Bad Boy Rich

by Kat T. Masen

  “You need to go now, honey, you don’t want to miss that flight.”

  I walk away trying my best to hold it in, and as my steps make us further apart and reach the automatic doors, I turn back around one more time and see her standing by the truck. The smile that she wore earlier is no longer there; replaced by sadness, confusion, as if she didn’t know where she was or what she was doing. If anything was going to break my heart—it would be that image of her feeling alone.

  Dropping my suitcase—causing a loud bang that people jump in shock over—I run fast, throwing myself into her arms just like Flynn but this time I sob. Sob so deeply, crying into her shoulders, snot coming out of my nose and I didn’t care who could see. I didn’t care what people thought of me. I just wanted to hug her because I didn’t know how she would feel when I came back. I didn’t know if I was coming back to the same woman.

  Most importantly, I didn’t know if she would ever remember my name again.

  She pulls away slowly, her eyes full of tears threatening to fall. Despite her strong will, one escapes, a tear that falls graciously onto the smile she wore before.

  “Do this please, for me, just do this for me,” she begs with exhaustion. “It’s all I ask of you. If anything changes, I promise you I will be the first to call you to come back.”

  I had to hold onto her words and reluctantly let go, Flynn calling my name one more time as the announcement warns us that check-in time is almost closing.

  Swallowing the pain that consumed me more than I had imagined, I take those baby steps back towards the door but this time I don’t turn around. I keep walking and link my arm into my brother’s, resting my head on his shoulder for support.

  I did this the whole plane ride over.

  Crying silently as the plane took off and I said goodbye to home.

  It had been an eventful few days in Los Angeles.

  We found a place to rent; a small, run-down but liveable apartment—in a questionable part of town. It was all I could afford until I landed a job and earned some decent money.

  Flynn hated the apartment. It was nothing like our home; dreary with brown walls and squeaky floorboards that creaked with every step. There was no view of mountains, instead, a brick wall that belonged to some Indian restaurant and a questionable massage parlour on the top floor.

  He had made a few friends at the backpacker hostel that we stayed at and wanted to crash there. As much as I also loved chatting to the friendly tourists that were sharing the rooms with us, our purpose was to make a life here and that meant finding a permanent place to live.

  Once we finally had the keys to the apartment, Flynn made himself scarce, busying himself with God knows what. He refused to talk to me, shutting down all channels of communication like this was my fault.

  It only made it all the worse. Battling being homesick and trying to be strong for everyone became a difficult juggling act. I couldn’t recall a time that I had felt an enormous amount of pressure on my shoulders and the worst part was—I couldn’t run to Mom to save me.

  I tried my best to make the apartment feel like home with the little I could afford to spend. We had our own beds, a small sofa and fridge full of food. The first night in, I cooked us a meal and all I got was a grunt before Flynn disappeared into his room.

  It was the night before my big interview and the nerves were eating away at me. Phoebe called me to run through some prep questions but all it did was make me more anxious.

  “Okay, just breathe,” she says, calmly. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

  “My black pantsuit and white blouse.”

  “Too simple. What about your red blouse?”

  “You don’t think it’s too loud?”

  “Milly.” She laughs out of nowhere. “You’re in Hollywood. I highly doubt your red blouse is too loud.”

  True. I saw a man in a pink sundress earlier and carrying a straw purse like it was normal. I let out a loud sigh, hoping to alleviate the stress.

  “Hollywood…nothing like what the movies depict it to be.”

  “I’m still jealous,” she reminds me. “Movie stars and fancy cars. Rodeo Drive, the Playboy mansion.”

  “All of the places that have no interest to me.”

  “I love you, you’re my best friend, but Jesus Christ woman, you need to live a little. Head out of your sandbox and go have some fun in Tinsel town.”

