by Kat T. Masen
He—and his Hollywood bimbo—didn’t deserve any more of my time. The damage was done, I had a ruined cake and equally ruined dressed. Of course I had to wear white today!
I turn back around with a red face, greeting Sarah at the counter. I could see the sympathy in her eyes together with a disappointed smile.
“You know what?” Sarah is examining the damage. “I’m sure Mona can quickly fix the top. Saves you having to buy another.”
Sarah disappears into the kitchen only to return with a smile, asking me to wait for a few minutes while Mona fixed the icing. She hands me a small cloth which I use to carefully wipe the excess cake off my dress.
Mr. Dick (as I liked to call him starting from this moment) moves closer to the counter, ordering a triple-shot coffee as if he didn’t do anything. I stand, waiting, impatiently tapping my feet with my arms crossed to cover the hideous stain. I had no time to go get changed let alone spend money on another dress.
He hands over a credit card, trying to eye-flirt with Sarah.
“You know, you might want to watch where you’re walking. Head buried in a cake box is probably not the smartest thing to do.”
“Neither is being a dick,” I mumble under my breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. It’s bad manners not to make eye contact with someone when you speak.”
My head moves swiftly, eyes wide open, staring at this arrogant ass. He wasn’t the first arrogant asshole I had encountered in the four days I had been here. LA was full of them.
“You want to talk to me about making eye contact? I think you just told me to watch where I was walking but at the same time, you were flirting with Sarah.”
Sarah almost drops the coffee in her hand, embarrassed that she enjoyed his attention.
He takes the cup and turns to face me, giving me a better chance to get a glimpse of the face attached to the asshole personality.
The first thing I notice is how light his eyes are: hazel colored. Light in comparison to the dark beard that sits across the bottom half of his face. His olive complexion makes them stand out but beneath them is dark bags. Tired, worn out—something about him looked aged.
Without trying to make it look obvious, a scar on the side of his jawline catches my attention. It has a pinkish tinge, looking fresh from some accident and buried in his overgrown beard.
“Are you done looking at me now?”
I pull back, unaware I was that obvious.
“Yes. Just wanted to remember the face of the person that cost me my favorite dress and is making me late to an important appointment.”
“That dress is your favorite?”
I look down at my dress. It is my favorite. I bought it three summers ago at the Macy’s clearance rack during one of our girly road trips to Anchorage. It had this 1950s feel to it; halter neck with three large buttons that ran down my chest. The bottom flairs beneath my waist, covering my wide hips.
“Actually, it is.”
The blonde bimbo that accompanied him into the shop is by his side, eyeing me again like I belonged in a zoo.
“I bet you’re not from around here. Let me guess, you came here to be the next biggest movie star.”
They laugh in unison, only adding to my uncomfortable state.
“And let me guess, you came here to be the next biggest porn star!”
I don’t wait for her reaction, turning around and facing the counter desperate for Sarah to return with my cake. Beside me, Mr. Dick is laughing, prompting Bimbo to nudge him with her shoulder.
Sarah comes out of the kitchen carrying my box. Letting out a sigh of relief, I thank her as she passes it slowly over. I won’t open the box this time, turning my back towards them while I walk to the exit.
“Hey!”
I stop for a moment, contemplating whether or not to turn around and bother giving him another minute of my time.
“What?”
“I still didn’t get an apology.”
The box is steady in my hands as I turn around to argue with him one more time.
“Since I’ll never see you again, you can take my apology and shove it up your ass.”
His lips curve upwards, into a wide grin. “And if you do see me again?”
“Then I’ll take it out of your ass and actually mean it.”
I refused to entertain him any longer, pushing the door open and leaving the shop in a mad rush to Emerson’s house.
“This cake is divine.”
Emerson takes another bite as we sit outside on the back patio. Her house is enormous, surrounded by the greenest grass I had ever seen and views of the valley that stretched beyond the horizon. Towards the right there is an Olympic-sized pool with a small pool house on the opposite side. It was just like out of a magazine; picture perfect and could fit the tagline of Dream Home.
“Thank you. Again, I’m so sorry about my appearance. I’m not usually like this, I just…I can’t believe the nerve of that guy.”
She smiles, softly. “It’s okay. Once I almost walked on stage with toilet paper hanging out of my butt so I understand completely. Though that was entirely my fault.”
We both laugh with a mouthful of cake. Emerson was easy going, spending some time to explain the role and parts of her personal life. I had a good feeling about her; she seemed nothing like the other LA snobs I had encountered.
“I have a daughter. She’s six months old. Her name is Lola.” She taps on her phone and proudly shows me a picture. She’s a gorgeous baby with a full head of brown hair coupled with deep blue eyes. “She’s napping now otherwise I would bring her down.”
It explained why she had a baby monitor on the table beside her phone.
“I try to keep a routine. I work three days a week from nine to five and then on the remaining days, I work during her naps. When my fiancé is in town, I get a chance to work a bit more but to be honest—I just want to spend time with him.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what does he do?”
“He’s plays soccer. Right now, he’s in Brazil leading a soccer program for youths.”
