CRAZY FOR YOU: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Material Girls Book 3)

by Sophia Henry

  “Seems like you fit right in at the shop,” I say, easing into the conversation.

  “Yup,” she says, looking out the window rather than at me.

  “Do you know the main reasons tattoo artist today have successful, long term careers?” I ask.

  “Talent and word of mouth?”

  “Well, that’s part of it, but there’s something bigger that sets the greats apart.”

  “Ambassador Ink products?” She asks, turning to look at me for the first time. The wry expression on her face tells me she’s fucking with me. It’s funny and cute. She’s adorable when she’s pissed.

  I laugh. “That helps, too, but it’s more than that. The tattoo world has changed over the last ten years. Talented artists are everywhere. The things that make a great artist today are the ones who treat what they do as a business. Sure, they have fun and cut up and are weird and quirky–whatever brand you create for yourself. But they’re professionals.”

  “Are you insinuating I don’t treat my career as a business?” She finally looks at me.

  These are the moments when I wish it were Louis on this trip. When my brother calls a tattooer out, he makes it fun and friendly. They talk about it, laugh about it, and grab a beer. When it comes from me, it sounds like I’m scolding an insolent child. I get the eye rolls, the attitude, and doors slammed in my face.

  Then again, I’m not a bullshitter like my brother. I see things in black and white. You do the job you’re hired to do, and do it well—or get the fuck out of my business. If I’m working my ass off, I expect the same from my employees. I’ve never asked someone to do anything I wouldn’t do, and they know that. I’m in the trenches with them. Because of that, I expect their best. My employees either love me or hate me. If they understand my personality, we get along just fine. But if someone tries to slide under the radar and not do their job, I’m going to call them out. Hence the reason Ambassador Ink is down in manpower right now and scrambling to keep up with the employees we have.

  Not saying I have all the answers. It’ll get worked out soon, and we’ll be running efficiently again.

  “Business owners don’t come in too hungover to work on their clients. They don’t brag about how drunk they got the night before while they’re working on clients.”

  “That’s bullshit!” She exclaims. “That’s all the guys at my shop do is talk about where they went and how many drinks they had. Things they pissed on while walking home.”

  “And Stan is okay with that?”

  “Well, no,” she admits. “They talk like that when Stan’s out of town.”

  “It’s not a trait of a successful business owner, correct?”

  “They’re solid tattooers.”

  “Are any of them getting sponsorships?” I ask, which shuts her up immediately. “I’m just asking you to use this opportunity to set yourself apart from that crowd.”

  “Take it down a notch, Zayne! I’m twenty-two.” She folds her arms across her chest huffing like a spoiled teenager, which proves my point about her immaturity. Only now, I’m starting to see her as someone I need to protect rather than scold.

  “No way,” I say firmly. “I’m not letting you use your age as an excuse for unprofessional behavior. Not when you’ve built your brand around how you’ve been on your own since you left home at fourteen. How you worked your ass off and became well-respected and known in your field at such a young age. You don’t get to have it both ways.”

  “Actually, I do. I have the ignorance of youth on my side. I’m allowed to be good at my job while still fingering out the rest of my life. I’m not a cynical old man like you yet.”

  I laugh because she’s right. This is precisely the time where she gets to have that leniency. Maybe we were inadvertently put together to learn from each other. Maybe I can help her cut a few corners, and see that she can start putting the stepping stones in place now to get to her long-term goals earlier. Fewer mistakes, more efficiency—the opposite of how I lived at her age.

  “Look, I’m not trying to sound like your boss, Em. We’re having this conversation because I want you to be successful. Whether you believe it or not, I’m on your side. I’m trying to be the person in your life that tells you the things no one told me when I was an idiot twenty-two-year-old living the celebrity life.”

  “You were living a celebrity life at twenty-two?” she asks, tilting her head and pursing her lips in disbelief. “Celibate is more believable.”

