Bad Boy Rich

“Stop.” Flynn’s voice wavers. “She loves Mom too much. She wouldn’t want to inflict pain. She’s around, and knowing Milana, she’ll find her way back to Mom.”

Of course, I should have known that. If there was one thing that should have been clear as day—it was Milana’s love for her mother. Something I couldn’t grasp.

Family—what the fuck was that again?

But then again—I knew very little about her. I was a fucking fool to let her go. I wanted this perfect soul to guide me back and couldn’t fathom anyone needing me.

“I have to go. You can find her, Wes, she loves you. She’ll never admit it but she never got over you. The baby was just…not planned. That’s what stopped her coming back to you.”

Flynn made no sense. Babies brought people together, not distance them.

“Why would it stop her? If anything, it should have brought her back.”

“No,” he says with finality. “Milana’s biggest fear was inheriting Mom’s disease. If she didn’t procreate, no one would suffer. So, in a way, I saw this breakdown coming. I just lived in denial hoping she would fall in love with the baby and forget. You can do this…she needs you.”

The call ends; the tone lingering while I continue to sit motionless. It fucking hurts; reliving every moment we were together. Searching for signs, clues—or anything that would lead me to where I would find her. And for such a long time, I numbed the pain which made it all the worse. Finally, the feeling consumes me, stabbing me in every nerve and crippling my ability to think straight. I can’t escape it; screaming in the inside for some sort of relief.

And even through these thoughts, I was reeling—still unsure of how this all happened. At what point did this become us? A baby that belonged to the two of us. Something we created out of desperate times, unknowingly. What fucked-up plan did God have in store for us? Yeah, I still fucking prayed alright. I remember being a good little Catholic boy once upon a time.

Since the moment she left me, I didn’t allow myself to think about her. My ego, bruised and cut up, had nothing against that constant ache that lingered from her absence. I had spent the time away from home, on remote locations and would do anything I could to not remember her. Okay, I fucked up. Felicity was a big fuckup. A weak moment. I just wanted to rub salt into Farrah’s open wound. She wanted me, and I loved the fact that she begged like a goddamn whore.

And yeah, being the dick I am, it was payback for leaking mine and Milana’s relationship to the press. Not only did I begin fucking Felicity, I ran my mouth off to the press about Farrah’s baby daddy being a big Hollywood CEO.

It took the heat off me, and was fun while it lasted. Nothing more satisfying than watching Farrah scream like a psychopath in the middle of a LIVE show.

But like anything, it was short lived. Milana always found her way back to me through my lingering memories.

To know her, is to love her, and to never forget her.

Occasionally, something would trigger a memory of us. Like the time I was sitting at Olive Garden and Barry Manilow showed up. I remember smiling to myself, wishing she were with me so we could take a selfie. She would have fucking loved it.

Then, at other times, the taste of her skin became this focused memory and lingered on my tongue. Taunting, teasing, and itching every nerve inside of me. Those were the times I would get high, and that cycle—was nasty.

I stare at my wall for too long, and as the darkness shadows the room—my mind becomes radiantly clear.

We both needed our cards laid out, all or nothing, ride-or-die type of moment.

Fix what we both simultaneously broke.

I refuse for Katerina to grow up damaged like I had become. Gina may have fucked me up for good, but I’ll be damned if my daughter has to experience the same fucked-up life I had endured.

And I swear, I will fucking slit Gina’s throat if she dare hurt my kid. Not only her, but her pathetic excuse of a husband. I’m done with her emotional blackmail. She may have allowed me to be abused as a kid, but that cycle needed to fucking break.

As for Carson, the sleazy prick, I made sure he got what was coming to him. Tax fraud: it’s a fucking little bitch when the IRS find out what dodgy deals he’s been doing behind their backs. Jail time would suit him. At least he’ll get fucked in the ass more times than he’s attempted to rape women in Hollywood. The man deserved everything he got. I just should have seen the signs. Never let him lay a single finger on Milana. God, I’d fucked up so many times. I should have fucking killed the bastard right there and then.

Okay, stop.

Focus—I need to find her.

I text my new personal assistant, Deidre, asking her to book a private plane to Alaska. If Milana would be found anywhere, I suspected it would be near, if not with—her mom.

Deidre is like my knight in shining armor, or whatever the fuck that saying is. Though I was glad to have chosen an older woman to be my personal assistant, my biggest problem was whether she should retire in a year to Boca or Palm Springs. She was efficient, made sense of my chaotic life, and invited me to dinner once a week with her and her husband. He was ex-military but played a mean game of chess.

She’s a blessing, and nothing like the women before her that just wanted to suck my dick and have me take them in like a stray cat.

I wanted to explain to Deidre my reason for going, knowing that she would be supportive, but she did her duty, booked the plane which was due to leave in two hours.

Fuck. How would I pack a bag, shower, and take care of the baby?