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“Yes?”
“Hello,” a very calm and assertive voice says from the other end of the phone. “Is this Blake Torres?”
“Yeah, who’s asking?”
“I’ve got a bit of a problem with my McLaren 720,” the man replies. “I was hoping you could come and help me out. I’ve heard you’re quite the man when it comes to cars.”
I don’t know who this is I’m talking to, but I can’t say his compliment doesn’t give me a quick little ego boost.
“You heard that, huh?”
“That’s right,” the man replies. “I also heard you work afterhours?”
“I do. But I have to warn you, it can be a bit pricey.”
“How’s five grand sound?” the man says.
My heart skips a beat, and for a second, I wonder if I heard him right. “T-that sounds fair.”
“I’d bet it does,” the man chuckles. “I’d like you to come tonight. I can send a car for you now.”
Who the hell is this guy? Send a car for me?
“I have my own car, Mr.—”
“This way would be easier,” he replies. “I’ve got your address, and my man is already on the way.”
This is seriously odd. The way this man speaks – such authority. But then again, he owns a McLaren, so he must be a CEO or something and is used to bossing people around.
“You’ve got my address?” I ask.
“From Tommy,” he replies. My boss.
“I have to warn you. I’m not that familiar with McLarens…”
“It’s just the brakes,” he laughs. “It’ll be a walk in the park for you. My man will be there in ten.”
I open my mouth to respond – ask him what his name is, or how long he thinks it’s going to take, or whether he’s got his own garage for me to work in – but the phone disconnects, and I’m left sitting alone, wondering what the hell just happened.
Mythis-is-a-bad-ideameter is spiking, but myholy-shit-moneymeter is also running hot and overpowering everything. Five thousand dollars and the chance to work on a McLaren and add that to my resume? That’s a huge opportunity, and I’d be a fool to turn it down.
But at the same time, this is crazy shady. It’s the middle of the night, I was just hired by a man whose name I don’t even know, who is sending a car to pick me up and take me somewhere I don’t even know where I’m going.
Well, women may be untrustworthy, but they never said men were blessed with an abundance of brains.
I get suited up in my work clothes and quietly head downstairs and out the front door. I don’t want to be bothered by anybody about where I’m going at this hour. I may be twenty-two, but I still live at home, and that’s one of the annoying things you have to deal with while still sleeping under your dad’s roof.
A few minutes later, as promised, a Maybach Benz pulls up and parks just up the street from the house. Okay, a roughly two-hundred-thousand-dollar car taking me to my job. But I guess that makes sense considering I’ll be working on a car that costs double that.
The driver, a man in a black suit, gives me a nod as I slide in the back seat.
“Hello,” I say. He simply nods back, and we pull away. He remains silent for the rest of the drive, which is about a half an hour, until we end up pulling up to a gate which slowly slides open to reveal a clearly crazily expensive house, semi-modern with two armed men standing flanking the front door.
It’s then that I put two and two together: This is Luna’s father’s house.
10
Blake
