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

by Sophia Henry

  For some reason, a random comment that Dez made springs to mind. “Words have power. Be careful what you put out into the world.”

  I reread the last line of note.

  Down to the bottom of the Detroit River with him?

  He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have.

  Jumping to such a horrible conclusion seems ridiculous, but Zayne’s entire demeanor changed after he took me to the bridge and told me his story. Being back there drove him straight back into shock and depression.

  Tears spring to my eyes and my heart rate speeds up. I grab my phone and press his name immediately. When the call goes straight to voice mail, I hang up and give it time to reset, before calling him back. This time, instead of hanging up, I leave a voice mail.

  “Zayne call me back immediately. I’m not mad, okay. I’m worried about you. I need to know you’re okay. Please. Just call me or text me and let me know you’re okay.”

  Pacing the room, I rub my face with both hands, trying to figure out what to do next. Should I call a ride to take me to the bridge? Should I call the police?

  Louis! I’ll call Louis.

  Ignoring the eye makeup that smeared all over my fingers when I rubbed my tear-streaked face, I call Louis. It rings twice, then goes to voice mail. I try to keep the panic out of my voice when I speak. “Hey man! Just wondering if you knew where Zayne was? I know I annoy him, but I didn’t think he’d ghost me,” I quip, trying to make the call seem much lighter than it is. “Call me back, okay?”

  Twenty minutes later, I get a text from Louis saying: “Z is here in Charlotte, being the best uncle these two could have.” with a photo attachment from Louis. It’s an adorable picture of Zayne caught mid-laugh as he holds a beautiful baby boy in each arm.

  I sink to the floor, relieved he’s alive. Tears roll down my face and land on my chest. Pressing my back against the wall, I stifle a laugh by covering my mouth with my fingers, as I study the photo again. I’ve never seen a happier smile than the one he’s wearing.

  Despite the heartache seeing him brings, it’s beautiful to see him so happy. It gives me hope that when—or if—I finally have the courage to confront my demons, I’ll be able to smile again the next day.

  The rain pelting my head as I walk to the shop feels like the universe is weeping with me. With Zayne here, I’d developed a soft spot for the Motor City. Now, it feels as cold, dreary, and depressing as everyone told me it would be before I got here. Only now, I realize that they weren’t even talking about the weather.

  Getting up for my last day at the shop in Detroit was nearly impossible, but this is a business trip, and I’m here to promote myself and Ambassador Ink—and I’ve got one more day to do that. Zayne did his part showing me the ropes. I can handle myself and go out like a champ.

  Just because my heart is bleeding, and tears and rain send streaks of eyeliner down my cheeks, doesn’t mean I’ll give up. This is my career, and nothing will get in the way.

  When I walk into the doors of the shop, I flip the switch. Emily Commons may have spent all night with her knees curled to her chest sobbing, but Em Vicious cover her bloodshot eyes with ridiculously oversized sunglasses, plasters on a smile, and enters the building like she owns the place—because after a month on tour—I’ve earned the rock star façade.

  “Damn, Vicious!” Dan says, following it up with an appreciative whistle.

  “Simmer down, gents! I have an announcement!” I say, raising my voice for all to hear as if what I’m about to say is super important. I’m trying to use my persona to keep my mind off being abandoned by Zayne, but my heart feels like an anchor, dragging me deeper and deeper into the muck at the bottom of the deep blue sea. “If your fearless leader will do me the honor, I’d like to have him tattoo his brilliant art onto my body today.”

  “Are you for real?” Dan asks, sitting upright in his chair. His eyes search my face for clarification. “You want me to give you a tattoo?”

  His reaction sounds like the one I have when I’m speaking with an artist I have huge respect for. It’s something I can’t comprehend. Dan does beautiful, detailed cartoon tattoos and owns his own shop. I’m a random girl from Charlotte.

  “Yeah, dude!” I place my hand on his shoulder. “If you have time today, that would be rad. I don’t want to leave Detroit without a meaningful souvenir.”

