Bad Boy Rich

I nod, hiding my sadness with a smile. “This meal looks amazing.”

“Spicy, so watch out. A housekeeper I grew up with taught me how to cook it.” He takes a bite, following through with some wine. “So, you have questions…”

I swallow my food and drink the wine, almost in one go, not expecting him to be so forthcoming.

“I can’t think. I don’t know, Wesley. I just don’t know you.”

He pours more wine into my glass then his, taking another drink before clearing his throat. Another drink and I would be passed out on the floor. I needed to pace myself to get through the questions he wanted me to ask.

“I was born in Kansas, a small town, but we lived there until I was about four. I don’t remember much, not even my dad.”

“Your dad lives in Kansas?”

“He did, when he was alive.”

I reach out to touch his hand, mindful that it must be difficult for him to open up to me. His expression remains fixed, barely asserting an emotion that would tell me how he felt about this happening.

“How did he, um—”

“He fell out of a tree, broke his neck then went into cardiac arrest.”

A gasp escapes me, and quickly, I cover my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why? I didn’t know him. Just stuff my mother told me.”

“The tree, on your chest, is that the tree?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, less enthused.

I didn’t understand why he would ink something on his skin, such a powerful image yet he had no recollection of his father nor did it seem like he cared.

“Why? I mean, what made you ink that image?”

“Because I wanted a reminder of how different life would be if he was here. How whatever fucked-up thing I’m going through—it didn’t have to be this way. That fate played a cruel part in my life.”

It was obvious to me that whatever stuff he was supposedly dealing with, was largely influenced by his outlook. In ways—he was a sadist. Looking for his next problem rather than solution.

“And your bridge tattoo, the one of the Golden Gate?”

He smiles this time. “My favorite place. My best memories. Husband number two, Leonard, raised me for a few years there.”

“You lived in San Francisco?”

“We did, for about two years when I was ten. Most of the time we lived out here, you know, because that’s where the fame is at and we all know what Gina is after in a husband.”

Back home, this kind of behavior would be unheard of. Most people were still married, aside from my mom and dad, though that was the talk of the town for a long time according to Mom. I was oblivious to those whispers; busy growing up and enjoying my childhood. It was only when my dad returned that it all went pear-shaped.

“I know she doesn’t have the best reputation. She was nice when I met her.”

“She’s nice to everyone…to their face. Trust me, Gina has her ulterior motives.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” He laughs at my question, rather darkly. “It means that Gina cares for Gina…and whatever man is paying for her lifestyle. Gina doesn’t care for her son, nor what happens to him when she’s away and husband uses Gina’s son as a punching bag.”

My heart descends from my chest into my stomach, aching for the little boy that was forced to deal with such violence at a young age. It explained his disrespect for his mother, his need to control the environment he was in and his careless attitude towards his life.

“Wesley, I’m sorry.”