by Kat T. Masen
As he begins to walk away toward his car, I shout anxiously, “You can’t leave her with me!”
Flynn stops in his tracks, turning around to face me. “She’s your daughter, Wesley, not mine. There’s no greater love than that from your own father, trust me, I know. So, if you want to do something right for once, take her, now, when she needs you the most.”
He turns back, only for me to yell at him one more time. “Wait, what’s her name?”
Without turning around, he stops, posture slumped, and his head falling forward. “Katerina. She’s named after our mom.” 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 will be the first step. I grab the carrier and the bag beside her, a balancing act which has me almost dropping the carrier. Placing the carrier on the lounge, I sit beside it and gaze at her face.
I have no connection to this kid. I thought that when you have babies, you supposedly look at them and became overwhelmed with this love that’s impossible to explain.
My anger toward Milana overshadows this moment.
How the hell did she keep this from me?
We were careful, used protection most of the time. I recall her telling me, ‘She takes the pill religiously,’ and she ‘Has no interest in starting a family,’ Odd, yet I respected that decision at the time. I only brought it up occasionally because I thought that’s what all women wanted to hear, and keep her, I had to sacrifice a little, or a lot.
But this, this is fucking unbelievable.
And how could she abandon our kid?
What type of monster has she become?
“Baby, where are you?” Felicity calls out, stumbling on the bottom step of the staircase and lunging forward to the floor. 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 need 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 need. A snippet of my life—what it has become and who I have become. The more she breathes in my space, the more I’m revolted by the person I’ve allowed myself to be.
This is exactly what Milana envisioned.
Why would she want me? A man who depended on pills, drugs, and anything that will erase the fucked-up life I built for myself.
I don’t know what comes over me, this protective beast who wants 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 to the baby. She stirs, again, no doubt from our raised voices. I don’t have the nerve to remove her from the carrier but know I will 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 behind her.
Then, the panic sets in.
I’m alone with a baby who needs attention. As if she can 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?
Is 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 have 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 don’t know how to bring her close to me without moving one hand.
What if I fucking drop 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 can tell she rushed over here, her hair’s barely brushed, tied up and out of her face. She’s wearing baggy sweats, almost too baggy that I suspect they don’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’s unlike her to have zero contact. One minute she’s sending me emails telling me how much fun she’s having in Sweden, but her internet access was limited to communal computers or something, and the last I heard, she got this nasty virus on the plane ride home. I lost track of time with the filming of ours, Logan’s and my show, plus the launch for my homewares range.” Em’s face is riddled with confusion. “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 has no features to indicate she’s mine. There’s 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 the sheets off my bed and grabbing the small plastic baggie that sits 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 who just can’t get his shit together and loses everyone he loves.
I need help.
&
nbsp; I know this much.
“Stay, please,” I beg, desperately. “Just show me what I need to do with her.”
Em 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, makes me think about us. What we once had, what we could have been.
And although the thought brings me happiness, it doesn’t erase what my heart completely craves.
I simply need to find Milana.
“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 cares enough to help me during my lowest time. And hopefully, care enough to help me find the woman I love.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Flynn never returned liked he promised.
Time’s lost on me. Minutes dragging on while I sit here in my own personal hell.
My thoughts become 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 have 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 results in puke all over my shirt.
I stink and am utterly exhausted. I haven’t had a single bite to eat. Each time I leave the room, it’s almost like she senses it, crying loudly until I cradle and rock her back to sleep. I manage to down several bottles of water, dehydrated and barely managing to stay still. The surge of adrenaline followed by withdrawals makes 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 toward him. “I need to find her.”
“Wes, I seriously don’t know. In the letter, she 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 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 is one thing that should have been clear as day, it’s Milana’s love for her mother. Something I can’t grasp.
Family. What the fuck is that again?
But then again, I know 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 makes no sense. Babies bring 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 is inheriting Mom’s disease. If she doesn’t procreate, no one will suffer. So, in a way, I saw this breakdown coming. I 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 might be able to 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 on the inside for some sort of relief.
And even through these thoughts, I’m reeling, still unsure of how this all happened.
At what point did this become us? A baby who belongs 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 pray, all right. I remember being a good little Catholic boy once upon a time.
Since the moment she left me, I haven’t allowed myself to think about her. My ego, bruised and cut up, has nothing against that constant ache that lingers from her absence. I have spent the time away from home, on remote locations and will do anything I can to not remember her.
Okay, so I’ve fucked up.
Felicity’s a big fuckup.
A weak moment.
I just want to rub salt into Farrah’s open wound. She wants me, and I love the fact that she begs like a goddamn whore.
And yeah, being the dick I am, it’s 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 never to forget her.
Occasionally, something will 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 becomes this focused memory and lingers on my tongue taunting, teasing, and itching every nerve inside of me.
Those were the times I would get high, and that cycle’s nasty.
I stare at my wall for too long, and as the darkness shadows the room, my mind becomes radiantly clear.
We both need 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 have 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’ve endured.
And I swear, I will fucking slit Gina’s throat if she dare hurts 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 needs to be fucking broken.
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 finds out what dodgy deals he’s been doing behind their backs. Jail time suits him. At least he’ll get fucked in the ass more times than he’s attempted to rape women in Hollywood. The man deserves everything he gets. I just should have seen the signs. Never let him lay a single finger on Milana. God, I’ve 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 will be found anywhere, I suspect it will be near, if not with, her mom.
Deidre is like my knight in shining armor, or whatever th
e fuck that saying is. Though, I’m glad to have chosen an older woman to be my personal assistant, my biggest problem is whether she will retire in a year to Boca or Palm Springs. She’s efficient, makes sense of my chaotic life, and invites me to dinner once a week with her and her husband. He’s ex-military but plays a mean game of chess.
She’s a blessing and nothing like the women before her, who just wanted to suck my dick and have me take them in like a stray cat.
I explain to Deidre my reason for going, knowing she will be supportive. So, she’s done her duty, booked the plane which is due to leave in two hours.
Fuck. How can I pack a bag, shower, and take care of the baby?
I contemplate calling Em, but know she will give me her typical bullshit response and ramble on about me taking charge of my life. That, and Carrington will probably come looking for me with a baseball bat. The fucker’s a possessive prick. Ironic, considering Em was mine first.
So, I make the executive decision to leave the baby in her carrier, watching her stir softly while I bring it into the bathroom. I spend one minute in total, not my usual hour and jacking off time. As soon as I get out of the shower, I throw on whatever’s clean I can find—jeans, white tee, and my gray hoody. Grabbing a small backpack, I throw in boxers, toothbrush, and a spare set of clothes.
My driver, Jerry, arrives promptly, looking at me with curiosity.
“Don’t ask.”
Within an hour, we make 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 hits me like a ton of bricks. My body aches all over, and even when I stretch my arms above my head, I can’t remove the stiff neck or painful lower back that irritates me.
It’s very early in the morning, the sun only just rising behind the mountains. I haven’t even thought of a plan. I’m running low on diapers and formula. Katerina needs feeding and a bath. Fuck, I’ve forgotten how often Em said I should bathe her.
Flynn texted me the address of Phoebe, Milana’s best friend, suggesting I visit her first. If anyone knows Milana, it’s her.