The CEO and Her Driver

Chapter 12

There comes a time when you no longer care what the future has in store for you. You get to a level of anger that shuts down all the cautionary parts of your brain. The part that tells you to not play with fire, to not go down a steep hill full of potholes while on a skateboard, to not set off fireworks inside your house. And sure I may have done all three as a kid, because rage and pain drove those insanely stupid decisions. And I could feel myself on the same path. One with little thought for the consequences. Just images of punching that idiotic smug Laurence Royal right in his idiot smug face over and over.

The car was filled with murderous thoughts as I imagined a game plan that was full of dramatic flair. Kicking down his front office doors before swinging my bat in a clear threatening visual. But the problem with this entire visual was that it was set to the irritating soundtrack of NSYNC's "Bye Bye Bye," blasting in the car.

I know that I can't bake the door,
I ain't no spy!!!

I slumped further down in the front passenger's seat, trying to ignore Tate's singing. But it was like that song Baby Shark, burrowing into my brain at full volume, refusing to give up until I could think of nothing else.

I want to see you spook the poor,
Baby pie pie pie!!!

I tried to keep my mind focused on my mission. Destroy Laurence Royal. But Tate had the ability to make thinking impossible, which was a blessing and a curse all at once. He was utterly hot, but he also never shut up... so it was a toss-up if he made me speechless in a good or bad way, and it changed from minute to minute.

"TATE!" I hissed. "I'm trying to make a murder plan!" I shot him a glare.

He threw a mischievous grin back at me, dimples flashing beneath his sharp green eyes. "The boyband vibe isn't working for your evil scheming?"

I rolled my eyes, running my fingers through my hair and tugging it out my face in frustration. "I would have picked something—" The wind had tangled it into creative knots and it took several angry tugs to get my fingers free. "more screamo or something revenge-driven."

With a quick scan of his playlist, phone connected to the dashboard, Tate waved his fingers with dramatic flair before a new song blared to life in the car. Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats" began to play.

I raised a brow in a silent and very judgemental response.

Tate shrugged. "What? You said revenge-driven."

Snatching his phone from the dashboard, I began to scan his music playlist. "Remind me to never let you DJ anyone's wedding," I muttered.

After scrolling for what felt like ages, I realized he had more songs than I had ever seen. "Holy crap! How many songs do you have on here?!?"

"Eighty-four thousand, three hundred and twenty-six," Tate replied without hesitation.

I stared at him wide-eyed. "Did you seriously count them all?!?"

Tate snorted, bursting into laughter, eyes bright with amusement. "Um... it says how many I own at the bottom of the list."

I blinked, staring at the number in bright bold, blushing at my brain fart. Great job Allie. "How many of these do you actually listen to?" I asked, trying to keep some composer.

Tate tilted his head back and forth, trying to decide. "Not that many actually." Before I could respond, curious to understand why he owned so many songs he didn't listen to, Tate changed the subject. "We're here," he said as we approached the Royal Fashion building.