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!)