𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

6

"TRIPPIE," I CRIED, FRUSTRATION evident in my tone as I put both my hands on the desk as he spun in his chair, his lips circled making smoke rings float into the air between us. "Are you even listening?"

"I have fucking ears, haven't I?" He snarled, his eyes on his joint in his fingers before he put it back between his lips.

To listen, to understand, what two completely opposite things.

"Will you hire me then?" I ask, hope lining my voice.

He chuckled, mood shifting in a blink of an eye. "I already have you hired baby."

"No," I began, "I mean, as the fashion designer for your tour. I showed you my portfolio. I have worked on it since the last time you saw it."

Quickly, I caught myself as a rush of guilt overtook me.

"If you still don't like it, of course, you are right to refuse. But I just-I'm confident in it," I shut my eyes briefly. "I could show you something else. I have more draft work and I can-"

He had taken a look at my updated portfolio, muttered a simple 'I like it.' Which had given me the ghost of a hope that I was now clinging to like a lifeline.

He parted his lips to speak, but I instantly cut him off, making my position clear.

"I want you to take me on for this because I believe I can do this. I'm good at this Michael, it's all I've ever wanted to do. It's the reason why I first met you three months ago. I've studied for this and I promise you that if you give me a chance, I won't make you regret it."

Trippie pressed his lips together, his eyes still not meeting mine as he fiddled with the smoking joint in between his fingers. The smoke in the small office space was thickening, despite an open window nearby. He didn't say anything, so I tried again. Because that's all I can do, try, knowing I'll fail half of the time.

"I will not go on this tour as your secretary, Michael," I claimed then, straightening myself and folding my arms across my chest.

His eyes shot to me then, startled, amused. His short brown dreadlocks stood stiff on his head, like they were built of stone. His left eyebrow was high.

"You don't need me as a secretary, you already have enough people for that," I continued, my voice persistent. "I cannot be that pretense anymore."

"Okay," He murmured.

"Michael please-," I started before abruptly stopping myself, "Wait, you agree?"

"Yeah," He said, his eyes bearing into mine with interest, curiosity. "You're on."

I exhaled in disbelief, a burst of excitement spinning in me. A feeling I forgot existed. Then I looked at him as a foreign thought crossed my mind.

"Michael, are you saying yes because you just want me along or because you genuinely want me to design outfits for your tour?"

He shrugged, tossing his unfinished joint into the small plastic bin beside the polished mahogany table, and I once again had to worry if he had extinguished it or not.

"Does it matter?" he uttered.

I gasped in disbelief. "Of course it does!"

He left his chair and got up, walking round the table to me and taking hold of my elbows and pulling me closer.

"Baby, I said yes," he muttered, "That's all that fucking matters."

Then he snaked a hand behind my neck and pulled me an inch down and kissed me abruptly. He smelled and tasted like the joint he was just devouring, and cologne and strong liquor. I quickly broke the kiss and lifted my head upwards, he continued with his lips down my neck.