CRAZY FOR YOU: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Material Girls Book 3) Read online

  CRAZY FOR YOU

  A Material Girls Novel

  Sophia Henry

  Crazy For You

  Copyright © 2019 by Sophia Henry

  All rights reserved

  Published by Krasivo Creative LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-949786-04-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover design: Lori Follett, Hell Yes Design Studio

  Cover photograph: Art of Photos, Shutterstock.com

  Editing by: Kathy Bosman, Indie Editing Chick; Jenn Wood, All About the Edits

  Proofreading by: Jackie Ferrell

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Emily

  2. Zayne

  3. Emily

  4. Zayne

  5. Emily

  6. Emily

  7. Zayne

  8. Emily

  9. Zayne

  10. Emily

  11. Zayne

  12. Zayne

  13. Emily

  14. Zayne

  15. Emily

  16. Emily

  17. Zayne

  18. Emily

  19. Zayne

  20. Emily

  21. Zayne

  22. Emily

  23. Zayne

  Epilogue

  Don’t Miss Out

  Thank You

  Playlist

  Other Books by Sophia Henry

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “And when the lights go dark

  I will stand right beside you

  If you're feeling small

  I'll love your shadow”

  ~ from “Shadow” by Bleachers

  #BeKindLoveHard

  CONNECT with Sophia:

  SophiaHenry.com

  TWITTER

  INSTAGRAM

  FACEBOOK

  Prologue

  Emily

  Normally, being face-down, ass-up, and waiting to be hand-cuffed would be a welcome Friday night activity.

  Too bad it’s Tuesday, and an actual officer of the law is the one doing the cuffing.

  Before all the commotion, I’d just fallen into an amazing tranquil lull of relaxation. I barely smoke weed anymore, so I can typically get pretty high off a hit or two, but Fozzie’s water bong has a nasty, dark, film of resin on the inside of the base, which means he barely cleans the thing. I needed four hard hits to get any sensation. A part of me wonders if I’m inhaling black mold instead of marijuana.

  Though his couch is probably coated with more disgusting fluids than a motel comforter, I’m sprawled out with my hands clasped behind my head. If I allowed myself to think about how much shit has been spilled and jacked onto this dirty-ass piece of furniture, I’d never even come over, let alone lay on it. But Fozzie’s my oldest friend, and sometimes you suck it up and forget about housekeeping habits for people you love.

  Fozzie, or Franklin Thomas the Fourth, which is how our teacher introduced him when he joined our class midway through our third-grade year, sits on the floor sorting packets and counting cash.

  “When are you going to stop selling that shit, Foz?” I ask.

  “When North Carolina legalizes it,” he responds, holding up a thick stack of bills. “Wanna spread it out on my bed and roll around in it?”

  “Nah, we did that last Tuesday,” I tease.

  For the record, I have never rolled around in drug money. I may have done it after being paid in cash for the first major back piece I tattooed, but it was totally a joke.

  I really wish he’d stop selling weed, but I know he needs the money to make ends meet while his band, Drowned World, carves their place in the music scene. I’ve offered to loan him cash on multiple occasions, but he always turns me down. Stupid male ego shit. Thankfully, they’re climbing the charts fast and getting recognized by more people every day, so he should be able to leave his dealing days behind soon.

  I’m not hating on it, because I totally get the hustle. I almost resorted to selling weed back when I first left my parent’s house. But as much as I wanted to piss them off at the time, I knew I’d ruin their reputation if I got busted for something like that and I just couldn’t have that on my conscious. I believe in karma. If I do something shitty, it’ll comeback around.

  “If you need to use the bathroom, use the one upstairs, okay?” He lifts his head, a shock of bleach blond hair falls, covering one eye. The rest of his head is shaved, except a patch on top that’s usually bleached, gelled, and sprayed to stay in place.

  “Got it.” I don’t think anything about his request. Fozzie lives with two other guys —and none of them take any steps to keep any of their rooms clean. The bathrooms, especially, are always disgusting.

  The electronic, 80’s vibe of Missio’s “Rad Drugz” fills the air, slowly bringing me to another level of relaxation. I’ve almost fallen into a wonderfully hazy state of mind when a booming bang on the door startles me out of my dazed haze. A muffled, male voice announcing himself as “the police” calls for us to open the door.

  Everything is a blur from there. Probably because my mind immediately switched from a luxurious, relaxed state to ultra-paranoid within seconds.

  “Fuck!” Fozzie jumps to his feet, kicking the bags of weed under the couch before heading to the door. He glances at me over his shoulder, waiting as I shove the bong between two couch cushions and tug an afghan over it before he opens the door.

  Here I am, sweat beading on my forehead, heart beating faster than a teenage boy with a nudie magazine, and mentally freaking the fuck out, while Fozzie stands in the door frame calm as a Hindu cow. He doesn’t seem surprised or phased by the police’s appearance.

