CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - JESSE

 

 

I’m outside. Where are you?

That’s what I text to Emma once I pull up in front of her building. She’s testing me but I’m ready for her today. I am willing to overlook the drugging and the kidnapping—but no one walks out on me the way she did last night.

No one.

So am I being petty and childish by demanding that she spend the day with me learning her lesson?

Absolutely.

Do I care?

Absolutely not.

I don’t even know what we’re going to do today. I have no plans other than monopolize her day. Make her waste time with me. Make her hate me.

This is what’s called the classic hate fuck, Jesse.

Her words are burned into my mind forever. I will never stop hearing her say that to me. Ever.

The balls on this woman. Giant, motherfucking bull-sized balls on this woman.

My phone dings in my hand just as a horn honks behind me.

I glance down at the screen and read her message. I’m right behind you.

Then I glance in the rear-view and see her waving at me from a… what the fuck?

She’s smiling broadly from the driver’s seat of a matte-black Lamborghini Huracán, her curlicue pigtails bobbing around her face.

She honks again. My phone dings. The text reads. Get in. I’m driving.

Oh, I don’t think so. I came here in a motherfucking Ferrari Portofino. Red. So I text back. You get in. I’m driving.

My phone rings. “What?” I ask, so annoyed. Because while the Portofino was an excellent choice, I do have to admit the Huracán has sex written all over it.

“I’m driving. Get in.”

“You’re not driving,” I say. “I’m the man, I do the driving.”

She revs her engine behind me. “We’re taking my car. If you’re a good boy maybe I’ll let you drive it.”

“I could buy my own Huracán, Emma. I don’t need to drive yours.”

I catch her smiling even bigger in the mirror. “We can compare dicks all day long if you want. But I’m not getting out of this car until we arrive at our destination. So. I suggest you pick and choose your battles carefully, Mr. Boston. Because as you can see, I’m sporting pigtails. And what you can’t see is that I’m wearing the same outfit I was that day at the shaved ice stand all those years ago.”

“Hmm,” I say.

“Hmm, indeed. This is your fantasy, right? You want to make me look like that teenager I was back then. Fine. I’ll play along. If you let me drive my car.”

“I don’t know where you got this car, but it’s definitely not yours.”

“It is now. I had it delivered fifteen minutes ago.”

“You bought a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car to impress me?”

“Two-seventy-five with upgrades. But who’s counting? And I didn’t do it to impress you, Jesse. Don’t be dumb. I did it to make you feel inferior.”

“So that’s how this is gonna go?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re trying to hate-fuck me with a car.”

“I… don’t really know if that’s a thing. But sure.”

I hesitate.

“You know you want to drive it.”

“I really don’t have a thing for fast cars, Emma. You miscalculated.”

She revs her engine again and it sounds like a fucking lion. Or a lion ready to fuck. One of the two. “Everyone has a thing for this car. Don’t you want to see the interior? I wish I had time to customize it myself, but oh, well. Listen to the sound system—”

The chorus of Smells Like Teen Spirit blares out into the city. Everyone within a hundred yards turn to look at her.

I check the mirror again and find her banging her head and laughing hysterically, her pigtails flying back and forth.

I text, Stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.

She pauses her head-banging to text back. Get. In. The. Car. Now. Or I’ll roll down the window and ask that hot-as-fuck jogger to get in instead.

I glance at the jogger. He’s shirtless, sweaty, and not bad-looking—OK. No. He’s hot, even I can see that—and he’s also smiling at Emma like he wants to throw her down on the hood of that Huracán and fuck her right here in front of the whole city.

I get out, toss my keys to her building valet, and intercept the jogger with a hand in the air. “Back off, asshole,” I say.

He sighs, shakes his head, then continues on his way.

The valet dude gives me a ticket just as the Huracán’s passenger window slides down. Emma turns the music off and says, “Aww. He was interested, wasn’t he?”

I open the car door, slide in, and… holy fuck, this is a nice car. The seat hugs my ass and shoulders like it was custom-made for me and the whole thing feels like the cockpit of a very nice private jet.

“Told ya,” Emma coos. Then she shoves the gear shift into reverse, backs up squealing her tires, and zips around my Ferrari like she’s Danica Patrick.

