Page 50 of Jesse

“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.”