by Sophia Henry
“You’re going to drive this?” Emily asks, her wide eyes gazing at the two-seater convertible with huge-ass wheels.
“That’s what I bought her for,” I say, lowering my sunglasses onto my face.
“Wait.” She shifts her gaze from the car to me quickly. “You own this car?”
I laugh. “Yup.”
She says something I can’t quite hear. Instead of giving her the satisfaction of asking her to repeat her mumbled comment, I open the passenger door and gesture for her to get in. For the first time since we met, sassy, goth fairy seems intimidated, hesitating and looking around before climbing in. Suddenly, the air sizzles between us as if some kind of imaginary power has shifted in my favor.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask, sliding into the driver’s side and securing my seatbelt. “It can be scary.”
“Whatever, Zayne. I’ve been in fast cars before.”
“I’m just trying to prepare you, EmVee. I can guarantee it’ll be a ride unlike any you’ve had before.”
“Shut up and drive,” she commands. Though, excitement shines in her eyes—I’m fairly certain she’s shitting her pants.
Or maybe she’s mocking me. She hasn’t made her feelings about being on tour with a “square” like me secret. Louis Vitale, outrageous personality, handlebar-mustache guy, would do something exciting like driving a high-performance car, but not Zayne, her human resources handler on tour.
I’m convinced of two things: she has no clue that I own the company, and she doesn’t think I have an exciting bone in my body. She’s probably ridden on the back of a tatted-up friend’s motorcycle on a straight stretch of I-485 and thought that was fast.
She has no clue what she’s in for, I laugh to myself.
Over the last decade, I’ve been through three cars learning how to drive these tracks, and I’ve gotten good. So good, she’s gonna slide out of this car so fucking wet between her legs, she’ll probably have to put her pussy under a hand dryer in the bathroom.
The thought makes me hard—harder than I already am sitting behind the wheel of this beautiful vehicle. My heart pumps harder, blasting blood through my veins. I shift into gear and slam the pedal to the floor. The Jag takes off—0-60 in three seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her head plastered against the headrest. Her temporary paralysis makes me smirk.
EmVee’s hair swirls around her face—a cloud of silver strands. She brings a hand up to tame it, but can’t seem to get it all in her fist. If I didn’t have to keep my eyes on the road, I’d watch her try to gather it, but this is a track you have to handle, which is what I love about it. Anyone can go 180 miles per hour on a straightaway, but knowing when to slow down or power through an upcoming turn and all the steering you have to do is what makes the experience.
She must give up on taming her locks because suddenly, whips of hair lash against my face.
“Jesus!” I yell, raising an arm to deflect her hair. I lift my foot from the gas pedal, slowing down slightly until I can see again. “Don’t you have a fucking ponytail thing?”
“Sorry!” she yells back. “I can’t get to it. I can barely move with how fast you’re going!”
Heh.
Because I’ve slowed down, I get passed by a Porsche. It pisses me off at first, but I won’t be able to keep driving with her hair whipping my face, so I let common sense rule.
“Do you want me to put the top up?” I ask.
“No!” she says, digging into the front pocket of her jeans. After she secures her hair, she smiles and gives me a thumbs up. That’s when I floor it again.
Time to find that Porsche.
“That was one of the sexiest experiences I’ve ever had,” EmVee says. Other than the “Holy fuck!” she whispered when we climbed out of my Jaguar, it’s the first thing she’s said since our ride.
“Got you excited, didn’t it?” I ask, pulling onto the road to head back to Chicago. I may have to use some of my racing skills on the highway from Joliet to Chicago because we’re running late—and it’s my fault. She’s got an interview with the Chicago Free Press for a full-page feature in their art section.
“No comment,” she says pointedly, looking at me quickly before turning back to gaze out the window. What’s the deal with that place? We flew to Chicago, so how did you get your car there?”
“I store it there. They have garages on site. It’s part of my membership.”
“How often do you get there?”
“Well,” I say, leaning my elbow against the window and guiding the wheel with one hand. “I used to only go once or twice a year, but I love that car. So I try to make it up once a month, weather permitting.”
“How much does it cost to be a member?”
She’s gonna have a fucking conniption when I tell her the details of membership. But I’m prepared. “The initial fee was $40,000.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. The initial fee was $40,000, and it’s around $5500 a year to be a member.”
“Did that include the car?”
I give her a wry smile because we both know the answer. We also know what her next question will be.
“How much was the car?” she asks right on cue.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“Let me rephrase, it’s not your business what I paid for my car, but it’s a 2018 Jaguar F-Type SVR if you want to look it up.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t go straight for Google, choosing instead to grill me more. I knew it would happen after taking her to the track. She’s young and idealistic. She wants to rail me for being wasteful. There are starving kids in Africa, and I spend my money on fast cars and racing tracks. She’s not wrong, but every story has two sides. How she chooses to view how I spend my money says more about her character than it does mine.
“Let me see if I have this straight. You’re at least a hundred grand in for a hobby you use, what? Eight times a year at most?”