  “I played professional soccer for a few years. Things got intense quickly,” I say, ignoring her childish comment. At a stop sign, I check the navigation quickly to make sure I’m going the right way. “I know how exciting and overwhelming it is to be in the spotlight.”

  “I’m not in a spotlight, Zayne. I’m a guest tattooer who went out to get to know the other artists. I didn’t realize that meant I didn’t take my career seriously. I thought it was part of being a team player.”

  “If you live the same sort of life you live at home—run with that same type of crowd, use this as a vacation rather than an opportunity—you’re going to get the same results. You understand that, right? Doing the same shit gives you the same results.”

  “Louis invited me to be on the Ambassador pro team, I have a waiting list, and I sold out a four-week tour in two days. I think I’m getting phenomenal results by doing the same shit I’ve always done.”

  Touché.

  “Just reminding you to think about the image you put out into the world. We live in the age of social media. Everything you do can—and will—be recorded whether you realize it or not.”

  “I’m constantly thinking about my image,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Oh yeah? What about that video from last night with the guy’s hands all over your tits?” I blurt out.

  “What about it?” The inflection in her voice sounds like she’s genuinely surprised I brought it up.

  “Is that the image you want?” I ask, slamming my hand on the steering wheel. “Drunk party girl who likes to get felt up on camera. I thought you said you were a professional who treated your career as a business.”

  Her surprised expression morphs into amusement. Suddenly she laughs, deep and loud. “That video was art, Zayne, art. I know you probably don’t understand much about art, but, since you’re so hung up on that video, if you recall, there is no alcohol present. No one can tell I’ve been drinking or partying. I’m posing with another tattoo artist. We’re both showing off our ink. His sleeves and hands and my neck, stomach, and arms. Artists do shit like that all the time.”

  “The vacant look in your eyes. His lips on you.”

  She smirks, then bites her bottom lip as if holding back before speaking. “Sounds like you’re more upset over another man’s hands on me than about how it affects my reputation.”

  She’s right, but it would be unprofessional to admit but it. And since this is all part of a business trip I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of sexual harassment here. “I should have never said anything.”

  “I know you think I’m this young idiot with no direction, Zayne, but the truth is that I’m very calculated about my career. Every photo. Every video. I know what I’m doing—what I’m putting out there. It seems like you came on this trip expecting to have to sweep in and save a damsel in distress. But I don’t need saving. I’m doing fine on my own.”

  “The only thing I’m trying to save is Ambassador’s reputation.”

  “If Louis had a problem with what I post and how I conduct myself, he wouldn’t have asked me to be on the Pro Team, right? If being a part of your team means you want to control me and my career, then I want out. I should call Louis tonight and tell him I’m done.”

  I slam on the brakes, though we aren’t at a light or a stop sign. Thankfully, there aren’t any cars behind us. I turn to her and look straight into her fiery eyes. “Are you threatening to tell on me?”

  “No,” she shakes her head quickly, casting her eyes toward h
er lap.

  “You were. You’re threatening to tell on me, just like a child.” I laugh. “Ya know what, let’s call Louis. I think now is a perfect time to give him an update.”

  “Why are you such an asshole?” She scowls at me.

  “I’m an asshole because I’m calling your bluff? You said you wanted to talk to Louis and I think it’s a great idea.” I press a button on the screen that pulls up the hands-free phone. “Call Jackweed,” I say into the air.

  EmVee snorts. “Wonder what Louis would say if he knew you had him stored in your phone as Jackweed.”

  Before I can respond that Louis does know, my brother’s voice fills the air, “What’s up, Z? How’s Philly treating you?”

  “Didn’t have to use my AK.”

  He chuckles. “Must’ve been a good day.”

  Emily’s eyes widen as she listens to my brother and I paraphrase an Ice Cube song in conversation like it’s not how people speak every day.