“Sounds like you have your hands full,” I tell her, with ease.
“Yes, that’s why you’re here.” She laughs, taking another bite of cake. “I’ve got baby brain. I need someone to help me with scheduling meetings, run business errands and meet with suppliers when I can’t. When I have interviews and appearances, I need someone to coordinate my publicist, stylist, the whole team. It is a very busy role but I think you’re the right fit, Milana.”
“I’m dedicated. We just need to find our groove. Does that make sense?”
Her eyes light up, impressed. “Total sense. So how about we start tomorrow? If you could meet me here at nine? Just wait here a second…”
Emerson stands up, her white shorts and navy-blue tank matching the fabric of the chair she was sitting in. She disappears only to return moments later. She’s carrying a laptop, phone and set of keys.
“This is for you.” She hands them to me, much to my bewilderment. “We can schedule the next twelve months’ of meetings tomorrow and sync our diaries. The keys are for the car that you’ll need to run errands. The phone is for business clients to contact you and myself.”
“But…this is…” I stumble on my words, feeling terrible for accepting the car.
“All part of the job.” She finishes my sentence. “And, a tax right-off. Charlie, my lawyer, will FedEx you the contracts to sign.”
Back home, Mildred Mason had one computer in the office and a landline. It was never an issue and somehow, we were contactable. Although I had a laptop and a brick, as Liam referred to it, this was all a bit much.
“Are you sure?” I question with uncertainty. “I was going to buy a car, I just wanted to get settled first.”
Emerson places the keys in my hand and rests her palm on mine, reassuring me that this wasn’t a pity handout. “I’m sure. There is one catch though.”
Of course there is.
Odd, yet I’m curious as to why she doesn’t just cut ties.
“Your business partner?”
“Yes.” The subject appears to irritate her, the smile on her face disappearing and the grit in her teeth portraying her anger towards this individual. “As much as I would love to not deal with him, he has made it difficult for me to legally pull away from the business.”
He already sounded like a dickhead.
“It’s okay. When it comes to people like this, I can keep my head strong and stay focused on the job.”
She breathes a sign of relief and ends with a small giggle. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“If today’s debacle taught me anything, it’s to be prepared. You never know who’s just around the corner…”
There’s a loud thump…thump…thump against the wall.
The room is filled with the beautiful, warm sunlight that California is known for. I appreciated the small things in life, just not the loud banging against my wall. Stumbling out of bed in my boxers and worn-out KISS t-shirt, I make it out to the living room to see Flynn passed out on the sofa surrounded by bags of chips and empty bottles of cola. It suddenly dawns on me that the sound was coming from the wall I shared with my elderly neighbors.
Oh dear God…no.
I ignore the mental images. The empty coffee pot that sits on our old counter top is the only thing I want right now. With a pot brewing and some cereal in a bowl, I sit at the table with my planner.
My first week on the job was chaotic. Emerson had introduced me to many of the staff that worked for her which meant driving around LA and being stuck in traffic for most of the day. My to-do-list is a mile long but I was determined. I would do this and do a damn fine job. The busy workload distracted me from being homesick and the ill feeling that constantly sat at the pit of my stomach.
On today’s agenda, I would be accompanying Emerson to the studios. To be honest—I’m rather excited. I didn’t consider myself a star-struck fan-type person but something about this place brought it out of me. That, and Phoebe was relentless. Texting me a thousand times a day with celebrity sightings. It’s the reason I hadn’t mentioned that my boss is Emerson Chase.
“Grrrrr…”
The groan interrupts my thought process. Flynn sits up on the sofa, rubbing his eyes and coughing out what sounded like a fur ball. I felt terrible that I had been so busy with work the past week, never getting a proper chance to spend time with him and see what he was up to.
“Big night with a bag of potato chips?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, eyes closed half asleep. “What time is it?”
I pick up my phone to see the time. “A little after six.”
“AM??”
“Uh, yeah.” Pointing out the obvious, I notice his eyes are red and very tired looking.
People said that Flynn looked nothing like me. His features were similar to my grandpapa. His light eyes bordering on green and mousy-brown hair with honey highlights, made him look more Russian. He wore it long; the strands falling past his eyes and almost touching his chin. For a growing man who ate absolute rubbish all the time, his skin was as flawless as a baby’s bottom. Though of late, he appeared to be growing a slight beard that made him look more mature.
It was often asked if we were a couple because we didn’t appear related. Stupid people with narrow-minded opinions that completely grossed us both out. Mom found it amusing. How two children could be so different. You only had to look at me to see I was of mixed race. My almond-shaped eyes were a dead giveaway.
“What time did you get home last night?”
“Don’t know.”
“Okay, so what are your plans for today?”
“Don’t know.”
My frustration comes out quickly. “Flynn, I get it. I really do. You don’t want to be here. But making it impossible to live won’t make it easier.”
I pour a cup of coffee and bring it to him, setting it on the coffee table that I bought from a cheap second-hand store a block from the apartment. It’s shaped like an old trunk, made from a combination of hardwood and leather. Flynn hated it.