“Shit! I’d say three or four hundred grand,” I correct her. “That’s my third car, and I’ve been a member for around nine years, so yeah, it’s gotta be close to four hundred at this point.”
Her jaw drops. Disgust swirls in her eyes. I just lean back into my seat and look straight ahead.
If she’s looking for a fight, I’ll give her one. She needs to see the world as it is, not just the pre-conceived perception in her mind. She’s had horrible experiences with shitty rich people, namely—her parents. I get it. But like with anything—you can’t call yourself an open, non-judgmental person, then judge everyone in a group by the actions of a few. I brought her here to prove a point. Not everyone with money is an evil asshole on a power trip. Her parents may be trash, but not everyone who has money is.
“You don’t find anything wrong with that?”
“Nope. A buddy I used to play soccer with is a social worker in Chicago. I’ve got it set up at the club where he can take my car out on the track anytime he wants. He’s gets there multiple times a week.”
“Must be nice.”
“Absolutely,” I say with extra enthusiasm, because I know she’s trying to dig at me. And this is where I get to knock the smirk off her face. “He works closely with the We Grant Wishes Foundation and foster homes in the Chicago area. He’s got kids on that track every week. He could never afford the car or membership, so I’m really proud to be able to use the resources I have to help people who wouldn’t normally get an opportunity like that.”
Emily’s mouth was open, ready to rail me, but instead of speak, she swallows back the unsaid words and presses her lips together.
I’ll be honest, I love putting people in their place when it’s justified. Especially people who think they know everything about how the world works. The truth shuts up the people who can actually get their head out of their ass and see a different viewpoint. But not everyone can—or will—do that.
Guess I’m about to see which side of the fence she falls on. I ap
preciate her passion for justice and wanting to help people, but if she keeps running her mouth without knowing the full picture, she’s going to get called out. Whatever I say it is going to be a hell of a lot nicer than the public embarrassment of being called out on social media for not knowing what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m a huge advocate for researching both sides of an issue before you take your stand.
When she finally speaks, I’m assuming it’s going to be an apology, but she surprises me—as always.
“That’s pretty fucking cool of you, Zayne,” she says. “I see you in a new light.”
“Is it a better light than you saw me before?”
“It’s—different.”
“Good thing I’ve always seen different as a compliment.”
“It’s definitely a compliment.” She says, then catches her bottom lip in her teeth. “It kinda makes you seem sexy.”
I whip my head towards her, unsure I heard correctly. “Sexy, as in, you’re going to try to jump me as soon as we get out of the car?”
“You wish,” Emily says through a snort, waving a hand at me. “I know you think I have daddy issues, and maybe I do, but it’s not those kinds of daddy issues.”
“Jesus, Emily. I never said that.” She may have meant it as a joke, but it’s one of those comments that strikes me the wrong way.
“I know you never said it, but I can tell. You treat me like a child, rather than a peer.”
“We aren’t peers.”
“What the hell, Zayne! It’s like you’re sitting there waiting to call me out every time I open my mouth. Maybe we aren’t peers, but we are co-workers, and I deserve respect,” she snaps. “The rest of this trip will go much more smoothly if you shove your preconceived notions about me up your ass and start treating me like an adult.” Then she mumbles, “Fuck Louis for sticking me with a fucking HR prick.”
I burst out laughing which incenses her even more by the way her nostrils flare and lips press into a thin line. Clearing my throat doesn’t mask the laugh at all, but it helps me stop, so it serves a purpose.
All this time, she’s thought I was someone from Ambassador Ink human resources? Louis didn’t tell her I was an owner? So many things make sense now.
“I’m not—” I start to tell her I’m not HR, but she cuts me off by holding out her open hand and shaking her head.
I can’t remember the last time someone used “talk to the hand” on me. It takes all my might to hold in another laugh, because I know she’s pissed. And I’m actually trying to diffuse the situation I created.
“I think it’s best if we stay silent the rest of the ride. Wouldn’t want you to call Louis and tell on me again or write me up in one of those reports you’re working on—or whatever the fuck you do on your computer all day.” She pulls out her phone and lowers her head, dismissing me.
My grip on the wheel tightens as I try to hold my tongue. My initial reaction when someone is being so combatant is to fight fire with fire. But we’ve come so far since the bickering in Philadelphia, and—she’s right. I was being an asshole, and she does deserve respect.
I’ll admit, judging her maturity by her age was harsh. With the exception of her second day in Philadelphia, she’s been extremely professional. A trip like this is stressful for me, and I’m not even the one in the limelight, I can’t even imagine how difficult it is for an artist—no matter their age or experience.
The fact that she called me out doesn’t make me mad. Quite the contrary, actually. Her response shows me that she doesn’t back down, and she communicates her rather than keep the emotion and frustration in, letting it build up.
I’m not waiving the white flag or anything, but it’s time to switch gears for good and get on the same team.
