Bad Boy Rich

I contemplated calling Em, but knew she would give me her typical bullshit response and ramble on about me taking charge of my life. That, and Carrington would probably come find me with a baseball bat. The fucker was a possessive prick. Ironic, considering Em was mine first.

So, I made the executive decision to leave the baby in her carrier, watching her stir softly while I brought it into the bathroom. I spent one minute in total, not my usual hour and jacking off. As soon as I got out, I threw on whatever clean I could find, jeans, white tee and my grey hoody. Gr

abbing a small backpack, I throw in boxers, tooth brush, and a spare set of clothes.

My driver, Jerry, arrives promptly, looking at me with curiosity.

“Don’t ask.”

Within an hour, we made it to LAX without any attention from the paparazzi. As the plane begins to take off, Katerina sleeps peacefully and gives me the much-needed time to close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

My eyes open upon the captain announcing our descent, five hours later. Jesus Christ, the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. My body ached all over, and even when I stretched my arms above my head—I couldn’t remove the stiff neck or painful lower back that irritated me.

It was very early in the morning, the sun only just rising behind the mountains. I hadn’t even thought of a plan. I was running low on diapers and formula. Katerina needed a feeding, and a bath. Fuck, I forgot how often Em said I should bathe her.

Flynn had texted me the address of Phoebe—Milana’s best friend—suggesting I go visit her first. If anyone knew Milana—it would be her.

A driver is waiting on the tarmac, and as soon as we are cleared for exiting, I make my way to the car and direct him to the nearest open drugstore.

“Yes, sir. It’s about five miles from here.”

I had no idea babies could sleep for long stretches, but remember Em’s advice: “You need to feed her every four hours, even if she’s sleeping.”

I whip out the bottle, carefully measuring the formula while sitting in the back of the car. The water is reasonably warm; this black insulated bag that housed her bottles a godsend.

I’m desperate to get to Phoebe’s house but knew that Katerina needed feeding. Pulling her out of her carrier, she squirms with an odd expression, then lets out a long-winded fart which sounded airy and runny.

Fuck—here we go again.

I swear, this kid shits like twenty-four-seven. As soon as she’s done, the last diaper comes out and I’m changing this gross yellow shit that looks revolting. The bile in my throat rises, and I’m dry heaving trying to clean her up. Goddammit, it’s so fucking difficult. What did I know about cleaning girl parts? Fuck, I swear—this is not as easy as Em made it out to be.

To make it all the worse, it got on her jumpsuit.

I changed her outfit, taking a good ten minutes to figure out what button goes where, my frustration mounting as her cries sound louder. Finally, I’m done and shove the bottle in her mouth, welcoming the silence.

After a full feed, burp, then burp again—she’s settled.

It fucking wasted an hour.

I ask the driver to mind her while I quickly duck inside the drugstore. The assistant who is young and notices who I am, offers some advice on different brands. There is no time for this bullshit, so I purchase what she recommends only to be asked for a selfie. I decline, telling her it’s for personal reasons. My biggest worry was the paparazzi tracking me down.

I didn’t want anyone scaring Milana away and the paps were ruthless pigs.

She appeared embarrassed; cheeks flushing red and barely making eye contact after that. And unlike my normal behavior, I pull her into a hug, kiss her cheek, and say thank you.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asks, opening the door for me.

I read out the address that Flynn texted me.

“And quick, please.”

“You must be Phoebe.”

Her face tightens; arms folded with an irritated stance as she blocks the doorway. Milana never described her. Quite ordinary with ginger-colored hair and bright green eyes. Much like Milana, there was an innocence about her. I bet the woman has never been laid. She had that prissy, uptight look about her. The PJs she wore with unicorns all over them a dead giveaway.

“Yes. And you must be the douche who knocked up my best friend.”

“Kinda harsh, considering it takes two to tango?” I smirk, not appreciating the label.