Page 1
CHAPTER 1
SETH
At five twenty-two a.m., Silver Spoon Falls is still nursing its Monday morning hangover. The only thing stirring downtown is me.
I walk over to the side door and press my code into the alarm panel. The heavy glass door groans open before the motion lights flip on, and the day’s first and last bit of serenity goes straight to hell.
As the owner, operator, and unofficial den mother of the best goddamn luxury auto shop in East Texas, I practically built this place. What was once a leased single-bay shithole in the strip mall is now twelve high-tech bays that keep the expensive cars in this small, wealthy town running like well-oiled machines. The building used to be a chain tire shop before I bought it and turned it into a glass and stainless-steel fortress.
I take a lap, my boots echoing off the epoxy floor coating, making sure everything is set for another busy day. I’m the only mechanic in Silver Spoon Falls who makes his guys clock in at six sharp. Efficiency is my religion.
The first thing needing a little love and attention is a cherry red Ferrari belonging to the Country Club President. Next to it sits an ornery Aston Martin DBR1 needing a new radiator after its owner drove it up on a curve. The final bay is home to the ongoing disaster that is Jim O’Connor’s ’68 Camaro restoration.
“Good morning, boss.” Tyler Jackson, my newest hire, comes strolling in with his cup of fancy ass coffee in his hand.
“Morning,” I mutter back as I head up to my office for my own cup of much-needed caffeine. I’m two sips deep into my coffee and three minutes into reviewing the day’s job list when I hear the first “oh shit” of the morning. Right on cue.
I stroll out into the shop to find Tyler standing over a shiny red Ferrari 812, hands spread, eyes wide.
“What the hell, Jackson?” I bark, moving in. The kid’s got a look on his face like he’s seen the ghost of Enzo Ferrari himself.
He points. “I was setting the torque wrench, and it slipped. Fell, like, right here.”
He’s not pointing at the engine bay. He’s pointing at the Ferrari’s hood.
There’s a golf-ball-sized dent on the passenger side, the paint spider-webbed out from the impact. That particular hood costs seven grand to replace, not counting labor. Fuck me.
I run a hand through my hair and try not to imagine what my blood pressure is doing right now. “Goddamn it, Tyler. That’s Cash Montoya’s baby.”
The CEO and President of the Silver Spoon MC is richer than God. And, he’s one of my best customers.
“Show me the wrench,” I deadpan, voice flat.
Tyler hands it over like it’s evidence in a felony. He’s sweating bullets. “I’m sorry, boss. I’ll, uh, call the body guy right away.”
“No, you’re going to call Cash Montoya and you’re going to tell him what happened.”
His Adam’s apple bobs like it’s trying to escape his throat. “Shouldn’t you—?”
“Jackson. You break it, you call the owner. That’s house policy.”
“Sucky goddamn policy,” he mutters under his breath as I dig my cellphone out and dial Cash’s number before handing the phone over to Tyler.
“This is Cash.” I can pretty much hear the conversation perfectly.
Tyler’s voice comes out two octaves higher than normal. “Uh, hi, Mr. Montoya. This is Tyler at Prestige. There’s been a, uh, minor issue with your Ferrari.”
A pause. “How minor?”
Tyler launches into a rambling, detail-free explanation. I watch the color draining from his face, like someone slowly letting the air out of a beach ball. When he finally stops talking, the line goes dead for a full second.
Cash’s laughter comes through the line, sharp as a glass bottle shattering on tile. “Man, relax. That’s what insurance is for. Just fix it and we’ll figure out the finances when I pick it up.”
Tyler’s mouth opens and closes, no sound. He glances at me for help.
I grab the phone. “Morning, Cash. We’ll have the panel replaced by Wednesday, on us. You’ll never see the difference.”
Cash snorts. “I trust you.”