Chapter Thirteen
Emily
When we get back to the hotel, all I want to do is get away from Zayne, but a reporter and camera person from the Chicago Free Press are waiting for us in the lobby. We’re only two weeks in and I’m completely exhausted—mentally, physically, spiritually. I’ve barely had time to sketch or journal—which is how I ground myself each day—and it’s taking a toll. The imbalance has frustration festering inside, and it’s coming out in the form of snark and anger at Zayne.
Though, to be fair, he deserves the attitude. His mood swings are giving me whiplash. One minute he’s super-sweet and touchy-feely, and the next he’s being a complete asshole.
Projection, Emily, projection. Maybe you’re the one being an asshole, and he’s vibing to your attitude.
I consider myself an extroverted introvert, and this tour has been more extroverted “on” time than I expected. Ambassador has had me going from morning until night. Even during the day, when I can usually zone out and quietly focus on tattooing, I’ve had photographers and videographers in my face, asking me questions to get the footage they want for Instagram stories, articles, and whatever other promotion they’ll put together in the future.
I thought I understood what would be expected of me while on tour when I agreed to it, I just didn’t realize how exhausting it would be. I’m used to having down time after tattooing for eight to ten hours straight. Over the last two weeks, between dinners, interviews or photo shoots, I’ve had something scheduled for something almost every night.
I’m not complaining, but I seriously need some alone time to rebalance and breathe. I haven’t had to work six out of seven days for a very long time. I set my own hours, and take mental breaks when I need to. Plus, I don’t really count travel days as days off. Traveling is exhausting in its own way.
But traveling with Zayne is a different kind of exhausting.
He’s so frustrating. Who goes from flirting and touching, to condescendingly throwing his charity work in my face? Why not start the experience by telling me that he lets people from the We Grant Wishes Foundation use his car to make sick kids happy? No, he had to drive around like a douchebag and then throw it at me just to knock me down. Being around him today felt like when I’m around my family and their friends. Normally, I have the luxury of staying away from arrogant people who think they’re better than I am. This time, I’m stuck.
But I guess Zayne is stuck, too. He’s made it crystal clear that he never wanted to be on this tour with me. I should probably back off a little. He’s most likely just as stressed out having to do something outside of his wheelhouse, as I am having to be “on” all the time. Poor arrogant, douche is just doing his job.
“What got you started in tattooing?” Cindy Lou Who from the Chicago Free Press asks. I actually can’t remember what the fuck her name is, but her blonde hair is pulled into two braids, so she’s getting called Cindy Lou Who or Pippy Longstocking in my head.
I’m about to launch into my answer when Zayne walks up and places a bottle of water in front of me. I look up, thanking him with a small smile and a nod. Despite his annoying tendencies, I can’t deny that he’s taken great care of me over the last two weeks.
Once we’ve said goodbye to the newspaper crew, I close my eyes, lean back, and sigh. My lower back hurts from being hunched over. My neck and shoulders are tense from holding all the stress I’ve been carrying with no outlet.
“I’m so sorry, Em. You must be starving. You wanna grab dinner?”
“No, thank you. I just need to get to bed.” I say, without opening my eyes. My lids are so heavy, I may not be able to open them until tomorrow morning. Wonder if it’s acceptable to sleep in the hotel lobby if you have a room booked.
Zayne touches my knee, which stirs something inside, and my eyes snap open.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says softly. “I just wanted you to know that I’ve canceled everything in New York except your days at the shop and your photo shoot with Ink Scene Magazine. Detroit is completely open too. You need the rest.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry it’s been so much. I should have realized that sooner. Thank you for being such a professional through these las
t two weeks. I really appreciate it.”
His words are a complete one-eighty from the second day in Philly when he called me an unprofessional amateur and insinuated I didn’t take my career seriously. The kindness and compliment make my heart flutter.
Suddenly, Zayne has me feeling some sort of way—the same same way I feel when I’m watching Matty Healy, the lead singer of The 1975—my favorite band—on stage. A little bit of appreciation and a whole lotta lust.
“Look, I’m really sorry for how I acted today. I had no right to lash out at you. You’ve been wonderful to work with this week. It’s just, all of this has just been a lot. I usually have more alone time to rebalance and get myself together, ya know? I’ve been riding on anxiety and nerves these last two weeks. I shouldn’t take it out on you. You’re just—always around.”
Zayne laughs. “I get it. I know how exhausting tours like this are. In theory,” he says. “I’ve only been on week-long tours before. This is Louis’ thing. He loves this shit.”
“You don’t?”
“A lot of us HR stiffs aren’t cut out for tattoo shops and paparazzi all day and night for weeks on hand,” he teases.
Jesus. I cover my face with both hands. “I’m so sor—”
“It’s okay,” Zayne grabs my hands and gently lowers them. “Obviously, I was thinking of you when I canceled the unnecessary commitments, but selfishly, I was happy to have them gone as well. I need down time too.”
My gaze drops to his crotch for a split second, checking to see if he’s as affected as I am by him touching me. The bulge in his jeans doesn’t look any larger than usual, which is slightly disappointing.
Oh my god! What am I even doing?
You love him.You love him not. You love him. You love him not. Which is it, Emily?