Bad Boy Rich

To Phoebe.

And maybe…back to Liam.

Bad Boy Rich

Bang. Bang. Bang.

My eyelids, drooping and leaden with sleep, snap open, violently—the loud banging against the front door waking me up.

Several door chimes sound throughout the house; each pitch equally as annoying as the one that proceeds. Who the fuck would be here in the middle of the night? It better not be Troy—the fucker got his payment last month.

My head—spinning and out of control—looks over to my phone. The light is harsh, and I can barely make out the numbers. Five a.m.

There’s an irritating snore beside me. I turn over; the mattress sinking yet the movement doesn’t wake her. Felicity—Farrah’s younger sister—is sprawled out across my bed, her naked torso laying on top of the white sheets.

She still had traces of coke on her chest, and the more I looked at Felicity, the greater she disgusted me.

Don’t remember her face. Don’t remember the way she felt beneath you.

Remember that she left you…for him.

And that wound is fucking closed. I made sure of it.

I grab my pistol from my nightstand, throwing on my navy robe as I make my way to the door. The banging doesn’t stop, my name being called by someone familiar. The voice resonates, but I can’t seem to connect it to a face.

Turning the lights on, the glass doors leave nothing for anonymity. It’s Flynn, standing with a large duffel bag beside him.

“What the fuck are you doing here at this hour?”

He’s out of breath, panicked and his hair wildly messy. I hadn’t seen him for months, and the last time we spoke—he told me not to ask about her. He was pissed at me, and the small piece of information he did tell me was that she was doing really well.

I knew he had hit it big, signed up by Platinum Records and currently world-touring. Hollywood agents were desperate to sign him up. Flynn Beats—known by his new stage name—was killing it in his career.

“You need to clean your shit up,” he barks.

I’m stunned at his forwardness yet confused by ‘my shit’ needing to be cleaned up.

“What are you talking about?”

He bends down, reaching behind the duffel bag, and lifts a dark carrier by the handle. I stare, close my eyes, then open them again to finally figure out it’s a baby carrier.

“She’s yours.”

There’s a baby inside. Small, wrinkly and wrapped in a white blanket. The baby looked like some alien from outer space.

What the hell did he just say to me?

“She’s yours.”

“She’s yours.”

“She’s yours.”

“Dude, are you fucking listening to me?!”

Inside, my brain is a mess and refusing to compute the information. Closing my eyes, momentarily, I try to slowly process this information and ignore the heat trapped underneath my robe causing me to hyperventilate.

There’s a baby, yes. And Flynn is telling me it’s mine—not possible.