by Kat T. Masen
I push on his chest, ignoring this warm sensation that pumped my blood and traveled to places that shouldn’t have. It was purely anger. I don’t think I had ever felt this level of anger with any human being before.
“Milana.” Wesley pulls me back into him, his deep stare locking into mine as I try to understand what is happening, what he was doing.
“Hey, leave her alone!” Mitch steps in front, breaking Wesley’s grip from my arm and creating a barrier between us. “I know you, you’re that guy, the one from that show.”
Wesley’s expression turns into rage, like Mitch had offended him by recognizing him. What show? I had never seen Wesley before that day in the café. Was this another one of those moments where I had no clue who someone was?
Then it clicks.
Emerson was on a reality TV show. This must have been their connection.
“You don’t fucking know me, okay?” Wesley spits, pushing past him and penetrating me once again with a deathful stare.
“Mitch, can you give us a moment, please?” I ask softly, calming the tension that lingers around us.
Mitch takes a step backwards, touching the small of my back. I grab Wesley’s hand and drag him past the crowds, ignoring his weight and reluctance to follow me. People are watching, curiosity on their faces and a few following us outside.
The cool air graces my face, instantly bringing my body temperature down. I search the area around us and continue dragging him to a more private spot in the doorway of a neighboring store that was closed. It didn’t stop the onlookers and cameras that flash in the distance. Conscious of the unwanted attention, I raise my arm and cover my face to disguise myself.
I want to tear him apart, fueled by anger and confusion.
“What the hell is your problem? What was that? You can’t just fight people and throw your fist around!”
“You didn’t even know the guy and you leave with him!” His brows pull down together, agitated, his expression full of animosity. “I knew you were naïve but didn’t think you were that dumb.”
His eyes are distracted for a moment, watching people walk past, a bunch of girls that giggle and call his name. That’s it. This, whatever this was, needed to stop.
“Thanks for calling me dumb. You seem to have this knack for making me feel pathetic. Run off to your posse of girls, I can take care of myself.”
I don’t give him a chance to respond, abandoning him and walking at a fast pace in the exact opposite direction with no clue where I was heading. I hear him call my name, once, twice, but ignore him. When a cab drives past, I wave my hand repeatedly until it stops along the curb. I jump in, shutting the door behind me, letting out a breath of air and allowing my head to fall against the back of the seat. The wind sweeps through the cab and the door swings open. The cab driver yells and Wesley has jumped in the back with me.
I straighten my posture, restraining my hands that want to push him out of the cab and onto the pavement.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I yell at him.
He runs his hands along his hair and bites his lip with an irritable twitch. There’s this nervous energy about him, like he wasn’t thinking straight and on complete edge. “I don’t know. You’re…annoying. Frustrating. Clumsy and dress like you belong in a nunnery.”
I stare down at my navy dress. His terrible words made me want to cry, as stupid as that sounds, but I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. I would cry behind closed doors with a tub of ice cream and be that type of girl I swore I would never be.
“Well, you’re a conceited snob that’s probably riddled with diseases from all the hoochies hanging off you!”
“Your mouth…it’s…” He curls his fist into a ball, stumbling on his words.
“What, Wesley?” I laugh out of nowhere. “You have no clue who I am. You don’t know me from a bar of soap. Whatever opinion you’re forming of me, go ahead. I don’t care.”
He raises his head and opens his mouth, my heart beating like a looming thunderstorm from the anger consuming me. I know his next words will be cruel and heartless, so I prepare myself, biting my lip and scrambling for the right words to use against him…
Then I stop.
I’m staring directly into the eyes of a man that hates me.
I want to hate him back.
But his stare changes, something I can’t figure out. It’s still anger, there’s still a wild flare…
He leans forward, my body pushing into the door as our lips touch. It lasts only seconds, him pulling away leaving me shaky and confused. I’m deafened by the thumping of my heart, catching broken words as he directs the cab driver, giving him an address.
My voice wavers, scared to ask the question. “Where are you taking me?”
Silence. He says nothing, staring deeply at the front window, nostrils flaring with lips pursed so tight they’re almost stark white.
“Wesley.” I push with desperation. “Answer me!”
His head turns swiftly, angrily. “I’m taking you back to my place. Now shut up, you’ve done enough damage tonight.”
I’m blown away by his disrespectful tone, his hurtful words and equally confused at the same time of his need to kiss me. That strong, independent woman inside of me was sobbing at this unnecessary mess.
I wanted to push him out the door.
Or I jump out myself.
It was now or never.
Yet that little devil, the one sitting on my shoulder with a heated pitchfork, wanted answers. And the only way I would get that—stay in this cab and follow his lead.
It was just like stepping into a car museum.
In front of the garages sat four cars. Three of them sporty and shiny, and the last one on the end—a black truck with large wheels and dark windows.
There were two motorbikes on the side; some sort of racer bike with orange stripes parked next to a Harley Davidson. It seemed excessive and unnecessary to waste so much money on these possessions but then I remembered something that Liam once said to me: “A car to a man is like shoes to a woman—you can never have enough.”
Liam would be in heaven.
