Mess You Made

13.

Miguel.

My entire fucking body is electric after that. Restless. I rest my elbow on the door of the car, run a hand through my hair for the fiftieth time, and glance at Roman in the driver's again.

"Let me drive." I sit forwards, rub my palms on my thighs.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He flicks me a sideways look, city lights flickering on and off his face as he drives through midtown.

"Freaking the fuck out." I say, "I need a steering wheel in my hands, let me drive."

"Did you take crack?"

I whip my head to him, "What? Are you fucked, he'd kill me."

We don't have to acknowledge that the he is Hudson, because who else would it be? And I'm not exaggerating either. I think he wouldn't even kill me, probably like torture me some way or another, hang me up to just slowly die for not listening to him. I shake my head, grimace at the visual.

Roman gives me a look, "You're acting like you're on crack."

Malibu Adams seems to be the fucking crack. And I feel like I should purge the restlessness out of me with sex, but that's a no, because that girl's just fucked my head over with her voice against my lips in an alleyway.

I smack his arm with the back of my hand, "Let me drive, Rome."

We aren't in one of his crimson 488's and they're the ones he's most territorial of. In one of his black McLaren's right now, he bought this one a few months back — picked me up in it once he bought me it. He lets me drive the ones that aren't red Ferrari's. This one's a 720s, I think. Sick, has a turbocharged V8 engine, makes a monster of a noise when you race it down New York City like I had last time.

I'm craving it again, and he's a bitch right now for not letting me fulfil it. I smack his arm again, "Rome, Rome, Rome, Rome—"

He turns my music up. He hates my music, so I swear I see his fingers twitch where he lazily touches the steering wheel. I smirk, flash him a smile, reach over, slide the volume bar on the screen to it's highest extent — until it looks like he's about to have a seizure.

I nod my head, yell out the lyrics to Dr Dre, and as planned, it takes him maybe four seconds to turn the whole thing off. He says a rough, "Fuck off," and presses on the gas a little more, swiftly slipping between two cars that hit their horn a shit ton as we pass them by. We're far past them, by the time they even hit it though, a bit useless.

I tip my head back, "I thought you cared for me. Thought we had a thing after we almost blew up that bathroom in Baltimore—"

"You almost blew up the bathroom in Baltimore." He says, fights off a smirk.

I roll my eyes, get comfortable as he starts to speed up.

It was New Years. Good fucking day. We did a massive party at one of his estate's up in Baltimore, and that was one of the first parties we ever did — or that I ever coerced him to do. It went insane. When you possess money like that, an unfathomable amount, and the fame that Roman Beckett does, there's no way the parties could ever be lame. It was an honest to god shame that he'd never done one before, what with his wealth — it's okay, I swooped in.

The party got so much talk that it's still talked about around corners of the Upper East Side nowadays, and I got a lot of cred from it. Sure, I somewhat exploit him, but that's how our friendship rolls. Who the fuck wouldn't?

He'a Roman Beckett. I'm not an idiot.

I smile because the night in Baltimore sort of solidified our friendship. He doesn't drink, ever and he put up with me that night, even though drunk people are intensely more annoying when you're sober. I don't know how, or why the fuck I did it, or where the idea even came from but I was somehow doing a molotov cocktail, in the east wing bathroom of that estate. There are still videos of it.