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“Call it what you want, I’m not going to back down to your antics.”
“Okay. You heard her boys. I think we should take Ms. Johnson to the studio. We do have rehearsal today.”
I wasn’t expecting to jump right into the fire, but I’ll have to make a few calls along the way. “Great. Let me send out a few messages and I’ll meet you there.”
“No, love. I’ll drive. I need to make sure you’ll be there and not flake out on me.” He stands and comes around to my side of the table and holds out his hand. “Shall we?”
Conceding defeat, I accept his hand and he guides me to my feet. Our gazes meet and for a brief second, the small glimpse between us is amicable.
“On second thought, you drive. It’ll give me a chance to grab a quick kip or rather nap as you Americans call it.”
Just like that, the amicable start I thought we had disappears, and out comes the asshole I’ve come to know.
* * *
SIMON
We walk through the adjacent parking garage to her cute little black Acura.
“Oh, this is quaint,” I say looking around the interior.
“I apologize it’s not luxurious enough for your taste,” she comments. “Now, if you could, Mr. Ashton, fasten your seatbelt so we can get over to the studio for your afternoon rehearsal.” Her tone is a bit annoyed.
I don’t want to poke the bear, so I oblige. “Sorry,” I answer and snap my belt together.
She presses the start button, punches in the address to the studio, and we head off to our destination.
“Hmm, you’d think with you being a PR rep and, in the biz, you’d know where we are going without the need for GPS assistance.”
“Hmm, you’d think that being a passenger you’d shut your yap and enjoy the ride. I thought you had a nap to take?”
I hold my hands up. “I was trying to have a conversation with you, love. No need to get pissy.”
She doesn’t respond and I let it go. A slow song comes on the radio and she’s moving her head to the music while lip-synching.
I reach up to turn the station and she smacks my hand.
“Ow, what you do that for?”
“Listen Simon. It’s apparent you’re not used to anyone being in the driving seat but let me explain a few things to you. One, don’t ever touch another person's radio. Especially if they are vibing to the tunes. Secondly, don’t ever touch a black woman’s radio when she is singing along to another black woman. Leave us in our zone, okay?”
“‘Zone’? What’s that?”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Zone is like it sounds. A space of contentment where nothing can get through. The mind sorta drops away from reality yet still alert to all that is around.”
“Oh, kinda like getting high.”
“Yeah, but without the aid of chemicals.”
“Are you a square?”
She looks at me a bit annoyed and offended. “What are you trying to imply? That I’m uptight?”
“Well, you sorta are. You drink those healthy juices, at least your shirt does, you are manicured from head to toe. Even at the show last night, I didn’t see you with a drink like the others and you’ve not mentioned anything about recreational drugs to me at all. The last PR was able to get us whatever we wanted at the drop of a dime. I hope I didn’t make a mistake with agreeing to you being on our team.”
She retreats a bit and I feel I’ve hurt her in some way, and I feel bad.
She pulls off the highway and over to the side of the road, away from traffic. “Look Simon, you called my bluff earlier with the music. I took a crash course two weeks ago when the opportunity was presented to me and immersed myself in the music. I read all the articles my assistant assembled for me and made sure I knew all that I should, and then some. I honestly want to help you, but if you don’t want me, just say it and we can end this now.”