I’m overwhelmed with guilt. I shouldn’t be here—in another man’s home. The same man that violently kissed me in the back of a cab without an explanation.
But I had this odd feeling.
Maybe not a feeling but something unusual drawing me in.
I follow Wesley’s lead, standing in front of the wide, clear glass door. The house is very modern; perched in a secluded gated community. The lights turn themselves on, almost blinding me as we walk inside. My curiosity is piquing more than it should; my feet moving against the polished concrete floors, staring at the pictures hung on the wall and furniture placed around the home.
It’s simplistic. It screams “bachelor.” He takes me inside what I assume is his living room. There’s not much to see; a white leather modular lounge with a shaggy black rug on the floor in front of it. There’s pictures on the wall; artwork that gave it a splash of color but far from that homey feel.
I hadn’t realized that Wesley had left the room. “Wanna drink?”
He opens a beer, consuming it within a beat, handing me a bottle.
“Uh, no thanks.”
He shrugs his shoulders and disappears again, leaving me alone in this big room. What the hell do I do? Take a seat? Stand here looking like an idiot? I wasn’t sure how to escape. I hadn’t paid much attention on the drive over here. There was no way I could tell what suburb I was in let alone his house number. The room spins slightly; the dizziness induced by the panic of being in a stranger’s home.
The smell of his cologne graces the rooms as he returns moments later and suddenly—I manage to calm myself down.
“Let’s go out back.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, welcoming the fresh night air to ease my unsettled imagination. My wedges make a clunky sound with every step; making me self-conscious as I follow him through the house and into another living a
rea with glass doors surrounding it.
He taps on a remote which slides the doors open onto a large patio. There’s a lap pool with a small Jacuzzi on one end; steam rising from it like a magical oasis. Even the pool is lit up, showcasing the deep blue water.
The view is something else. The house overlooks the city and all I can see is the horizon full of lights. It was breathtaking. Different from the clear sky back home. I breathe out, watching the world outside this house until a warm breath catches my skin, causing me to stiffen.
“It’s a big world out there.” His voice is soft, raspy yet full of edge. “And I can tell it scares you.”
Acting on defense, I’m quick to respond with my back towards him. “Nothing scares me.”
He turns me around, hands gripping my shoulders with force. The grin on his face disturbs me, it’s not your average boy-next-door smile. It’s sinister, the kind of smile that made the Joker tap his heels in delight.
“You’re awful at lying. Quit while you can.”
I take his hands off me, sensitive to the closeness of his body near mine. I have to turn away from his stare; my gaze drifting around the room we walked through in an effort to distract my erratic heartbeat. The doors remained wide open, and I hadn’t noticed earlier, but the glass coffee table inside this larger living room is covered in bottles. Beer, champagne, and others I wasn’t familiar with.
“There’s a saying. Don’t judge a book by its cover. So what if I’m from a small town? Doesn’t make me any less a human than you are.”
I fold my arms; pressing my breasts together to control this unknown tightness in my chest. This stare of his—persistent and killing me slowly—antagonizes me to the point that I push him away, scared of what might happen.
I turn back around, watching my step down to the patio and keeping my distance as I walk around the pool edge to clear my mind. Why am I here? My loneliness shouldn’t have dragged me here. I had a boyfriend back home and a best friend on call. Never mind that they weren’t actually present. A phone call could have cured that.
“You’re quiet.” Wesley lays on the outdoor chair, leaning against the soft cushion with his arm draped casually across the back. “This isn’t like you.”
I laugh quietly. “I don’t know why you think you know me. We’ve known each other for two minutes. I’ve had longer relationships with a box of cereal.”
“Lucky box of cereal,” he snickers behind another bottle.
“Sometimes,” I add, ignoring his comment, “it’s nice just to think.”
“I hate thinking.” He sits upright, not as relaxed as he was only moments ago. “That’s what gets me into trouble.”
“Into trouble?”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, throwing back the remains of his bottle and placing it on the floor. “Do you even know who I am?”
I didn’t. I was standing in a stranger’s house, open to a massacre of things that could happen because I followed my curiosity. I wanted to go home. All the way back to Alaska—my comfort zone. This was…it wasn’t me, now. This was Milana at fifteen. The girl that would skip school, hang out at boys’ homes and joy ride to other towns to steal booze.
“I should go home,” I stumble out, searching my purse for my phone, ready to call 911 in a state of panic. He could be a murderer. An axe-wielding murderer that will dump my body in the desert. The anxiety cripples me; my lungs short a breath. My hands shake while I attempt to unzip my purse; the zip caught on a piece of fabric which makes me panic even more.
“Relax, will you?” he says with ease, his eyes following with a relaxing gaze. “I’m not a murderer nor a rapist. Take a breath, I think you should have a drink and stop thinking so much.”
There’s a large grill area with a glass fridge underneath the outdoor counter top. He removes a bottle of wine and two glasses, popping the cork and pouring it in. Reaching out to me, I willingly accept, drinking the wine so carelessly until my thoughts silence and my skin tingles with delight.
“I don’t usually drink so much.” I hiccup on cue, embarrassingly.
