Joy Ride

“Our hero is going to have a sexy, tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners, brainy and beautiful female PI to vie with,” Creswell says. “They’ll be fighting for cases, running into each other at unexpected times, forced to deal with each other.”


David rubs his hands together. “It’ll have a Moonlighting sort of energy. Cat and mouse. Enemies to lovers.”

“Since we’re making confessions, I’ll have you know I had a huge crush on Cybill Shepherd in high school when I binge-watched that show on DVD,” I admit.

“Crush? Ha. I once planned to marry her,” Creswell says with a broad smile. “I wrote out a proposal and everything.”

I laugh. “You weren’t kidding about being ambitious.”

“Always have been. Now, David, why don’t you tell Mr. Summers what we have in mind for him?”

Turns out the man I met at the custom car show was so familiar with TV and movie cars because he works in the business. He’s a producer for the TV network RBC, and Creswell is the creative force behind the new Magnumesque reboot.

David adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “We want you to build the car our hero on Midnight Steel drives.”

And I grow ten feet tall. This is what I want. This is the motherfucking bomb. I love deal making and I love big splashy opportunities. The chance to build for a TV show is huge, and it’s why I strive to make sure business comes first, like I did when I worked that Sunday at the show. Because when you put business first, it pays off like a loose slot machine. That means I can take care of myself, my employees, and my future. I can take care of others, too, and that’s damn important to me.

I’ve known since I was three that I wanted to make cars. I was that kid. The one who played with Matchbox cars and trucks. The boy who built model airplanes and vehicles. I loved everything about autos, taking them apart and putting them back together. Growing up in Seattle, I had parents who encouraged me and found opportunities for me to learn from local mechanics and car restorers. There wasn’t a problem under the hood that I couldn’t tackle by the time I was eighteen, when I was ready to find a job. But my dad insisted I go to college, and I’m damn grateful for that. I decided to study business so I’d have the skills to make a custom car business the best it could be.

The best—that’s what I want to be. Why? Because. Fucking because. Why does Michael Phelps compete in the Olympics for more gold medals? Because he can. My job is the love of my motherfucking life, and the chance to perform at the peak is all I’ve ever wanted. I crave it like oxygen, like chocolate, like life itself.

Opportunities like this are why I climbed the mountain, learned the skills, and worked for the best builders before starting my own shop. “You’re ready, Max,” Bob told me one day when we’d finished an Oldsmobile. “It’s time for you to branch out on your own.”

It takes a while to be ready, and my mind flicks back momentarily to Henley. That’s something we fought over the last few weeks she worked as my apprentice. Headstrong and fiery, bright and creative, boasting a degree in engineering, she was sure she was ready to conquer the world.

But why the hell am I thinking of Henley? I drag a hand through my dark hair, re-centering my focus to the here and now.

The female PI will have a name-brand car for her ride, since the show has an automobile sponsor. But the hero’s car, a Lamborghini Miura, will be customized with added features.

“What do you say?” Creswell asks.

“Sounds like a plan. Let’s nail down the details.”

David tells me he’ll draw up paperwork. “One more thing,” he adds. “This show is one of the priorities on our network for the new season. We have a huge marketing campaign behind Midnight Steel, and we expect the car to be part of it. Would you be able to do some promo videos as you customize it, showing you making the car and whatnot? They’ll run on our website.”

“As long as you don’t need me to act like a douche on a reality car-building show I’m game.”

David laughs. “We’d prefer, in fact, that you don’t act like a douche. We want to capture the real vibe of what it takes to make a car like this.”

Creswell checks the time on his wrist. “I need to go. Must get home to Roger. He surely misses me.”

David points to the door. “Of course he misses you. Go, go, go.”

Creswell scurries out, muttering Roger’s name as he leaves. I’m not sure if Roger is his lover, partner, or dog, or maybe it’s the name of his in-house thermostat system. It isn’t my place to find out.

David and I make plans to meet again on Friday evening to talk about the next steps, and then I say good-bye.

When the elevator doors close, I’m all alone.

“Fucking A,” I say quietly as I punch the air.

As the elevator chugs downward, I say it louder. This must be how a receiver feels in the end zone. This is motherfucking awesome.

When I reach the ground floor, I call my brother, Chase, to see if we can celebrate tonight now that it’s damn near official.

“Meet at Joe’s Sticks in thirty minutes,” he tells me.

“Let’s do it. I’ll text Mia, and she can join us, too.”

Joe’s is walking distance, so I make my way up the avenue in a cloud-nine mood. I don’t even get annoyed when a messenger on a bike hops up on the sidewalk, nearly slamming the front wheel into my leg. I sidestep him.

I can handle a near bike run-in.

The run-in the next morning, though, is a little more difficult to dodge.





5





Henley’s To-Do List



* * *



—Black-lace combat boots will look hot tomorrow. Set them out tonight.



* * *



—Start all that frigging paperwork that won’t stop staring me in the face.



* * *



—Try not to hate paperwork. (That’s asking too much!)



* * *



—Take that new hip-hop workout at gym. Maybe it’ll help my complete inability to follow the steps in salsa class. Why is dancing so hard?



* * *



—Figure out why the freaking screen-lock on phone doesn’t work. What kind of self-respecting fix-it woman can restore an engine on a Challenger and not repair a screen-lock? (I’m looking at you, girl!)



* * *



—Don’t check out hot guy at gym. The one with tattoos that look like one Max has on his bicep.



* * *



—Especially since it’s such a sexy tattoo.





6





I’m nearly at the climax.

Of the story.

The one I’m telling Livvy about the Rolls.

“And then she purred when I turned the corner,” I say from my spot in her parlor, sitting on the ornate couch with the carved wooden arms and upholstery that looks as if it comes from Versailles.

Livvy’s slate-gray eyes sparkle. She sits on the other end of the couch. “And?”

This is the cherry on the ice cream sundae. For Livvy, the car isn’t complete until I tell her how it feels to be behind the wheel. “The purr turned to a deep roar when I cranked up the speed for the final mile.”

“And when you parked it?” Livvy is on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped together.

“Like a parachute landing softly on the grass. Perfect.”