  This wasn’t the first time Phoebe had told me to let loose, often calling me Nanna Milly. A joke that didn’t bother me since I had no concerns with my social life. I didn’t need one; happy to prod along doing what I do. Phoebe was deprived of hurrahs, often telling me that it was the only place I would let her down in the best-friend department. But despite Phoebe’s eccentric ways, she knew my limits and never pushed me beyond my comfort level.

  We talk for a few minutes before hanging up. I needed sleep and prayed that I would get some with all this anxiety building up. I had so much riding on this that the more I forced myself to sleep, the harder it was to shut down.

  The next morning, I woke up early just as the sun began to rise. Flynn was still sleeping; snoring loudly through the thin walls. The coffee begins to brew; the aroma reminding me of back home. I pour myself a cup while reading through my notes. I practiced my answers out loud—at least, the questions I expected to be asked in a face-to-face interview.

  The clock ticks past eight and it’s time to leave. With my purse in hand, I grab my keys just as Flynn stumbles out of his room wearing only his boxers, rubbing his eyes vigorously like a vampire struggling to see through the sun.

  “Hey,” he calls as I open the door, “good luck.”

  It meant everything that he had mumbled those two words. I offer him a smile, closing the door behind me, ready to catch a cab to the address scribbled on the piece of paper that sat inside my nervously drenched hand.

  “Miss Milenov.”

  My head lifts to face the lady that calls my name. I stand up too quickly, and walk towards her as my foot slants to the right almost causing me to lose my balance. Dear God…calm the hell down, Milly.

  The three women waiting in the reception area snicker; each of them impeccable in designer dresses and nine-inch heels. Between the three of them, there is so much silicone that my eyes had no choice but to look. My small chest—though natural—looked flatter than ever.

  Inside the office sat a panel of three other women. A gorgeous young woman in the middle, the lady that called me in on her left, and another beautiful brunette on the right. Combined, they shattered any confidence I carried. Each one uniquely stunning in their own way.

  “Sit down, Miss Milenov,” the older lady instructs in a less-than-impressed tone. “I’m Sonia Jones and I’m Emerson’s publicist.”

  “Thank you.” I smile, politely. “Please, call me Milana.”

  “Milana.” The woman in the middle repeats. She appears to be young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, dressed nicely in a denim blue off-the-shoulder blouse. I’m unable to see her body behind the table yet she looks fit; typical California girl with dark blond hair cut to her shoulders and flawless olive skin. “It’s a very pretty name. I’m Emerson Chase, I’m sure you know who I am.”

  The name didn’t ring a bell, and all eyes stare at me with curiosity, waiting on my response. I didn’t watch TV, movies, or keep up with social media like Phoebe did. I assumed she was a model. The interviews that I had passed were formal, not once mentioning who this high-profile client was.

  “I apologize for my ignorance, I’m not quite sure who you are. I don’t, um, get out much.”

  The second it left my mouth, I regretted it instantly. I sounded dumb.

  “You don’t know who Emerson is?” Sonia questions with slight mockery, scribbling something on her notepad and sliding it across to Emerson.

  Again, I smile, hiding my nerves and sounding my words in my head to not sound like a bigger fool. “My life back home consisted of two things: work and family. I’m a hard w
orker, perhaps a workaholic. I take things seriously and wish I had time to relax but unfortunately—time just gets away from me.”

  “Understandable.” Emerson smiles warmly, flashing her perfectly white teeth. “You sound like what I’m looking for, a hard worker.”

  Sonia clears her throat, quick to interrupt. “Well, let’s get down to it then, shall we?”

  She proceeds to ask me a string of questions, many that I could easily answer and some that were out of my comfort zone. Scenarios: how would I react and what would I do. They were odd, and judging by the type of questions, I concluded that Emerson Chase was a household name, just one that hadn’t made it to mine.

  I could feel myself breaking out into a sweat, question after question with no end in sight. Sonia Jones was relentless—not allowing Emerson or the lady on the right to get a single word in.

  “Hi, Milana.” The woman on the right, a stunning brunette wearing reading glasses, introduces herself as Charlotte Edwards: Emerson’s lawyer.