He grins with amusement. “Tell me more.”
“I mean, I can drink. I just don’t much. I don’t know why, I’m just…boring.”
“Boring. Unusual way to describe yourself.”
“Well I am. Nothing excites me.” I continue rambling, helping myself to another glass. “You know when you read a book and there’s that thrill of the chase…like those tornado chasers. Living on the edge ready to get swept away.”
“You want to be swept away?”
“I don’t know what I want.” I sit down on the edge of the pool, removing my shoes and dipping my feet into the water, allowing the cold water to soothe my sore feet. “Life is complicated.”
He sits beside me, placing the bottle between us. Unlike me, he doesn’t place his feet in the water, crossing his legs and resting back on his hands. That scent—his cologne—is fresh and lingers my way. Okay, he smells good.
“A moment ago, you said you were boring. Which one is it?”
“I’m boring. Life is complicated.”
“You don’t know complicated till you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”
My focus moves away from the current of the water, my gaze moving towards him. Just like myself—moments ago—he is watching the water with a downward expression.
“I don’t know you,” I tell him, keeping my tone calm. “Who are you?”
With the glass in hand, he drinks it fast, slamming it down before standing up and muttering, “It’s probably better you don’t. Let’s go inside. I hate being here.”
It’s another mood shift; quick and abrupt. I couldn’t figure him out, or maybe—I wasn’t meant to. He grabs my hand to lift me up. I carry my shoes, drying my feet against the warm tiles.
“What music do you like?”
“Uh, I don’t know, whatever.”
“Surely, you must have something you like.”
“Barry Manilow.”
I can hear him choke on his own saliva. “Barry Manilow?”
“Yep.” I enjoy teasing him, watching his brows turn in with confusion.
He knows I’m playing, lifting his confused frown and replacing it with that insatiable grin. “Barry Manilow it is.”
The remote in his hand controls the music, and after a few taps, the sound of Barry Manilow fills the room.
“This reminds me of my mom.” I blink my eyes, holding back the tears, not wanting to break down in front of him. Until I had left home, I hadn’t truly understood the power of music. A song that can evoke so much emotion from a person purely because of memories.
I’m taken back—to a simple time—Mom outside potting her new flowers on the rusty old deck with her straw hat and garden gloves on. She sung to herself often, and at the time—I prayed she would stop because it distracted me when I was reading on the porch chair.
And now—I would kill to be back at that moment.
I’m quick to distract myself by staring at a photo on the wall. It’s a bunch of men posed in front of a plane, Wesley included.
“I’m sorry. How did she pass?”
“She didn’t.” I swallow, keeping my sentence short. “She’s back home.”
He nods his head, leaning on the wall beside me. His eyes examine my face, causing that rippling effect to grace my skin. I ignore him; desperate to distance myself away from this feeling. He does something to me. I didn’t know what it was. I was scared of him yet fearless at the same time. That made no sense to me whatsoever.
Nothing about tonight made sense.
“So many secrets…I hate secrets.” His tone is bitter, a sudden change from a moment ago.
“I don’t have secrets. I told you I’m boring. Just a small-town girl making a living.”
We play this game; cat and mouse. I pull away, he finds me once again. This is unlike anything I know. This is something Phoebe would do. Not me. I was the rational one. Rational Milana wouldn’t go to a stranger’
s house let alone drink three glasses of wine.
Yes…a third may have made its way into my hand.
“A small-town girl inside my living room…how very dangerous.”
He’s found me again, cornered me across the other side of the room. This time, he leaves nothing to chance, our bodies almost touching, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t want him to see me so vulnerable.
But I cave.
To this lust overcoming me.
“For me…” I watch him, controlling my breathing. “Or you?”
The tip of his finger graciously slides against my hand, rising slowly up my arm until he settles in the middle of my collarbone. I struggle to tame the thump of my heart and hide the way my body is reacting. His response hangs in suspense; and waiting patiently only built this wall of fire between us.
“Stay with me,” he whispers against my ear.
“I can’t do that.”
“You will.” He doesn’t say anything else, breathing softly into my hair. “You won’t leave. I know that much.”
I hated the way he did this; made me feel all these things that I shouldn’t even be thinking. He just wanted to get me into bed—and I wasn’t that type of girl. I had morals, respect for myself.
And then—it all falls apart.
The old me.
Gone, if only for tonight.
I nod, raising my head to meet his lips, watching the depth of his gaze and trying to unravel his intentions.
“I’ll stay.”
We had spoken for one hour straight about different bodily rashes.
Emerson was adamant that the baby had chicken pox. Her fiancé, Logan, argued that it was poison ivy. The poison ivy seemed far-fetched but nevertheless—images were sought after on Google and my appetite dwindled down to nothing after the horrendous pictures I saw.
It was my first time meeting Logan Carrington. He was exactly how Emerson described him: stubborn, hot-headed and gorgeous.
He had an athletic build. Defined muscles from what I could see. And the longer I sat across him, the more he looked exactly like Lola. I couldn’t quite work it out, perhaps it was the light eyes or the way their faces contoured.
