3000 Miles (A Wesley Stromberg/Emblem3 Fanfiction)

Chapter Two

There was no sign of Wesley when I pulled up to the Four Seasons that morning. He wasn't even in the lobby in amongst the few people wearing hotel uniforms and other business attire. Feeling out of place in my denim shorts and plain blue t-shirt, I approached the desk and leaned up against it.

"Yeah, has a certain Wesley Stromberg made an appearance or am I going to have to leave without him?"

The girl behind the counter, a red head probably around my age, flushed pink at the sound of his name, but maintained a professional attitude. "Um, I haven't seen him this morning. Would you like me to phone his room?"

"Malena!" I heard from the elevator shaft.

Wincing at the echo of his voice, I turned to face him with a half smile. "Oh joy,"

"This little lady," he said to the concierge, taking me under the weight of his arm. "She's taking me on a road trip."

"It's 6:01. Let's go," I said, not wanting to be around rich people who just woke up.

"So I was thinking," he said, tossing his bags in the back seat with mine and hopping over my door again. "Let's take the scenic route. I've seen plenty of places, just not by car."

I turned to him with my hand on the key. "Let's get something straight."

"Uh oh, ground rules."

"Shoes stay on, no backseat driving, no food, clear liquids only, and you pay for half the gas."

"This trip became less fun," he said, swinging his backpack to his front and taking out a small laptop. "I'll be over here playing solitaire and other exciting things."

"Fine."

"Fine," he sneered mockingly.

He was silent until we hit the city limit. "So you never told me your music taste."

"I have CDs right there." I pointed to an entire stack of discs inside a compartment of the dashboard. "Use your resources."

"You've never heard of E3?" He asked, which is what I knew he really wanted to know.

"I don't follow artists for sex appeal," I told him, ignoring the flattered look on his face. "I follow for the lyrics. And yours, frankly, seem shallow."

He pressed he eject button and watched his CD slide right out. He grinned and dangled it between his fingers. "You listened to it!"

"It was in there on my drive to my hotel and I didn't feel like changing it out." I explained, gripping the wheel with white knuckles.

"And you didn't like any of it?" He asked, exhaling loudly. "Not one song grabbed you?"

"Nope, not one."

He thumbed through my CD collection and stopped on a bright green face with a black X. With a chuckle, he separated it from the rest. "You're one of those I see."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, watching him insert it and turn up the volume.

"Don't get me wrong. Ed's a cool dude," he sat back and rubbed his chin. "But he doesn't make tracks to bump to."

"I don't 'bump'." I air-quoted. "I'm an artist, not a dancer."

"Everyone likes to bump," he said, turning down the CD and opening his laptop again. "I'm sure you can get down with some Maroon 5. Everyone can!"

He hit his space bar rather roughly and air drummed the intro to "This Love" leaving me to try not to pull my hair out. I let him have his little jam session until I pulled into a Cracker Barrel four hours later. He put his laptop away and gazed at the large porch and abundance of rocking chairs in awe.