  “We gotta do this right,” he says. “You do me, and I’ll do you.”

  “Do we get to watch?” Stefan calls from the back of the shop where he’s at the copier making a stencil.

  “I love being watched,” I quip, rolling with the innuendo, as I walk to my station to set up for my first client.

  Ron comes in asking for a Red Wings logo.

  “Do you have a picture?” I ask since I have no clue what a Red Wings logo is.

  My question is met with a loud chorus of boos from the guys in the shop and Ron staring at me like I have three eyes, and I’m not quite sure why.

  “Detroit Red Wings. Ya know, our local hockey team. Eleven Stanley Cups. Long legacy of awesome.” Dan explains, drawing out each point thinking the next one might get me to understand. When my reaction is to shrug, he points to a huge banner on the wall above his station. “That’s what it looks like.”

  “You seriously didn’t know what that was?” Ron asks.

  “Oh my god! I’m a tattoo artist from the South. How the fuck am I supposed to know a fucking flying wheel on a wall in The Motor City is the logo of an ice hockey team?” I defend myself.

  “Anyone else available to do my tattoo?” Ron asks into the room.

  “Nope. You get the Southern girl who just put the word ‘ice’ in front of hockey,” Dan deadpans.

  To be a tattoo artist, you have to have thick skin, not only because not everyone is going to like your work, but also because the environment can be brutal. A shop is definitely not the right work environment for someone who can’t take teasing, sarcasm, or swearing. Most of the time I enjoy working with mostly dudes. Guys are usually straight forward and have very little drama—but a lot of B.O. It’s a gross life, but I wouldn’t want to do anything else.

  The design of the logo is more intricate than I expected. There are a lot of spokes in the wheel and tiny feathers in the “winged wheel.”

  “That’s actually really cool,” I say, nodding at the drawing as I think about how I’m going to do it. It’s not like I can veer from the design. “I’m stoked to tattoo it. Where do you want it, man?”

  Ron turns his back and points to the space between his shoulder blades.

  “So you want it pretty big?” I ask holding my hands against his back to get a feel for the size and hold the open circle shape in front of me, a little smaller a basketball.

  “No!” He shakes his head adamantly, holding his index finger and thumb about five inches apart. “Smaller.”

  The kind of tattooing I do isn’t just slap something on someone’s body no matter what. There are a ton of tattooers out there who will do that, but I can’t have my name on something I don’t feel comfortable with. Part of my job is to guide clients in making good decisions about what to put on their body and where to put it. The last thing I want is for him to regret a piece I did because I didn’t counsel him first.

  “Here’s the deal, dude. I can’t, in good conscience, put a tattoo that small in a spot that large. That’s prime real estate,” I explain. “I have to think about your future and the best places to put large pieces. If you want it there, you gotta go larger. If not, let’s come up with another spot to put it, cool?”

  He turns toward Dan. Looking for help or backup, but I know damn well Dan’s gonna be on my side.

  “She’s right, man. I wouldn’t put a tiny tat there either. Do it on your arm or ankle if you want to stay small.”

  With Dan’s convincing, Ron finally agrees to get it on his shoulder. It’s all good with me. I just want to give the guy the ink he wants. Thankfully, even with all the detail in the logo, the tattoo is fa
irly easy and turns out great.

  Too bad I can’t enjoy the piece as much as I’d like because I can’t stop thinking about Zayne. We got so close and shared our deepest, darkest secrets over the last few weeks. I understand him freaking out after being at the bridge and reliving the day he almost killed himself, but I didn’t think he’d ghost me. I thought I meant more to him. I thought we were ride or die.

  Whoever got to choose the music playing in the shop today picked the Motown station, which doesn’t help ease my heartache. It brings back the memory of hearing “My Girl” blasting from a car in front of the Foundation Hotel. My heart practically burst out of my chest when Zayne took my hand, spun me around, and started dancing with me on the sidewalk. It was a complete one-eighty from the first time I randomly asked him to dance with me in Chicago when the color drained from his face, and he stood there like his feet were stuck in cement.