  “Franklin Thomas?” Asks a tall officer with a pocked face and a massive neck.

  “That’s me.”

  “The Harris Teeter on Providence was robbed earlier today. Know anything about that?”

  If Fozzie has any idea what the cop is talking about, I can’t tell because his face is his standard mix of boredom and disinterest.

  “Mind if we take a look around?”

  He shrugs. A shorter, rounder officer carrying a metal cage pushes past Buff Cop and starts looking around the living room. He heads into the kitchen first, then hurries to the bathroom Fozzie told me not to go in.

  “They’re in here!” he yells.

  What’s in there? And why does this dude have a fucking cage?

  Buff Cop sighs and makes a spinning motion with his finger and Fozzie turns around. “Hands behind your back.”

  My friend shoots me a sheepish, semi-apologetic grin. There’s not a shred of remorse in his expression, so he obviously knew he would get caught. But what the hell did he do?

  “You’re under arrest for theft,” Buff Cop says, securing the handcuffs. He immediately begins reciting the Miranda warning.

  Theft? What did he need so badly that he had to steal it? He knows I’ll always help him out.

  Suddenly, Short Cop emerges from the b
athroom and rushes out holding a dripping cage filled with lobsters as far away from his body as possible—out of the range of any pinchers.

  Lobsters? Why the fuck would Fozzie steal live lobsters?

  The next events happen so fast, I’m bumbling like a wingless bee. Glints of light bounce off guns and badges. I scowl at Fozzie, silently cursing him as I stand bent over the back of the couch, while Buff Cop’s rough, calloused hands secure cold cuffs against my wrists.

  “Why am I under arrest?” I ask. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “You’re not under arrest. You’re being detained,” he explains as if that makes it clear. I’ve never been arrested—or detained—before, so the jargon is lost on me.

  “So I’m guilty by association?” I twist my neck, trying to look at the officer.

  “Didn’t say you were, ma’am. Since you’re here with the stolen items, we’re going to take you in for questioning.” He tugs my hands to straighten me and guides me toward the door.

  “But, I—” I begin.

  “Stop talking, Em,” Fozzie snaps.

  The cop sneers at him. “Sounds like someone who’s been arrested before.”

  “I’ve never been arrested,” he says. “My father is a lawyer.”

  Say what? Fozzie’s dad is a lawyer? How did I not know that after all these years?

  Being led to a police car in handcuffs for a crime I had nothing to do with isn’t even the cruelest part of the scenario. It’s the local TV news crews outside, videoing the entire thing. An aggressive reporter shoves a microphone in Fozzie’s face saying something about lobsters and the local grocery store.

  Truth be told, being on TV has been a dream of mine since I started tattooing when I was fourteen. I’d love to be recognized nationally—even internationally—for my artwork.

  I never thought the very first breaking-news story I’d be in would have anything to do being an accidental accomplice to a crime my animal-activist best friend committed. Evidently (as I would find out later), Fozzie stole lobsters from the neighborhood grocery store and stored them in his tub until he could take them to the coast and set them free.

  I’m vegan—which loosely means I don’t consume or use any animal products. I’ve done multiple days where I donate portions of my earnings to animal welfare organizations. I speak out for animal rights and against abuse, but I’m not a crazy, break-the-law kind of activist.

  I didn’t realize Fozzie was.

  Instead of being featured for my skill as a tattoo artist, anyone watching the eleven o’ clock news tonight will see my scrawny ass being led to the patrol car for a bullshit crime I didn’t even know Fozzie committed.

  I should be embarrassed, but honestly, I really don’t care how my name gets out there as long as it gets out there.

  Short cop places a pudgy paw on my head, guiding me toward the backseat of the patrol car. Before I’m tucked inside, I turn my head, giving the reporters a mega-watt smile.

  Bad publicity is still publicity, bitches.

  Chapter One

  Emily

  I twist a lock of gray hair around my index finger, using every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes as Cookie Commons, my mother, yaps at me over the phone. It’s not like she can see me since I’m sitting in my beloved 1989 Volvo 740 in the parking lot of Ambassador Ink and she’s tucked away in her ivory tower. As soon as Mama finishes reaming me out, I’ve gotta head inside for a meeting.

  Despite my recent run-in with the law—or maybe because of it—Louis Vitale, world-famous tattoo artist and owner of Ambassador, wants to talk to me about an opportunity. The guys at the shop think he set up the meeting to personally invite me to be a featured artist at Charlotte Tattoo Convention, which is one of multiple conventions Ambassador coordinates all over the country. But I don’t think that’s it, because Stan Rybakov, the shop owner and OG of black and white realism tattoos in Russia, got invited over e-mail, and he’s a much bigger deal than I am in the tattoo world.

