“It’s a nice car,” I hedge instead, and Zayd howls with laughter.
“You could buy a hundred for these for the price of that Ferrari Spider.” Zayd cracks the driver’s side door and climbs in. I notice he doesn’t bother to open my door for me. Not that I’d expect him to, but still.
The inside has that new car smell, this mixture of leather and oil that makes my nose tingle. There’s a torn scrap of paper with a lipstick smudge and a phone number on it stuck to the dash, but that’s really the only sign that anyone’s ever used this vehicle before. There aren’t any old coffee cups or fast food wrappers or muddy boot smudges like in my dad’s truck.
Zayd starts the car, and then cranks up the stereo, blasting a stream of rock music from his own band. That husky voice of his is just too recognizable. As he pulls out of the parking lot, I slide my phone from my pocket and surreptitiously do a search for Zayd Kaiser.
He comes up right away, with over ten million results. Zayd Kaiser, lead singer of the American band Afterglow, a contemporary rock group with several number one hits. Their latest summer tour was a huge success, opening for headliners and superstars Indecency. Also on the roster were Amatory Riot, Beauty in Lies, Caged Impulse, and Pistols and Violets.
“If you want to know something about me, you could just ask,” Zayd says, turning the music down slightly. He’s got rubber bracelets trailing up his right arm, and I notice that the names of the bands listed on the tour roster match up. Interesting. Too bad I don’t follow popular music much. Instead, I’m the weirdo in the corner listening to obscure Carlos Salzedo pieces.
“My dad listens to some of your dad’s songs,” I start, “but personally, I spend most of my time listening to classical music. Honestly—and don’t take this the wrong way—I have no idea who you are, other than some jerk who goes to my school.”
“Some jerk, huh?” Zayd asks, but he sounds slightly pleased by the sentiment. “I’m the fourth generation in my family to have a number one hit. My personal net worth is larger than the family net worth of some of these other assholes. I play four different kinds of instruments, and my manager is fucking the vice principal.”
I blink at him and then cock an eyebrow.
“That doesn’t tell me a whole lot about you as a person. I mean, do you have any hobbies other than music and bullying?” Zayd smirks at me, green eyes sparkling, but he doesn’t take his attention off the road. Good thing, too, because now that we’ve exited the academy gates, he’s edging close to a hundred miles an hour.
“I like fast cars, pretty girls, and wicked ink. What else is there to know?”
“Do you ever sit down and just lose yourself in a good book? Are you overly emotional, or do you clamp down on your feelings? What’s your greatest fear and your biggest pleasure?” Now Zayd does look over at me, eyes wide and brows raised. He’s staring at me like I’m some sort of alien creature.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, shaking his head and turning back to the road. “You’re seriously fucking strange, you know that? Most girls would either be trying to suck me off, or cursing me out right now. You let us beat up on you, but you barely fight back, just enough to stay standing. And yet, you could’ve fucked all three of us by now if you’d wanted. Why haven’t you?”
I could’ve slept with them? I think, and then even though the only person I’m talking to is myself, I add, not that I care because I definitely don’t want to. Definitely not. No way.
“You seriously need to ask?” I lean back against the door and look Zayd over. “Because maybe I don’t want to have sex with men who treat me like shit. Is that somehow surprising to you?”
“Honestly, yeah, it sort of is. I’ve never had a girl tell me no before, not when I’ve blatantly offered myself up. Most of the girls at Burberry Prep drool and hang all over me.”
“That’s their prerogative,” I say, exhaling and closing my eyes. “Everyone is looking for something different.”
“What are you looking for, Working Girl? Romance? Affection? Love?”
“A good education, a promising career, and some outlet for me to play the harp for an audience. That’s it.” I open my eyes again, but Zayd doesn’t look like he’s listening. Instead of answering me, he just cranks the music up and sings along with the lyrics, harmonizing perfectly with his own voice. I’m guessing he doesn’t use auto-tuner.
“Basking in the glory of my followers, bathing in the blood of my enemies, drowning in the waves of my own lies. That’s what it means, that’s how it feels, that’s what it’s like to be me.”
