Bad Boy Rich

There is no Wesley, just the driver. I want to find him, tell him to save me but I feared Carson. Terrified that my panic would cripple me and he would have his way with me.

Wesley appears out of nowhere, frantically looking for me. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to go, now.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you crying?”

“Take me home,” I cry, shaking.

I run to the car, ignoring the house and the monsters inside. Wesley hovers by the door, leaving it open which only fuels my anxiety.

“I’ll tell them we’re leaving.”

My neck twists; chin trembling, distressed. “Do it, and I’m gone.”

“You’re gone? Would you just make fucking sense?”

“Take me home,” I beg.

“We’re going, okay?” he utters, rolling his eyes with annoyance.

We sat in the car in silence; Wesley staring out the window in a distant gaze. I held back the rest of my tears, reliving what happened with Carson.

Every woman feared being raped, but when the reality was so close, perspective changes. Where was Wesley to protect me? This was his family—I would forever be bound to them if our relationship progressed. I didn’t think I could do this. All the pain, the hardship—love wasn’t getting me through it. It was only making it harder to climb out.

And Wesley—he hadn’t said one word to me in the car.

He didn’t care that he found me upset, or that I wanted to so desperately get away.

My phone buzzes in my purse, momentarily distracting me. I pull it out, and see that Mom has responded to my text.

It’ll be nice to have you home. Liam misses you xx

I shake my head in confusion at the mention of his name. Liam seemed like a lifetime ago yet safe, comforting—all the things that Wesley wasn’t giving me. He continued to sit across the other side, this gap between us seeming impossible to bridge.

Knocking on the glass window, it slides down and the driver leans his ear to listen. “Sir, can you please take me home?”

The driver looks at Wesley through the rear-view mirror, awaiting a response. Wesley continues his code of silence, and thankfully—the driver follows my instructions.

We drive down my street, it’s relatively early and the neighbors are out doing their usual Saturday night bickering on the sidewalk. When the driver parks the car, many turn to watch, and more notably—one has a long-lensed camera. Paparazzi at my home. This is all Wesley’s fault.

I half expected him to demand I stay in the car, but he doesn’t. When it’s clear that he has no interest in me and what happened tonight, I exit and slam the door in his face. Ignoring the flash that almost blinds me, my feet move quickly as I enter our building, not looking back at him, not even once.

Inside my apartment, I welcome the silence with Flynn gone to a gig. I sit on the couch, staring at the wall dressed in this ridiculous dress. I’m desperate to rip it off; a constant reminder of Carson’s wandering eyes.

Holding back the deep cries that linger on the surface, I dial Mom’s number praying she’ll pick up this time.

“Milana, is that you?”

“It’s me, Mom. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, no. Mom, can we talk about something?”

“Of course, honey, hold on for a minute. I’ll come home.”

“What home, Mom? I’m here…in California.”