“How much for your car?”
“I’m not selling my car.” The dumbass blinked at me.
“The one out front that hasn’t moved in over a year. What do you want for it?”
“Oh. That old thing? It doesn’t even work.”
I snickered and looked back over my shoulder at it. “If I can start the engine, will you let me buy it?”
“Man, if you can start that thing, you can have it for free. My wife will love me forever if you get rid of that thing.”
I shot out my hand and smirked at the guy. “Done.”
He thought I was crazy and no doubt told his whole family about the idiot who was wasting his time out in the front yard.“Let’s crowd around the window and laugh at him.”
Yeah, well, I was the one laughing. He handed me the keys and the paperwork, and less than ten minutes later, the engine roared to life, and I was driving away with a car that I could spend the next year restoring.
And that’s what I’ve done.
Sure, I’ve had to replace what feels like every part of this car, but it’s been a great project.
And it keeps me out of the house, which is exactly what I need when I have to come home.
I mean, I guess I don’thaveto come home each summer break, but what the hell else am I gonna do with my time?
Thankfully, we’re in the Hamptons right now. When I go back to visit and Dad’s staying in the city, I feel like I’m suffocating. It doesn’t matter that he owns a four-bedroom penthouse overlooking Central Park. I just can’t breathe in that place.
Last time I had to stay there, I think I clocked up a hundred miles of running time, just circuiting the park until my legs gave out.
This year, Chanel wanted to do a Hamptons summer, and so I’ve popped back here for a couple of weeks before having to head back to Nolan for summer training.
I could do a road trip or something, but I really want to get this car done, and I’m so close.
I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet. Maybe sell it? Not sure.
I already have my Nissan GT-R. That’s my baby, and I wouldn’t drive anything else back and forth from Nolan, but maybe I could give this old girl a ride before I sell her to some American muscle car lover.
The song changes on my punk rock mix and I bob my head to the beat.
“Don’t want to be an American idiot…,” Billie Joe Armstrong sings, and I murmur along to the lyrics while I continue my adjustments. A static buzz starts humming, and I can almost feel the speaker wires about to fail me yet again when my phone starts ringing. Yes, I have it set on an old-fashioned ringtone, so it sounds just like a phone from some ’80s sitcom or something. Not sure why, but I like it.
I check the screen, my eyebrows dipping when I notice the call is from Darian Gomez. Why the fuck is he calling me?
Sure, we play basketball together, but he never calls me. For anything.
The speaker gives out just as I hover my thumb over the screen. I leave it, ignoring the static and walking outside. Standing in the backyard, I stare across the swimming pool and up at the white palatial mansion my dad calls home.
With a scoff, I turn my back on it and answer the call. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Mac. How it’s going, man?”
“Yeah, good. You?” I scratch the side of my nose, no doubt getting grease all over my face, but I don’t give a shit. It’s not like I’m out to impress anybody.
“Yeah, yeah, great.”
He pauses for a second, and I jump in with a quick “What do you want?”
“Just wondering if your lake house is free for a weekend. Thought it’d be cool to get the team together for something other than training. You know, just hanging out, bonding over cards, beers, and water skiing or something.”
