by Kat T. Masen
The sun is out in full glory with the hot rays piercing my pale skin. I grab some lotion and rub it all over my body before closing my eyes underneath my sunglasses. Lasting only a few minutes, the heat becomes unbearable so I dive into the pool for a quick splash. The water’s freezing against my hot skin, and with my entire body wet I climb onto the sizeable pink flamingo that’s floating on the surface and lay across it, attempting to relax my mind and body.
I drift in and out of thoughts as Tayla cranks up the latest Bruno Mars album. It doesn’t seem to bother Mom with her Hooker book in hand and iced tea in the other. I contemplate getting out of the pool, but the serenity and company ease my apprehension. I feel confident that perhaps in an hour or so, I can find the strength to talk to Mom and tell her what Wes has done. I tell myself another five more minutes until that five minutes passes and I make another excuse. On my fourth five-minute pep talk, the sudden sound of a splash followed by cold water hitting my heated skin, startles me to the point I almost fall off the flamingo in shock.
Fuck. Ash and Logan.
If I ignore them, maybe I can float away.
I also hate the fact that Logan’s right—avoidance can only get you so far.
Alessandra is courteous, she’s taking slow steps into the pool, careful not to lose the skimpy gold bikini which barely covers her body parts. Tayla follows behind her, admiring her bikini and asking where it’s from. They seem to bond instantly over fashion, and somewhere deep inside I curb the teeny, tiny jealousy that begins to form because Tayla never asks me what I’m wearing. Unless, of course, it’s to tell me my outfit is ‘so last year.’
With Ash, Alessandra, and Tayla swimming in the pool, Logan stands on the edge watching us with a sly expression. His black swimming shorts sit mid-thigh enhancing his toned legs. Surprisingly, he wears a tan despite living in a country which rarely sees sun. The self-absorbed bastard probably hits the tanning salon. His eyes dart back and forth until they’re locked on mine, and reminiscent of when we were kids he winks before diving into the pool heading straight to me.
I don’t have enough time to do anything, and within a second, I fall into the cold water. I’m barely able to catch my breath, swallowing a mouthful.
Asshole!
The water accidentally travels up my nose, and when I make it up for air I ignore the pain that shoots to my temple and unleash my thoughts with a mouthful of profanities. “You fucking jerk! What kind of asshole planet are you from to fucking do that!”
“You looked hot,” he points out, complacent, and keeping his jaw firm. “Plus, I want to lay on your pink flamingo.”
Ash snorts, pathetically, trying to hide his laughter.
I let out a huff, swimming away from them, annoyed at their childish behavior.
The step of the pool is finally beneath my feet, and I turn around to sit down while catching my breath and controlling my erratic heartbeat.
Despite Mom being poolside, Ash is busy making Alessandra giggle. From where I sit, it looks inappropriate with his hands beneath the water doing something I’d rather not know.
Logan’s leaning on my flamingo with his arms crossed and shades on. My eyes wander along the water dripping from his burly arms to the way his hands rest on the floatie.
The same hands which are connected to the fingers that entered me.
Fingers that made me weak in the knees.
Jesus, I need to stop staring.
It’s like arm and hand porn at its finest.
And only a few minutes ago, you were hating on him so bad.
“All right, how about I make us some lunch? Daddy will be back soon, and you need to get to the airport, Emmy,” Mom reminds me, standing up from the cabana and dusting the back of her caftan while adjusting her sunglasses.
“You’re leaving already?” Logan questions, eyes hidden beneath his shades.
“I changed my flight. I have to attend to some stuff back home. Avoidance only gets you so far,” I cite, purposely avoiding eye contact with him.
I know he understands, knowing no one else will.
Mom’s shocked that I’m leaving early, but doesn’t pry as to why specifically or what needs to be taken care of, assuming the network needs me for filming. Which is not unusual, she’s used to me having to leave at the drop of a hat. If the network calls, I answer.
“C’mon, Emmy,” Ash complains shortly after. “We never get to hang out anymore.”
Bowing my head, I apologize and climb out of the water, walking to the pool house. With Mom making her way to the kitchen, I welcome the quiet with the intention of showering and changing into something less revealing for lunch.
Outside—where they all remain—the laughter continues. The noise is muffled as I close the door behind me and enter the bathroom looking for a spare towel. The pool house is small. It’s made up of a sitting area with a corner white lounge facing a flat screen television, and off to the right is a bedroom with a queen-sized bed. Everything is decorated in white and teal with matching artwork on the walls.
A gush of wind graces my skin, followed by Logan calling my name. I exit the bathroom to find him standing in the entrance with the door shut behind him. I throw him my towel and grab another, hoping he uses it to cover his half-naked body.
I’m done avoiding the topic. Wanting to clear the air between us, so I open my mouth quickly. “Listen, thanks for not saying anything to Ash or Mom. I’m not ready to talk to them about what’s happened with Wes.”
Leaning down, he dries his legs with the large towel before throwing it over his shoulder.
Why does his body need to look so good wet?
“You need to tell them. Especially your mom. Abbi will be upset if she knows you’ve hidden that from her. You never hide anything from her.”
He’s right. Mom does need to know. I just don’t want to tell her I’ve failed... again. Also, add that burden after she’s already feeling like a bad mom because of what Ash did.
I was always that kid who felt people would judge my mistakes on how I was raised. It saddens me to think people can be quick to point blame on Mom and Dad—terrible parents who raised a woman who was cheated on by her fiancé. Of course, that had nothing to do with Wes being a dickhead, but society has a way of placing blame to those who are innocent.
“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 t
o 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 don’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 w
ere 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.