  How could two days seem like a lifetime ago?

  On my lunch break, I take a Lyft to Hitsville USA. I’ve always had a passion for the music, and I’m excited to find out more about how Detroit got the nickname “Motown.” From what I read on the website, the museum is the same house that the founder of Motown Records lived in. There was a studio in the basement, where tons of greats like Marvin Gaye and Diana Ross recorded in.

  The tour guide is fantastic, leading us through the museum, telling us the history, but also breaking into songs during the tour. Though I do love the music, I didn’t know much about all the history happening in Detroit during that time. It makes me wonder what the city was like back then.

  At the end of the tour, we get to go into the studio where real Motown legends recorded. It’s roped off so you can’t touch the historical instruments, but there’s still a rad vibe to being there.

  “You’ve been through the museum and heard the amazing Motown songs recorded right here where we’re standing. Now it’s your turn,” the tour guide tells our group. “You’ll get to record in Studio A.”

  A zap of adrenaline rushes through my veins. I know it’s all for the show, but I can’t help the excitement of being in the same studio that so many music legends stood in and recorded some of the biggest hits, changing the sound of music forever.

  I glance to my side, forgetting that it’s a stranger next to me and not Zayne. Good thing I didn’t try to grab his hand. Though he’s been sweet as we’ve walked through the museum, so he may not have minded.

  As the tour attendant coaches us on the line we’re going to sing, I keep wishing Zayne were here. I’d love to have seen his face when the guide told us we’d be recording in Studio A. I can picture it—the color draining from his face, maybe a gulp of dread—and within a minute or two, the small smile and squeeze of my hand letting me now the initial fear is gone.

  I’m glad I went to the museum by myself because it made me feel a bit powerful like I have control over my own life—the whole I-don’t-need-a-man-to-have-fun vibe.

  It’s true—I don’t need a man.

  But I want one—a specific one.

  We only spent three and a half weeks together, yet it feels like I’ve known him my entire life. I saw his strength on that bridge, despite how nervous he was telling me his story. I can see how far he’s come and how much courage it took for him to go back to that spot. I understand how the pain of being back at the place where he hit rock bottom had him freaked out. I don’t blame him. I haven’t set foot in the office at my parents’ house in eight years for the same reason.

  I understand why he left, but it still hurts, and we need to talk about it—not walk away. But before I can do that, I need to get my own shit together first.

  I have a lot of work to do when I get home—and I’m not talking about my clients.

  I can’t keep living with anger and hatred for my parents. Zayne was right—if I don’t confront my issues, I’ll never heal. He led by example, not by spewing shit with no follow-up action.

  When I get back to the shop, I have two appointments, then I tattoo a quick skull with a rose crown on Dan’s inner forearm. Even though I’m not big on getting skulls on my own body, I actually love to tattoo them. Skulls are straight-up awesome traditional tattoos, and a ton of people want them. I love all the variations I’ve done, but my favorites are the Día de Los Muertos sugar skulls because they’re bright and beautiful.

  When it’s my turn to get inked, I’m excited because I need to transfer the pain in my heart into something tangible—that’s what tattoos do for me. At least, the ones I get when I’m hurting. My first tattoo started as a “fuck you” to my parents, but I realized the process held a much different value. It took my mind off whatever was hurting me internally and made it physical. And that helped me suppress it until I was ready to deal.

  “What are you getting, Em?” Dan asks, moving shit around, setting up his station for me.

  “I want the Ambassador Bridge.”

  Dan looks at me blankly. “Really?” He knows what it is, he’s just taken aback because the whole bridge would be a crazy, big tattoo, and I don’t have space—or time—for that.

  “Not the entire thing, dude.” I laugh. “I want one of the peaks or whatever it’s called. The thing that looks like an A.” I rush to my station, grab a bottle of ink, and bring it to him. “This A.”

