Page 81 of Swerve
“I’ve got some vehicles going overseas in a couple of days. The Range Rover can go with those. We’ll get the location devices disabled first. What kind of ride you lookin’ for?”
“Escalade would be nice.”
“Got a nearly new, black one. The VIN plate’s been switched with a junked car of the same make.”
“How much?”
“With the trade on the Range Rover, thirty K.”
“Twenty-five is deal.”
“Twenty-eight, and cash, of course.”
“Of course,” Sergio says, realizing he’s in no position to negotiate further.
“Wait here. We’ll have the Escalade out in a few.”
Sergio pats the envelope in his jacket pocket. He’d brought thirty-five, so he’ll have a bit left over. He loved the Range Rover, but he’d learned long ago that when something no longer serves you or has the potential to take you down, you simply part ways.
Emotional connection is for those who want to get caught. And he isn’t getting caught. Ever. There is a life ahead of him that he fully intends to lead. Sooner rather than later.
Emory
“What are we doing here, that is the question.”
—Samuel Beckett
CRAZY, BUT IT almost feels like we are on a date.
Not just crazy. Utterly crazy.
Sitting at a table for two, in the low-lit, romantically evocative restaurant of the Hotel California, we no doubt look like two people on a date. Neither of us has on a wedding band, so that negates the marriage assumption.
And, of course, I haven’t missed the not-so-subtle glances of at least three women in the restaurant who have validated my own conclusion that Knox does indeed clean up well.
With a build like his, clothes aren’t necessary to make the man, but the black blazer complements the width of his shoulders, and the white shirt, open at the neck, looks great against his tan neck.
“Emory?”
“Ah, yes?” I say quickly, realizing he has been saying something to me.
“Would you like a drink?”
“A glass of red wine would be nice.”
He waves at a nearby waitress, who walks over with a smile on her pretty face, her eyes locked on Knox’s face. “What can I get you?” she asks.
“Could we get a drink menu?” he says, returning her smile.
“Of course,” she says, laughing self-consciously as she hands him one of the two she is holding, and then, as if remembering I’m at the table, hands me the other. “May I offer any suggestions?”
“A smooth red?” I say.
“We have a lovely Virginia wine that is full and smooth. It’s a customer favorite.”
“I’ll try that,” I say.
“Bourbon. Neat,” Knox says.