  “I want to make you aware that this role deals with many confidential matters. If you were successful, you would need to sign a confidentiality agreement.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, my previous role dealt with highly confidential legal matters, so I understand and have no intention of breaching my employer’s confidentiality.”

  She smiles in response, jotting down some notes while I continue to sweat like crazy, riddled with nerves and praying that my deodorant worked the magic it said it would.

  “Milana,” Emerson speaks, while reading my resume that sits on the woodgrain table in front of her. “This role would involve round-the-clock work including traveling. How does this sit with your personal life?”

  “I don’t have one,” I answer honestly. “I moved here with my brother. I don’t have friends or acquaintances. I’m here to work.”

  The three of them turn to look at each other, no facial expressions to indicate they were pleased with my answers.

  “I’ll be honest, Miss Milenov, I’m not sure you truly understand the pressure of this role, after all, you only worked at a small law firm in Alaska.” Sonia pulls a face like Alaska was breeding lepers.

  I’m gobsmacked at her arrogance, desperate to give her my two cents and walk away if it wasn’t for my low bank balance and the fact that Flynn and Mom needed me.

  “I assure you,” I say, biting my tongue and straining my words. “Working for Mildred Mason was anything but small. If anyone understands pressure, it’s me. I worked two jobs to support my sick mother and would have gladly stayed in Alaska and taken on a third if she allowed me.”

  “My dear,” she says, patronizing my ability, “Hollywood is not Alaska. I mean, you’re not exactly dressed for the role. Appearance is everything.”

  I look down at my suit then gaze at theirs. So what if it wasn’t designer? I didn’t understand why that would influence their decision to hire me. I could do the job—that should be all that mattered.

  “I can do the job,” I reiterate, though struggling to compose my words. “I wouldn’t have come out here if I didn’t think I could do the job.”

  Sonia laughs, strategically placing the pen on the corner of her red, plump lips. “You’d get eaten alive.”

  “Sonia,” Charlotte and Emerson mouth beneath their breaths, their face shadowed by disappointment.

  “With all due respect, Ms. Jones, pressure is knowing that time is ticking and for every minute that passes, I have a mother that slowly forgets who I am.” I stand up with a wobble, leaning on the table for support. “Thank you for the opportunity, I’m sure you’ll find the right person sitting in reception.”

  My smile is forced; my confidence completely shattered with emotions running high as I walk fast, out of the room, towards the elevator with my tears held back. How dare she think I was incapable and didn’t understand the meaning of pressure! My anger, combined with the lack of sleep, pushes my sanity over the edge. As soon as the doors open into the lobby and my face is met with the scorching sun, I burst into tears in front of random strangers that made no effort to console me, staring at me like some fool.

  Back home, I curl up into a ball on the sofa, nursing the chamomile tea in my hand. The mug—I hand-carried from back home—made by mom during one of her pottery classes. Cradling it in my hand brought me closer to her. I wanted so much to pick up the phone and call her, but the humiliation of today was too much.

  Flynn left a note that he was out, and desperate to find a piece of home, I call Liam, needing to hear a familiar voice.

  “They just don’t know you, Milly. It’ll work out. I’m sure there’s another job waiting that will see you for who you truly are. I really hate that you feel this way.”

  “You should have seen her, she acted as if I was a five-year-old applying for the job. I’ve never felt so humiliated. California is different…”

  “It’s not home.”

  I missed him so much. The smell of his skin when he sweated in the workshop. The way his hair fell over his eyes—much to my annoyance—only for me to sweep it away. Four days and this was the longest we had been apart.

  “I want to go back home.” I cry openly into the speaker, tasting my tears as they fall to my lips. “I miss you, I miss Phoebe…and Mom.”

  Liam remained quiet, allowing me to express my emotions in ways he had never heard from me before. After several minutes of listing all the things I missed about home, I quieted down, enough for him to finally get a word in.

