And it irritates me in ways I can’t identify. Her hot-and-cold personality. One minute she will stare at me with her big brown eyes and equally beautiful smile, and the next, it’s almost an expression of fear.
She often gives excuses like telling me she’s tired, and normally I’d crowd her. Not give her space for the fear of losing her.
But not this time.
I walked.
She is in New York, and I’m here, holed up in a penthouse suite in Vegas surrounded by lines of coke though my appetite is non-existent.
Farrah is riding my tail, texting me nonstop with empty threats. I need to cut this bitch loose once and for all. Her name, and mine, in the same tabloid isn’t what I need Milana to stew over. She already questions me, though not forcefully, and I say the bare minimum. Farrah doesn’t deserve an explanation, her train-wreck of a life says it all.
I sit here on this fancy king-size bed, scrolling through my phone. Image after image of Milana, shots she doesn’t know I took. My favorite ones are of her sleeping, sprawled naked across my bed. This woman is so deliciously beautiful that it fucking hurts.
My grip tightens on the bedspread, the temptation all around me. Gerry—head of penthouse suites—hooked the room up with my usual stash and some girls on tap if I want. I don’t care for it, any of it.
I crave the taste of her skin on my tongue.
Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it makes the heart craft its own tragedy. My sickening desperation in the pits of my loneliness has me calling her nonstop. Each unanswered call only feeds my insecurities.
Does she not understand how my mind works?
Does she know that avoiding me will only hurt herself?
I envy those around me, the ones who found their happiness within themselves. They don’t need anyone to survive, nor bring them happiness. My switch is jammed on self-destruct, and nothing can change that. There is a certain satisfaction in bitterness, but this time, I’m left unsatisfied.
It’s because my heart is beating erratically, pumped full of adrenaline every time I picture her face and imagine myself inside her. I once felt something similar with Em, but not like this. Not to the extent that I struggle to breathe and everything hurts like fucking hell.
I clutch my chest in a state of panic when my cell rings, blasting its annoying sound all over the large room.
Farrah.
“What do you want?” I grit impatiently.
“Always the nicest of greetings, Wesley. So, when are you coming to visit your son?” She laughs, and I know that laugh. She’s high on coke. Fucking whore doesn’t know how to control herself.
“Quit the fucking daddy talk. Seriously, what the fuck do you want?”
“So, tell me about this girlfriend of yours? Aside from the fact that she’s a nobody and from Alaska. C’mon, Wesley, Alaska? What are you doing? You can do better than that.”
I clench my jaw, the stubble sharp and wildly grown. She’s gotten to me in the worse possible way—talking smack about the woman I love.
“Leave her alone. What I do is my business.”
“Sweetie…” she sings, annoyingly, “… you should know that I like to make other people’s business my business. I will say her brother is a dud in the bedroom.”
“You fucked Flynn?”
“I didn’t fuck him. Please, give me some credit. I gave him what he wanted… he’s cute but argh… I would have preferred you.”
I’m void of any emotion toward Farrah. She plays the game and never by the rules.
“We’re so done, Farrah. Leave Milana alone, leave Flynn alone, and go back to Marsh. Shouldn’t you be riding his alimony train by now?”
“Don’t worry, I have Marsh covered. You, on the other hand, how can I get you in my bed again? We had some great times, you can’t deny that.”
The thought alone disgusts me. Farrah is that disease you just can’t get rid of no matter how hard you try, a parasite that crawls under your skin.
“Nothing you say or do will get me anywhere near you,” I state, adamantly.