Post by MITCHELL DAVIS on Apr 18, 2024 19:26:00 GMT
Places like that tried to lure you in with the pretty. Mitch had seen the satisfaction shine in the guy’s squinty eyes as he’d pulled the 911 into the lot. He’d swept forward, manicured fingers laced together, trying to keep the dollar signs from rolling in his head like the reels in a slot machine. Either he’d get his paws on the Porsche, or even better, he’d sweet talk him into one of the pair of jewel bright Ferraris that sat in one corner of the lot, a good dozen feet of space left around them. It hadn’t been those that’d caught his eye as he’d driven back from Charlottesville though. By the time he’d shook Jeff’s clammy hand and climbed back into his car, that look of greed had vanished from his eyes.
Glancing at his phone, Mitch wondered whether it’d be Jeff himself who’d turn up in the parking lot. Probably not, losing the sort of sale he’d expected had to leave your pride stinging a little. That had to be karma for a used car salesman. His was the new contract that’d come in a week ago off of the back of the draft of Death Grip. A second wind for a series that could’ve been losing steam after six books – it hadn’t been, his going to the top of the New York Times bestseller list the week his last book had been released was proof of that. Congratulations had come from his agent, along with a bottle of champagne to celebrate. The news had probably reached Jnr already, if karma was real he’d have choked on his outrage. She was gonna choke too, right before she laughed her ass off.
We’re a mile outside of Mystic Falls. We’ll be at your address in ten minutes. No name attached to the text, but it’d come from the phone number that had been on Jeff’s glossy little card. It looked like he’d decided to make the trip after all, probably hoping that buttering him up would have him heading back to the dealership when he was ready to trade the Porsche in.
Mitch finished his coffee and set the cup in the sink before he strolled out of the apartment. If it had been one of the Ferraris he’d have hustled a little faster, but he hadn’t gone for speed. Lucky didn’t need it. She needed something reliable, something that’d mean he wasn’t gonna be pulled away from his next round of edits by a call begging him to come and pick her up cause that piece of shit she called a car had broken down again. She was a big enough distraction as it was, creeping into his thoughts as he wrote, demanding his attention the same way his characters had started to the minute he’d really started considering writing as a possible career. Of course, she nagged far fucking more than any of them did.
Half expecting her to appear out of thin air in the elevator, he’d jogged down the stairs. If he was lucky she’d still be in bed when he dialled her number in a minute and told her to get the hell up and outside. He’d keep the surprise that way. Jeff pulled into the lot behind the building five minutes later, all smiles and those clammy handshakes. Like last time the expression had slowly melted away. If Jeff ever wanted to make salesman of the month the asshole was gonna have to get a better poker face. As he tried to steer him back towards the car that’d followed him here, the one with the embarrassed looking woman behind the wheel, Jeff pulled a handkerchief to try and buff the fingerprints he’d left off of the door. Worried that he was gonna have to pry those sweaty fingers off the door, Mitch got his shoulder in a friendly grip and led him back towards his waiting car.
He watched the car pull back out before he headed back to the side of the Corolla. Last thing he wanted her to see was Jeff fawning over a car that wasn’t worth that much attention – even if it had apparently only had the one owner. Lucky’d hear that it’d been driven by a sweet old priest just once a week and would probably go up in flames, reverence and piety had never been words he’d associate with her.
Come out to the parking lot, I’ve got something for you.
It was easy to imagine her howling at the message, unable to picture anything more than him offering up what was in his pants. Ungrateful bitch. Like a man awaiting execution, he leaned back against the side of the car and waited for her to slam her way out of the back door of the building. His mouth pulled into a thin smile when she emerged, eyes narrowing down to study her face. ”Morning sunshine,” he drawled. ”Where’s that piece of shit you call a car?” God, it would’ve been satisfying to take a sledgehammer to it before he pulled the paperwork out of his back pocket, a fitting end to something that probably would’ve fallen apart like a clown car on its own soon enough.