Bad Boy Rich

That grin…again. What the hell is his problem and why the thousand questions?

“Just trying to figure you out, Miss Milenov.”

His eyes stare with curiosity. Something about him seems familiar. I must have seen his face in some magazine or something. Perhaps one of Phoebe’s trashloids…at least, that’s what I called them.

“I need to be somewhere. So unless you have any work-related questions, I need to go.”

He places his arm across the door frame, forcing me to stop in my tracks. I’m not used to being around such dominant men aside from my ex back in college. Creepy would be the better description. Liam and the boys back home were so laid back. Something I missed dearly. Flynn—he was just a lazy grub. But this, this I was unsure of how to handle. My instincts say go with your gut, don’t let him get to you.

“Maybe it’s a good idea if you carry some spare clothes with you, you know, accidents seem to be your thing.”

“You don’t know me,” I state confidently, holding his gaze and focusing on the unique color of his eyes. They’re like a golden-ish hazel-green color. I’m certain he uses them to get what he wants. Just not with me. No wonder Emerson warned me.

“Maybe I don’t. I’ll just stand here waiting for my apology.”

“Apology?” I laugh at the stupidity of his comment. “For what?”

He bends down, the essence of his aftershave lingering in the air between us. Okay, breathe, don’t let that scent get to you. His lips shift closer to my ear, and easily he whispers, “You said if we ever cross paths again, you’d take your apology out of my ass and actually mean it.”

My heart stops. The ticking resume seconds later at a loud and fast rate. No. This can’t be the same guy…

I lift my head so our faces are inches apart, then I touch his face with my bare hand, without even thinking, and lift his chin, tilting it to the left to confirm my fears.

That scar.

Pink, raw—and exposed.

It was him.

I made it to the bar where Flynn would be playing. A place named Locust in a trendy part of town.

The place is jammed; full of young and old people in small groups, sitting and standing around the high-end bar tables that are scattered around the cozy venue.

The lighting is poor; a few sconces on the wall and an old guitar hung behind the bar with a spotlight hovering over it. This grunge-type ambience wasn’t my thing, but I was here to support Flynn. I did, however, make a mental note to avoid the restrooms at all costs.

I’d been nursing a gin and tonic for over an hour, waiting patiently for Flynn to begin his set. Alone, at the bar, I made small talk with the bartender as she kindly offered to top me off every so often. I wasn’t much of a drinker these days, sipping slowly trying to clear my thoughts without much luck.

I’ll admit it—h

e got to me.

Wesley Rich.

Crawled under my skin like a parasite. It wasn’t just the fact that I looked stupid for not knowing he was the same guy I ran into last week, it was the way he spoke to me. Like I was a nobody.

The music in the room softens to a much more enjoyable level as a guy with long hair—tied into a loose ponytail—tests the mic. His beard almost touches his chest; long and full enough to house a swarm of bees.

I swivel my chair around to face the set and see Flynn sitting on a stool, practicing with his sticks. He’s focused, narrowing his brow and biting his lip, flicking his piercing with his tongue.

Wait…a piercing? My foot falls off the stool and onto the ground as I stumble forward only to be pulled upright by an unknown hand.

“Jesus, can’t take you anywhere.”

The shock slows me down until I turn slowly and connect the hand with the face.

Are you kidding me? I didn’t know what messed-up game the universe was playing but I wanted out.

Wesley is standing beside me, smirk the size of Jupiter with that annoying stare that drives me insane. Yeah, I know what he’s thinking: here’s that dumb girl again that seems to manage to make a fool of herself every time I’m around.