She giggles as we ease our way down Broad Street towards downtown, glancing over at me every few seconds to see if I’m intimidated.

I’m not.

Pffft.

“So where were you planning on taking me?” she asks as we pull up to a stoplight.

“Breakfast,” I say.

“Where?” she insists.

“The Champion Hotel.”

“A hotel,” she scoffs. “Come on. Are you serious? Were you hoping that I’d be so impressed by your little Ferrari and their overpriced eggs and bacon that I’d beg you to take me upstairs so you could get what you missed out on last night?”

“It’s a very nice restaurant,” I scoff back.

“Hmmm,” she says. “I guess. If you’re into boring. Too bad I’m not. And anyway, I already planned our whole day.”

“Did you?” I ask.

“Mmmm-hmm. So we’re going to skip the Champion and go with option B.”

“Which is what?”

She looks at me and winks. “You’ll see.”

 

 

Option B is the airport. More specifically, the small one only private jets use, and not the giant commercial one everyone else uses. I raise an eyebrow at her.

She just smiles like a fucking Cheshire cat.

“We’re at the airport, Emma.”

“I can see that.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you on the dream date. I did pay ten million dollars for you. And you seem to think I owe you a good time. So… good times are coming your way, buddy. And it all starts here.”

Then she shifts gears and we shoot forward onto the tarmac. I grip the dash and yell, “You can’t drive on the fucking tarmac!”

She laughs and laughs. Then turns the wheel, the Huracán slides to the right, and we stop in front of the biggest corporate jet out there on the market today.

Hot pink in color and Bright Berry Beach splashed across the body.

“Good fucking God,” I say. “Where the fuck are we going? Australia?”

“Oh, we’re not taking that one. They just needed to move it out of the hangar to get my personal jet out.”

“You have a personal jet?” I ask.

“Don’t you?” she counters.

“What the hell are you doing? Are we playing Who’s Got More Money? Because that’s so juvenile.”

“You wanted me to look like a teenager today, right?” Then she shrugs her shoulders, gets out of the car, and walks towards a valet.

I get out and meet up with her just as the valet says, “No problem, Ms. Dumas. Your jet is just about ready. The crew is preparing breakfast now. Why don’t you and your friend board and grab a bite to eat as we get clearance for takeoff?”

“Sounds wonderful, Benjamin. Thank you for coming in on short notice today.”

“It was my pleasure, ma’am.” Benjamin bows to her like she’s some kind of foreign dignitary, then backs away and heads towards the Huracán.

“Jesse!” Emma calls over her shoulder as she walks. “We’re this way, sweetie.”

I have to suck in a deep breath of air to hold my tongue, because she’s treating me like man candy. What the fuck?

Where is she taking me? And why is she doing this?

Oh, I know. She wants to get even. She’s not satisfied with simply drugging me and tying me up, then walking out after I make her come. No.

This is a power grab. The ultimate power grab.

I follow her to the other side of the pink monster jet and find a much smaller Gulfstream. Black. With a hot pink stripe down the side.

Subtlety isn’t one of her strong points.

There’s a red carpet laid out in front of the airstairs and what I can only assume is a flight attendant bowing to her as she approaches. She greets him with both hands in hers, then laughs and tosses her pigtails.

My heart suddenly skips six or seventy-six beats. Because she does look like the girl I met all those years ago.

And just for a second I forget that this is a game. Just for a second I forget that she’s one-upping me. Just for a second I wonder what it would be like to date Ms. Dumas for real.

And then she opens her mouth and says, “This is Mr. Boston, Miles. I bought him at an auction last night so we’re spending the weekend together.” Then she looks at me and smiles before turning back to the jet and climbing the stairs.

I watch her. Mostly focused on her ass cheeks, which look fantastic in those shorts. But then her eyes, because she stops at the top and looks over her shoulder to say, “Hurry along, Jesse. I don’t like to be kept waiting.” And disappears inside the cabin.

Oh. That’s enough.

I climb the stairs after her thinking… OK. I’ll play. You wanna play, lady? I’ll play.

Before this day is over I am gonna hate-fuck the fuck out of you and show you who’s boss here.

Me.

I’m gonna be the bossiest motherfucking Boston Brother there is.