  “I still can’t fathom why you would take part in something so ignorant,” Mama says for the umpteenth time regarding the lobster incident. I honestly can’t keep count anymore. Our typical phone calls consists of yelling at each other for something trivial a few times a year, but over the last few days, she’s been blowing up my phone. Almost to the point that I don’t answer. But I know not responding makes Cookie more persistent.

  She’s riding my ass as damage control for Commons Department Store, our family business, but I don’t give a shit about the company. Not saying I want it to fail, I simply don’t care. Most people don’t even know I’m part of the Commons family since I haven’t made an appearance in the annual Christmas card photo in almost ten years.

  “It’s a cause that’s important to me,” I snap. “Just because it’s not a cause you support doesn’t mean it’s ignorant.”

  “There are other ways to support a cause you believe in, Emily Anne. Theft is not an effective way. I thought that was common sense, even for you.”

  She’s right, there are tons of other ways to support a cause I believe in, and stealing lobsters from a fucking grocery store was super ignorant, but I won’t tell her that I wasn’t knowingly involved in—or even aware of—Fozzie’s plan. Let her think I was a willing and active participant. I don’t give a fuck. It’s not like she’d believe me anyway. All she wants to do is lecture me as if that will ever bring me back over to the dark side.

  Many people might consider the life of a tattoo artist is the dark side, but I call being involved in the misogynistic, backstabbing, high society bullshit that I was born into the real evil.

  I’m pissed that Fozzie didn’t tell me what was going on, but he did tell the cops that I had nothing to do with it—which is solid.

  The only part of the entire thing that pisses me off is that my real name was revealed when the lobster stealing story was all over the news. Soon after as I started working in the tattoo community, Stan gave me the alter ego Em Vicious—which gets shortened to EmVee. The name came from a client who complimented one of my early tattoos calling it “fucking vicious.” I loved it because it sounds badass, but it also gave me cover so no one would connect me with Commons Department Stores or the Commons family.

  I never talked about my family to anyone—except for a few trusted friends. I never lied, but I didn’t tell the entire truth. There’s a massive difference between giving bits of information to satisfy people’s curiosity about my backstory and saying I’m the youngest daughter of Harris and Cookie Commons—and part of one of the oldest, wealthiest families in Charlotte.

  During the first few years after I left the house, I barely interacted with anyone other than my two sisters, Liz and Maddie—and even those were few and far between. About a year ago, Liz, my oldest sister, started dating one of my friends, and that’s slowly brought me back into the family fold. Not saying I hang out all the time, but I started hitting up a few more pretentious parties and infuriating family brunches than I had before. Weird how our worlds collided, but at least it brought us closer.

  After I won Ink Wizard Charlotte, a local tattooing competition based on the wildly popular Ink Wizard TV show, I feared my background would come out in the open. We live in the days of social media and people who want to know everything about celebrities. Not that I’m a celebrity by any means. Even after winning the contest, I haven’t gotten an enormous amount of national coverage. I’m not necessarily looking for that attention, but I’ve created a solid reputation for myself in Charlotte and the surrounding areas, so I can’t lie and say it wouldn’t be awesome to be widely known. The further I reach, the more clients I get. Being booked solid is the best feeling in the world.

  The moment I started tattooing, I knew I wanted to do it for the rest of my life. And if I wanted a sustaining career, I had to learn from the best. When Stan put out a call for a shop help, I lied about my age and begged him to give me the job. I’d already been hanging around his shop for years, so he knew me
and how eager I was to learn and observe. He must’ve gotten adequately annoyed because he finally—reluctantly—agreed. Within six months, I’d weaseled my way into an apprenticeship.

  Since tattooing full-time, I’ve created a solid reputation, which has helped me grow my client base steadily from repeat clients in Charlotte and people who come from out of town. Both are equally flattering—and essential for my career. I’ve been out of my parent’s house for eight years, and haven’t used one dime of their money in almost as long.

  “It’s all over the news,” Mama says. “Harris Commons’ daughter’s involvement in a robbery.”

  She’s off her fucking rocker. It wasn’t a robbery. It was just theft.

  “Jesus,” I hiss. “So that’s the real issue here, right, Cookie? You’re pissed because I dragged our family name through the mud. As if being a tattoo artist wasn’t bad enough, now you’ve gotta add lobster-nabber to the list of unpleasant titles for me.”

  I love calling her Cookie instead of Mama. It’s petty as fuck, but I get off on how much it gets to her. Though she doesn’t even seem phased anymore, so I think the shock is wearing off. Time to change it up. She’s recently embraced a white streak in her hair that starts at her widow’s peak—probably because color won’t take to it. She’d have a conniption if I started calling her Cruella, like the lady in 101 Dalmatians.