Mess You Made

22.

Malibu.

"For the love of god." I widen my eyes, "Shut up."

Miguel starts singing 50 cent louder, his back against the elevator wall opposite me as we head up. I stare at him, wonder how the hell someone can act like that when they're not on drugs. He gets louder, singing 21 questions like nobody else exists.

I'm not a singer. Nowhere near — but I've never heard someone sound so much like a fucking alien. He's stood casually, hands in his pockets, head tipped back against the wall, rolling out the lyrics from memory and ignoring every one of my protests, no matter how hard I try.

I debate slamming my head against the wall. He's been singing to me ever since we got in that car because apparently, that'll cheer me up? I went from panic and wanting to drown, to now wanting my eardrums permanently removed and annoyed, so he's been a great help.

Never in my entire life has a ten minute drive felt more like a thousand.

He drags his head down to look over at me, points, "It's easy to love me now, but would you love me if I was down and out?"

I'm glowering because he knows what he's been doing for the past ten minutes. I've heard that song so much I want to rinse my eardrums out.

He flashes his smile, "Could you love me on a Bentley? On a bus?"

"Stop." I say again, "I get you know the lyrics."

"Well, Malibu—" He muses me when the elevator door opens and some lady walks in, "I just wanna get the gist, actually, now that I'm thinking about it. Would you fuck with me if I wasn't so pretty with a pretty car?"

The lady gapes at him, walking in.

I say it easily, "Don't be stupid."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Obviously not." I clear up, arms crossed.

Now the lady's gaping at me.

"Hi, ma'am." Miguel nods at her.

She gives a tentative smile back.

"Ma'am, do you think my friend over here is a gold-digger?" He asks her genuinely, "I think she only wants in my pants because of my C7, and you know— I respect it, I actually find it weirdly hot but—"

I drop my head, mutter, "Stop talking."

He slaps a hard hand down on his chest, "It fucks with my heart, ma'am." Then, he sighs arrogantly, "Everyone just wants to be me, ma'am, or they want to fuck me for being me, you know?"

I stare at him, face twisted. What an asshole. I could get a good kick to his balls from this distance. He looks over at me, narrows his eyes like he knows what I'm thinking and discretely angles his body away from mine.

"Oh." She swallows, sort of looks like she wants to run, "Well, you both look very great together."

Before I can protest, he speaks quickly, smiles over at her, "You look great too, ma'am."

She starts to flush.

"I love that dress." He says, "You wear it like nobody else could, I'm being serious as fuck—"

Dear fucking god, get me out. I endure a few more minutes of Miguel sugaring up a thirty year old woman, and her turning beet red despite the ring on her finger before the elevator opens to the floor he wanted. Miguel winks back at her, "See you around, ma'am."

As soon as we're out of the elevator, I look to him, "Are you sure they'll be sleeping?"

"It's two in the morning." He assures me, "What?" He smirks a bit, "Scared?"