Page 15 of Saving the Last Heir
“Are youfuckingserious?” I muttered and moved closer. “AnAventador?” I spun and looked at him again. “Do you haveanyidea how much this car costs?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I’ve got a problem, though,” he said and pointed at the passenger side door.
Moving closer, I swept my eyes across the sweeping sharp angles of the car. The thing truly looked like some sort of spaceship out of some old-school comic book. The front end like a bullet, and angling back to what looked like a custom carbon fiber wing on the rear end. It was during my inspection of it that I noticed the missing side mirror and a faint fan of scratches on the door.
“What did you do?” I asked, chuckling. “Did your supermodel girlfriend get a little too aggressive with the road head?”
I winced inwardly at the comment. I’d definitely been spending too much time around the guys in the garage. The shit was starting to rub off on me.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” the guy said, as though it was the dumbest thing anyone could have ever said. Maybe he had a boyfriend? I wasn’t one to judge. Before I could respond, he said, “I need this fixed fast. How soon can you get it done?”
“Sir—”
“My name’s Jackson Adelmund. Call me Jackson.”
Sighing in frustration, I leveled my eyes on the guy. “Sir, we aren’t open. Bring the car back tomorrow, and maybe I can give you a quote.”
He made a growling sound of irritation. “Listen, I’ll pay whatever. Can you give me the number of the guy who runs the place? Maybe he’ll be more receptive.”
Heat flared in my cheeks, and I had to force myself not to grind my teeth together.
“Theguywho runs this place isme,” I said. “Or do you think a woman can’t be in charge of a garage?”
It was petty, but I took pleasure in the off-balance look on his face. He blinked a few times and shook his head slowly. “Uh, I…I didn’t think?—”
“Obviously,” I snapped. “You roll up with a car that costs more than my fucking house, and you were dumb enough to snap the mirror off it, and you act like it’s no big deal to try and get it fixed in the middle of the fucking night. I can tell you aren’t one forthinking.”
It was a little more angry and bitter than I would usually be, especially with a stranger who was a possible customer, but the way he’d brushed me off set my teeth on edge.
“I amsosorry,” he said, holding his hands out, pleading. “I didn’t mean any offense. I really do apologize…uh…what’s your name?”
“Shyanne. Shyanne Witmer, co-owner and manager of Tuyuc Auto Services,” I added to twist the knife a little.
“Mrs. Witmer, I’m very?—”
“Miss,” I said.
He closed his eyes, and nodded once. “Sorry.MissWitmer, Can you please help me? I can’t get into it, but this is really important.”
“Like I said, come back tomorrow, and we can give you a quote. I could get it in the shop in a week maybe.”
“No,”he said, almost shouting the word. “I’ll pay extra. Double. I need this ASAP.”
I let out a breath. Doublewouldbe nice. The car was a choice piece of machinery and wouldn’t be cheap to fix. I could use a little extra money to cover my payroll taxes. But that would mean pushing another customer to the back of the line, and I didn’t want to piss off someone who might be a long-time client for some pretty boy with money.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I really can’t. We’ve got a lot of work, and the books are full for a few days.”
“A hundred thousand dollars,” he said, “on top of the double payment for services rendered.Please?”
My eyes nearly bulged out of my head. Just the sound of that much money made my knees go weak. A hundred grand? Was this guy fucking serious? That much money would definitely pull us out of the hole we’d been trying to claw out of. It would pay off the back taxes, buy the new set of pneumatic tools we desperately needed,andleave nearly fifty thousand in an emergency fund for us. It would, quite literally, fix all my problems.
“Are you fucking with me right now?” I asked.
“I assure you, I amnotfucking with you.” He ran a hand through his black hair. “I’m desperate. If I’m honest, this is sort of a life-and-death kind of thing.”
I highly doubted that, but if it made the guy feel better to use hyperbole, then who was I to judge? I walked to the car to examine it closer. The paint was obviously custom—I’d never seen a Lamborghini in such a deep, glossy crimson that reflected the street lights. Glancing inside, I scanned the seatsand dashboard. It was all covered in bright red suede that looked to have barely been used. This thing was damn near brand new, and by far the most expensive car that had ever been in my garage, andthatwas saying something. This was the kind of machine Dad would have loved to see.
He’d built his business on working on both daily drivers as well as high-end stuff like this. He had a lot of ex-military buddies who would bring by their rides to show off. I’d drooled over Camaros, Mustangs, Chevelles, and Thunderbirds. In all the years I’d worked at the garage, the best times were when some beautiful and rare machine came rolling through.