  “You’re on speaker right now. EmVee and I are on our way to her interview with Philadelphia Weekly. We just wanted to check in with you and let you know how our first week is going.”

  Louis’s frustration is “Jesus, Zayne. Are you scaring her? EmVee, is he fucking with you?”

  She shifts her gaze from me to the screen, as if Louis can see her. “He’s, um—”

  “You can say it,” he insists.

  “He’s really controlling,” EmVee blurts out. “And kind of an asshole.”

  She certainly didn’t hold back, which makes me respect her more.

  Louis bursts out laughing.

  “I’m trying to help,” I defend myself.

  “He got pissed at me because I went out with guys at the shop my first night here. It was my only free night in Philly. I wanted to bond with the other artists and enjoy myself after a long day.”

  “I didn’t get pissed because she went out. I got pissed because she got blackout drunk and started talking about in the shop,” I correct her.

  “I did not blackout. Oh my god!” She rests her elbow on the window frame and holds her forehead on her hand.

  “E, did you make it to work?” Louis asks, cutting straight through the bullshit, which is the way I usually handle situations. What is it about her that has me off my game?

  “Absolutely!” She leans into the radio as if getting closer—and louder—will get her point across.

  “Were you late?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you talk about your drunken escapades in front of clients?”

  “Yes,” I say pointedly before EmVee has the chance to answer.

  As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I regret it. We sound like two children tattling to their mother. I might as well stick my tongue out, pull her pigtails, and chase her around the playground.

  “Shut up, Z.” Louis scolds me in a tired tone. “Here’s the deal. I don’t give a fuck where you go and how much you drink in your free time. Hell, I don’t even care what you drink on Ambassador time. We all go out and get crazy. All I’m asking is that you not talk about that shit while you’re working. Stan doesn’t stand for that shit, and neither do I.”

  “I get it. I understand,” EmVee says.

  “And Z?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Simmer the fuck down. Take off your HR hat and put on your tattoo industry hat. No one wants to hang out with a cop for four weeks.”

  “10-4, little buddy,” I respond. He’s five foot seven even with his ugly, colorful cowboy boots on, and hates when I tease him about his size—which is precisely why I do it.

  “Oh my God! You are an asshole,” Louis says.

  EmVee shoots me a smug I-told-you-so smirk.

  “Only three and half weeks to go!” Louis says excitedly, trying to pump us up. “Try to have fun kids!”

  EmVee wiggles her jazz hands and gives a very uninspired, “Yay.” Though he’s already disconnected the call.

  We drive the rest of the way in silence, which gives me time to cool down and adjust how I interact with her. If I keep riding her ass, she’s going to get even more defensive and frustrated, and that’s the last thing I want. I’m not her boss, so there’s no reason for me to be hard on her. For some reason, she gets me fired up—in a good way. She’s a project I can work on. Maybe a mentor type person for this young successful business woman.

  Tonight, EmVee has an interview with a reporter from the Philadelphia Weekly, an art and entertainment publication. It’s the first of five or six interviews we have set up for her over the next few weeks. Booking them was easy, as she’s incredibly sought after in the industry right now.

  Louis hired a photographer and videographer to follow her around for parts of the tour so we have plenty of great shots for any aspect of her life that they might want to highlight in the articles. We’ll use the tattooing footage to highlight her on the ProTeam section of our website. Our marketing team will edit the other material into random, fun clips for our YouTube channel. Viewers love the behind-the-scenes footage.

  After pulling into the parking lot, I shift the car in park and turn to EmVee. “I’m sorry for how I railed you,” I begin. “You’ve come this far without my help, so there was no reason for me to stick my nose into your business.”

  “Thanks,” she says. Her entire body relaxes. “I’m sorry I’ve been so defensive, but I haven’t had anyone watching over my shoulder since my apprenticeship, and it took me off guard. I thought I’d left those hellish days behind me years ago.” She laughs.