  “Have you spoken to your mom?”

  “Not yet. I was going to call her after I got the job. God, how stupid was I to think I was good enough.”

  “Hey, don’t you dare for a second think you’re not good enough. What makes them better, huh? Just because they have money doesn’t make you less worthy. They’re not us. They’re not bred to understand what working hard means.”

  I suppose he had a point. I was just too upset to rationalize with my depressed self. We somehow move onto his work, updating me on what was happening back home. I missed the boys in the workshop, their antics and the way they sung country music loudly as they tinkered on the cars.

  Just as we were about to say goodbye to each other, I hear the beep of another call coming through.

  “Sorry Liam, I’ve got another call, can I call you back tonight?”

  “Always.” I hear his smile before I say goodbye and answer the other call.

  “Milana?” The voice is familiar. “It’s Emerson.”

  Shit. I straighten my posture and respond with a chirpy tone. “Hi Emerson.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, just talking to an old friend.”

  “Great. First, I’m sorry for Sonia being so rude today. She’s a great publicist and ruthless when it comes to the media but sucks at being a human.”

  I smile with relief. Emerson didn’t come across like Sonia. It was good to know I wasn’t the only one who thought she was rude.

  “I wanted to offer you the job, if you’ll take it, of course.”

  I almost jump on the sofa—Tom Cruise style. “Are you sure? I mean, I am a hard worker and I can easily work under pressure. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t. Are you free to catch up for a coffee this afternoon? We can go through the details of the job and the expectations.”

  She tells me her address and I scribble it down eagerly. We agree to meet at four o’clock, and when we both end the call, I jump onto the sofa and hug the piece of paper, grinning to myself.

  I would show Sonia Jones that I could do the job.

  It became my mission.

  I grab my cell off the sofa and dial Mom’s number, eager to tell her the good news and hear her voice.

  Maybe, just maybe, this would work out.

  Public transport in LA was a joke.

  Without my own car, I had no other means of getting around. Back home—I was spoiled. Not only did I have my own car, but
a boyfriend who made sure it turned on and got me from A to B.

  The bus ride was uneventful; folks keeping to themselves and staring out the window in a dull state of mind. I had planned to stop off at a coffee shop near a place called The Grove. According to an old newspaper that I found at our doorstep, it was a popular place to shop and eat with many celebrities that frequented the joint. Not that I cared. I just wanted to get my hands on this ridiculously expensive cake to say thank you for employing me even though I was a rambling mess.

  The coffee shop is busy; many people occupying the small tables that were scattered around. The glass display is full of delicious desserts. Rows and rows of mouth-watering sweets, making my stomach growl loudly enough that the lady carrying a tiny rat-looking dog in her purse—takes notice.

  “The caramel baked cheesecake with crushed Oreos and peanut butter cups, please.”

  The cashier, Sarah, packs the cake into a silver box, sliding it over the counter as I hand her some cash. Politely saying thank you, I turn around deciding to open the carton just to catch another glimpse of this oh-so-perfect cake.

  The side of the lid gets caught in the corner. I nudge it slightly to close it shut again until all of a sudden, my body slams into another person causing me to gasp loudly.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going!”

  Frazzled, I look up to see an annoyed guy wearing a thick leather jacket, standing in front of me, arm draped around a pretty girl and carrying a helmet in his spare hand. She appears to be amused by something, and following her eyes, I stare down at my white dress which is covered in Oreos. Shit. Shit. SHIT!

  “Might want to do something about that dress of yours,” he snorts, arrogantly, twitching his hazel eyes with a fiendish grin.

  “Excuse me?” Perhaps I’m overreacting, but this moron just cost me thirty dollars. Who does this asswipe think he is? “How about you learn to have some manners!”

  I wasn’t the type of person to raise my voice at a stranger, usually controlled and able to walk away from such nonsense. Yet something about the way he made me feel like a pathetic nobody just rubbed me the wrong way.