“If we both work hard, the quicker we can—”
“Yeah, I get it alright?” He jumps to his feet, almost crashing into me. “I need a shower.”
“Flynn,” I call his name, trying to reign in my frustration. He stops just shy of the bathroom door. “How about we go out for dinner tonight? Your pick.”
“Can’t. Got a gig.”
“A gig? As in you’re playing in a band?”
“Kinda, sorta.”
“Okay, well, either you are or you aren’t.”
Exhaling, he turns around to explain himself. “There’s a group of guys I met. We just play at this local joint. Pays peanuts, but you know, whatever.”
“Wow.” I’m proud of him for finding a band but equally worried about who these people were. “Well, how about I drop by tonight?”
He shrugs his shoulders which I took to mean whatever, disappearing into the bathroom before saying another word.
“Hi Emerson!” I wave, quick to rush over to her as she carries her daughter, a diaper bag and juggling a folder with papers inside it.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathes out, worried and anxious about something. Emerson normally dressed impeccably but her messy bun and crinkled shirt said otherwise.
“Hey, pass me that.” I grab the folder and diaper bag, cooing at baby Lola. I wasn’t much of a baby person but Lola was awfully cute. She was one of those chubby babies with thunder thighs. Completely acceptable as a baby. Not so much when you’re twenty-five and trying to shimmy your way into a pair of skinny jeans.
“Is everything okay?”
“Lola woke up with a fever. I don’t want to leave her with anyone but I have two meetings to attend today.”
I bend down and place my hand on her cheek. Her skin is hot and something Emerson had every right to be worried about. “Listen, take her to the doctor and I’ll sit in on the meetings.”
“We can reschedule the studio meeting but the other—”
“Leave it with me.” I smile and giggle at Lola, hoping it’s a small bug that she needed to get over. “This cutie wants her mommy so…”
My words are cut short as a loud burp followed by warm white liquid hits the front of my shirt. There’s a delayed reaction on my end, falling back as if I had been hit by a bullet.
The bullet just happened to be baby vomit.
“Oh my God! Milana, I am so sorry!”
Emerson tries to retrieve wipes from the diaper bag, pulling some out to clean my shirt as Lola cries out loud. I’m still in shock…the projectile sound still tormenting me.
“Emerson, it’s just a shirt. Take her to the doctor. Family first. I’ve got your meetings in my schedule so leave it with me, okay?”
She nods, almost on the verge of tears. “This single-parent thing is hard.”
I offer her a sympathetic smile, ignoring the smell of vomit on my shirt. I’m this close to dry heaving; keeping the lump in my throat at bay. “I’m sure if Lola’s daddy could be here, he would.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We walk back to the car and settle Lola into her seat while loading the rest of the stuff in. Emerson warns me about the business meeting I would attend this afternoon.
“Just listen to Jeff. He’s an excellent business manager and all you need to do is take notes.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t stress.”
After sitting in the car for over an hour, I was confident that the smell of baby puke no longer lingered or I had just become immune to it. I had sprayed my shirt over and over again, placing my jacket on once I exited the car, ignoring the sweltering heat. Thankfully, it had dried up in the car ride over and no longer clung to my skin.
The meeting was supposed to be s
hort, just her business manager and business partner. All I had to do was take down some key notes and bring back the contract. Easy.
The building is ultra-modern with a view of downtown LA. There are white leather lounges in the lobby, and bright paintings hung on almost every wall. One particular painting captures my attention. It looked like a big pink vagina and was probably worth a fortune. Again, LA people were weird.
I find my way to the elevator, and when it opens, it’s all gold. I press the number eight and wait patiently with the elevator music surrounding me. It doesn’t take long for my head to bop along to some familiar tune that sounds like a Barry Manilow song. It reminded me of Mom, she had this odd crush on Barry. And then my heart begins to ache, missing her like crazy. One week and I had spoken to her three times on the phone, each time for over an hour, chatting about trivial things, anything just to hear her voice.
The elevator slows down and dings as the door opens. I step out and see the reception desk instantly. There’s a young girl with enormous—albeit fake—tits smiling back at me. They are so large, I’m terrified they would burst in her teeny-tiny blouse.
Her platinum-blond hair is long; the same length as mine, falling just above her waist. On closer inspection, they appear to be extensions. Nothing is ever real in Hollywood.
“My name is Milana Milenov. I’m here to meet—”
“Oh yes.” She doesn’t allow me to finish, smiling while extending her hand out. “You’re Miss Chase’s assistant. Please, follow me.”
She quickly stands up, adjusting her skirt to an appropriate length and requests I follow. She’s wearing tall gold platform pumps. They make my pair of black ones look like I shopped in the grandma aisle in Target.
“Take a seat, please.”
We’re inside a boardroom. It’s small and uninteresting. I pull out a black leather chair and place my items on the table. My notebook, pen and laptop are ready for the meeting. There’s a glass of water in front of me. I take a small sip, careful not to smudge my lipstick on the glass.
“Miss Milenov.”