  “You sure everything was okay last night?” I ask, holding the door open for her as we enter the restaurant. “This is me being concerned, not an asshole.”

  “Yeah. I can hold my own, Zayne,” she says in the softest tone than she’s had for me since we met. “If the drinks are flowing, I’ll start a conversation with anyone. I wasn’t planning on going home with that dude in the video or anything. I am a professional, but I’m also living my life. It’s the industry. The lifestyle.”

  The reporter who’s meeting with EmVee tonight hasn’t texted me to let me know she’s here yet, so we head to the bar. From the entrance, it seemed packed, but when EmVee strides through, the crowd seems to part like the Red Sea. People must assume she’s a celebrity because even with all her tattoos, she’s not physically intimidating. I pull out an empty bar stool for her and stand behind her, close enough to hear, but far enough that I’m not invading her personal space.

  “The lifestyle isn’t one specific thing. It can be whatever you want it to be,” I say. It’s true in any industry. Life is what you make of it. You can go balls to the wall and risk getting lost in the underworld, or you can skim the surface, and still keep your own identity.

  “I know you look at how I dress or act and think I’m loose or something, but I’m not.” She raps a fist on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. “I don’t sleep around. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I’ve only had sex with one person.” When she looks up at me, her cheeks are flushed. Our eyes meet for a split second before she looks away, then continues in a rush, “I mean, I’ve had a lot of sex,” her voice lowers, “but it’s all been with one person.”

  “I didn’t think that about you at all,” I tell her honestly. Even with my initial ignorant preconceived notions about her work ethic—and comments about her outfit choices—her being loose or slutty never crossed my mind. I try not to judge women that way.

  Hearing that she’s a had lot of sex grates on my nerves, sending a ripple of nausea through my stomach. Does that mean she has a long-term boyfriend? She hasn’t mentioned anyone, but that’s not surprising since we haven’t had many civil conversations. Part of me wants to kick the dude’s ass, but he must treat her well if she keeps going back. In theory. Some girls get caught up on an idiot thinking they can’t do any better.

  Though we’ve only known each other for a few days, I have this unexplainable urge to protect her. Maybe it’s because she’s so tiny. Maybe it’s beca
use I don’t want to see her make the same kind of mistakes I made.

  “Just because I vibe with someone, doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with him. It’s not something I take lightly. It’s an energy exchange. Not everyone deserves my energy.”

  “Wow! That’s the most mature thing I’ve heard you say since I met you.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you guys have that videographer recording my every move. He’s bound to get some of my wisdom on tape.” She winks. “Or you could have an amazing blooper reel. Almost fucked up a dude’s tatt today when my bra strap snapped while outlining.”

  She reaches into her t-shirt and adjusts things underneath. My gaze drops to her boobs quickly, which look pretty “lifted” as far as I can tell. “Excuse me?”

  Before she can explain further, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I hold up a finger, then reach into my front pocket to retrieve it.

  “The reporter from Philadelphia Weekly just arrived,” I announce, summarizing the text out loud and shoving my phone back into my pocket. Without thinking, I place a hand on her shoulder. “I’m gonna run to the door and grab her. Can you order me a club soda, please?”

  “I got you, boo,” she says, sending me off with double finger guns.

  Hanging out with EmVee is surprisingly enjoyable. She’s easy to talk to and isn’t afraid to hold back—two qualities I appreciate. While I’m still not completely convinced that she’d be on her best behavior if I weren’t here, I’m definitely impressed by how she’s handled herself at the shop. She’s very personable and can make anyone smile.

  I take complete responsibility I’ve had so much on my mind with Ambassador that I’ve taken my frustrations out on her when she didn’t even deserve it. Well, she did, but I shouldn’t have been as much of an asshole as I was. She’s not an employee who fucked up, and she’s not a child who doesn’t know what she’s doing. It’s time for me to get my head out of my ass before I scare off one of Ambassador’s most talented new artists.

  Chapter Eight

  Emily