I grunt and hear him snort in response.
I am going to kill this guy.
Chapter 22
Jax
Ten minutes later, we’re in his fancy car, driving toward Fifth Avenue. I was shocked when we went down to the parking lot, and he didn’t have a driver ready to pick him up. It appears Mr. Asshole is the only billionaire in New York who drives himself around the city.
As we drive, the silence becomes oppressive, and I jab at the radio, smiling when some techno starts playing. I glance over at him as he grimaces, laughing at his disgusted expression.
“Is this the kind of music you’re into?” he asks.
“Not exclusively. Don’t tell me, you’d prefer the Moonlight Sonata?”
His hands tighten a fraction on the wheel. “What’s wrong with classical music?”
“Nothing. I like all music. I just figured you might be more into that type of thing.”
“That and country,” he says defiantly.
“Oh my god, I love Chris Stapleton!” I say enthusiastically.
There's a pause as he switches lanes, a little crease to his brow. “Me too.”
After about twenty minutes, we park in a deck just off the main street, but once we reach Fifth Avenue, there’s a mass of people swarming around us in an instant.
Jones grabs my hand and pulls me into Saks. I’ve walked past it hundreds of times but never set foot inside.
As we come through the gold doors and into the entrance lobby, he seems to know exactly where he’s going, heading up the escalators to the first floor.
“What the hell are we doing here?” I ask. He hasn’t actually explained what he’s planning, but I have a sinking feeling I know what it is. “You’re not buying me clothes,” I add.
He gives me a weary look. “And how else will you wear what I need you to wear to my mother’s place?” he asks.
“I don’t need you to buy me any of this shit.”
“Then why did you ask for help?”
“I didn’t!” I protest, hating the implication that I can’t deal with this on my own.
Maybe I could have thought outside the box a bit more and asked Pippa for some clothes. She’s classy enough, if you like that kind of thing.
He tugs me off the top of the escalator, and we arrive in a huge open-plan space with clothes racks everywhere, and brand names hanging from the tiles in the ceiling. There are dozens of customers all around us.
I’m used to mostly empty thrift stores, and this is a living nightmare.
“Stop being a child, and go and pick something out,” he says firmly, and I narrow my eyes at him as he walks away.
The nerve of this dick.
We end up in an area that has Ralph Lauren, Burberry, and hundreds of other designers that I’ve never even heard of.
“This isn’t really my style,” I say, pulling out a light pink silk blouse and wrinkling my nose.
“That’s the point,” he replies in the same clipped tone. It’s reminding me of an elementary school teacher, and it’s pissing me off.
“Try this on,” he says, handing me the most disgusting-looking pant suit I’ve ever seen.