  “Em Vicious! You’re branding yourself with your ink sponsor’s logo?” he asks in a teasing tone as walks back to the drawing table and gets to work on a sketch, it shouldn’t take him long because it’s a small tattoo.

  “Hell yes! Without Ambassador you never would have gotten to meet me.” I call.

  “This is true. In a few months, you’re gonna be untouchable.” Once he’s finished making it into a stencil, he comes back shows me the design. “Won’t even be able to get near your station at a convention.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.” While he puts together his machine, I cover the chair with a paper sheet and remove my jeans. I have tattoos on almost every part of my body, so modesty isn’t even in my vocabulary anymore. Plus, underwear is just like bikini bottoms anyway.

  “Where do you want it.”

  I pat my hip, smacking the Cookie Monster already there across the face. “Right here.”

  “You’re getting a Dan Muller original in a place that’s always covered?” He pretends to put the needle through his chest. “Dagger in the heart, Vicious!”

  “It’s not like that, man. It’s a memento to celebrate being right here, right now.” I tell him. “For my eyes only.”

  A lot of people tell their artist’s the meaning or reason behind the tattoo they’re getting, but I’m keeping this one to myself. No one needs to know the relationship Zayne and I have—or had. Everything is up in the air.

  “So what are you gonna miss most about the D?” he asks, cleaning off the area.

  I almost answer with, “How thick it is,” because I immediately think of Zayne’s dick when he says “the D.” Only Detroiters know it means Detroit.

  “I think I’m going to miss your state pride the most.”

  Dan bursts out laughing. “There is no shortage of love for the mitten here.”

  You can’t walk down a street or watch a car pass without seeing an old English D, which I found out is not just the baseball team’s logo, but used by anyone who wants to represent the city. Everyone is wears some kind of Detroit gear, whether it’s the hockey team’s hat or a sweatshirt praising all the freshwater lakes.

  Don’t even get me started on the weird, intense rivalry between two major colleges in the state. You’re either a green and white fan or a maize and blue fan—there is no in between. And don’t call maize “yellow,” because you may get snapped at like I did.

  The Duke/UNC rivalry in North Carolina is similar, but the ones who care the most are people who went to those schools, puffing out their chests because they both think they went to the “superior” institution. Michiganders get into fights even if they have no vested interest in the college other than sports.<
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  Dan and I are the last ones in the shop, and the feeling of emptiness is sinking in. The tour is over and I’m super bummed. But the pain of the vibrating needle piercing my skin helps. It takes my mind off everything and lets me sink into a meditative state.

  Tomorrow I’ll be home. And everything will seem exactly as it was before I left.

  But soon, I’ll confront my past, and I won’t be the only one who realizes how much a month with Zayne Vitale changed me. I just hope I have the chance to tell him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Zayne

  Charlotte

  My phone has been off the entire flight because I couldn’t get Emily’s silly warning about the signal messing the air traffic control out of my head. I don’t think she’s right, but better to be safe than sorry.

  As we roll up to the gate, I power it back on. It vibrates in my hand immediately, alerting me to a new text message that must have come in right after I shut the phone down.

  Louis: It’s baby time! On our way to the hospital!

  Holy shit! I’m going to be an uncle.

  Which means all my mental bullshit isn’t the main concern right now. It’s being here to support my brother and his wife as they welcome twins into their family. Everything else can wait.

  I’m glad to have the twins’ birth to take my mind off the intensity of Detroit—and leaving Emily. After all the thinking and chastising myself I did on the plane, I need a break.

  When I get to the hospital, I realize I’ve come completely empty-handed, so I dip into the gift shop and grab a square vase filled with gaudy blue flowers and a massive bunch of balloons.

  An evil smile creeps across my face as I envision how annoying it will be for Louis to corral all the balloons into the elevator and then try to stuff them into his car. The thought makes me chuckle and grab a few more to take to the counter.

  Brotherly love at its best.

  With the ostentatious array of baby gifts in hand, I ask the gift shop attendant for directions to the labor and delivery waiting room.