Gina Geller, Rich’s mother, publicly came out that her son had been abused as a child by her former husband and billionaire tycoon, Harold Green. Rich responded to her claims on social media calling her a ‘pathetic excuse for a mother’ and leaked information about her four previous marriages. During this heated family feud that played out publicly, Rich was accused of being an accomplice in the Malibu drownings which saw two ladies’ bodies washed up on shore. The judge ruled out foul play, and Rich was acquitted on all counts, but his longtime friend, Max Kane, was charged with sexual assault.
I push my chair back as far away from the computer as possible. The heat inside the room is at boiling point. I run to the window in a frenzy to open it and breathe in the fresh air. The outside noise and hustle of the neighborhood surround me, yet I’m deaf. Words after words repeating in my head and taunting me over and over again.
This man—in my eyes—deserved so much more than a slap on the wrist and a stint in rehab.
He’s also my boss’s ex-fiancé.
He is dangerous.
Danger has a way of finding me, or maybe I’m the dangerous one.
My cell flashes on my bed, a stream of messages from the man himself.
Bad Boy Rich.
I fall onto my bed, the duvet welcoming my fall as I gaze blankly at the ceiling. I’ve stared at this ceiling numerous times. It has almost become a friend—a long-lost pal that opened its arms and let me pour my heart out until I’m all cried out.
It allows me to stare at it the first night here, the night I struggled to sleep with my impending
interview the next day. When I miss Mama and everyone back home, it will silently watch me as their voices fill my head, and the memories become music to my ears. We have this bond—the ceiling and me. Perhaps we are kindred spirits, or maybe, I’ve officially lost my marbles.
My cell lights up the room. The vibration is loud and obnoxious with its demanding presence. I guess it’s him. The man who decides to up and leave with no explanation. The man who has so much baggage that the term ‘excess baggage’ would be a complete understatement. He’s carrying a cargo liner of baggage. Destination—wherever you shouldn’t follow him.
But my curiosity gets to me. My hand reaches over, and as I roll to my side, nestling my face into my pillow, I read the texts that flood my cell.
Wesley: I keep fucking up.
Wesley: Milana, answer me.
Wesley: My head, I’m just not in a good place. Fuck. I’m sorry.
I should have responded. It’s the noble thing to do. Instead, I leave him hanging. I’m not his shrink. I will help him as much as I can, but I have my own problems.
Emerson is right.
Peggy is right.
The Internet paints a disturbing picture of him.
I have sense.
I am intelligent.
I will stay away because that’s what good girls do.
Chapter Twelve
It’s an unusually dreary day in Los Angeles. The rain is falling lightly, creating a humid atmosphere and overcasting the normally shining sun.
I’m sprawled across my bed, head resting on my pillow while I stare up at the ceiling with Mama on speakerphone.
“It sounds like you’ve settled in well, sweetie. I knew you would be perfect for that role,” she says as I listen attentively.
“I guess. What about you, Mama? The nurse’s report looks positive. I received it only yesterday.”
A small sigh escapes and echoes through the speaker. “The grounds are beautiful. The staff is wonderful. It’s just that everyone loves to socialize, and sometimes I simply want to sit and read.” It’s the most honest thing she’s said during our call. “Never mind me rambling, tell me how your brother is doing? I spoke to him last night. His gig went well, and I think the music scouts were impressed.”
“You spoke to him last night?” My slight annoyance with Flynn prompts me to sit up. He never tells me a thing. In fact, he storms out of the apartment in his usual dramatic way every time I see him lately. “He’s quite busy. We don’t get much time to chat.”