with her ‘I love you’ and turns to face me.
“You okay? You’ve been quiet today,” she says, stabbing her fork into a salad bowl she’s balancing on her lap.
“Full schedule and just the time zone.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, how’s Liam?”
“We broke up,” I admit, quick to add a smile and derail the topic. “You looked so natural today with that mommy-blogger group this morning.”
“I’m passionate about being a mommy.” She beams, showing me some photos of Lola that Logan sent her. “It’s hard being away. Really hard. I never expected to form such an attachment, you know? I always thought I’d be one of those moms who happily would hand off the baby. Now, I know why my mom cried when my brother and I left home.”
I understand, partially. Being away from your mother is tough. Though, Emerson’s maternal instincts are something I just don’t have. Motherhood, babies, a woman’s yearn to procreate, it isn’t for me.
Liam tried to convince me, but it only ended up in us arguing. Even Phoebe would try to persuade me by showing me hot men carrying babies. I protected myself when I had sex, I even researched tying my tubes. It isn’t a phase, and unlike other women, I welcome my periods each month.
I am not lying when I tell Wesley I’m getting them. I can easily skip the white pills and avoid them but don’t want to risk anything. My cramps are a dead giveaway that it’s on it way in the next two days and totally explains my mood.
“What do you say to you and me going out tonight? Have some fun, just us girls?”
“Sounds great.” I grin, happily. “In fact, I would love to. I think that’s just what I need… a girls’ night out.”
***
Aurora has rescued me from an almost fashion disaster. I didn’t expect to go out to some fancy club, bringing mainly work attire and a pair of jeans in case. It’s late, and after today’s dramas, I could have easily gone to bed and called it a night almost regretting my earlier enthusiasm.