Joy Ride

I scowl. “Seriously? You’re seeing someone from our biggest rival?”

“It’s just drinks, and I won’t tell Karen trade secrets over a pale ale,” Sam says.

“Drinks can loosen lips, so be careful,” I say, and that’s another lesson I learned from my mentor. Be careful and watch your back, Bob used to say.

I’m cautious as fuck when it comes to John Smith because we jockey for top billing in this city. Earlier this year, he won a hotly contested bid to build a custom car for a new late-night talk show host, one I was sure I had in the bag. That was a tough loss, but then I nabbed a new client in a banker who rolls the dice big time on upgrades to his fleet of sports cars. Win some, lose some. Even so, it’s best to be cautious when tangoing with the competition.

“Give me some credit,” Sam says indignantly. “I have far more interesting things to discuss on a date than tales from under the hood.”

Mike jumps in. “What do you discuss? Wine? Politics? The state of the world?”

“That and whether cars are guys or girls.”

“And on that note, I’m off to discuss things other than the gender of automobiles with a potential client. See you cats tomorrow. Have fun tonight, Sam.” I clap Mike on the back as he yawns, something he’s been doing a lot less of these days. “Don’t let the baby keep you up too late. Sing him a lullaby.”

Mike’s got a newborn, and the kid just started sleeping through the night, which means Mike has started looking human again, and not like daddy death warmed over.

I head out of the garage and catch an Uber across town. Ironic, isn’t it? But there’s little I like less than driving to appointments in midtown Manhattan. Nothing can make a guy like me hate cars more than New York City gridlock.

As the tiny Honda takes me to my meeting, I catch up on business on my phone—answering emails from clients, returning notes from suppliers, and responding to a request from a scholarship fund I’ve been lucky enough to support in the last few years. Can I help with a little extra for a promising eighteen-year-old from Kentucky who wants to study engineering in college so he can restore cars? Hell yeah, I reply. Then I move on to some other notes, making sure the shop runs in tip-top shape. I didn’t get to where I am by missing opportunities or slacking off.

And I fucking love where I am.

Especially considering that David Winters offers me one helluva golden opportunity thirty minutes later. Turns out the guy who wanted to know about making wings for doors is a producer for a TV network, and they need a new car for a show.

Just my luck.

“Picture this.”

The stocky Creswell Saunders III loosens his bowtie and makes a square with his big hands, like a screenwriter in Los Angeles ready to make his big pitch. He’s parked next to David Winters on a plush, chocolate-brown couch in a corner office overlooking Times Square, the end-of-the-afternoon sun reflecting off Creswell’s naked skull. The man is bald, and from the looks of it, he’s bald by choice. “Midnight Steel will have a modern-day Magnum PI-type hero. A ladies’ man. Tom Selleck, but without the ’stash and the too-short shorts.”

“I always did wonder how those shorts were even remotely comfortable,” I say from my spot in the chair.

Creswell drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Confession: they weren’t. I was a huge fan of Magnum PI back in the day. I even begged my mom to buy me a pair of those shorts for Christmas one year.”

I laugh. “Along with the Hawaiian shirt?”

“Absolutely.”

David chimes in with a question. “Did she get you the Ferrari, too?”

Creswell frowns. “No. But she gave me something better.” He taps his chest. “She gave me ambition. She gave me hunger. She gave me drive. And that’s why I’m here,” he says, stabbing his finger against the table. “Because we’re going to reinvent the detective-in-a-hot-car show for the modern day. And this time, our hero is going to have a little competition.”

“Competition is always a good thing. I’ve been known to thrive on it,” I say, keeping my tone light and even, lest I let on how damn much I want this gig. But this gig—it’s as plum as plum can be, and I’m damn near salivating for it.

“Our hero is going to have a sexy, tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners, brainy and beautiful female PI to vie with,” Creswell says. “They’ll be fighting for cases, running into each other at unexpected times, forced to deal with each other.”

David rubs his hands together. “It’ll have a Moonlighting sort of energy. Cat and mouse. Enemies to lovers.”

“Since we’re making confessions, I’ll have you know I had a huge crush on Cybill Shepherd in high school when I binge-watched that show on DVD,” I admit.

“Crush? Ha. I once planned to marry her,” Creswell says with a broad smile. “I wrote out a proposal and everything.”

I laugh. “You weren’t kidding about being ambitious.”

“Always have been. Now, David, why don’t you tell Mr. Summers what we have in mind for him?”

Turns out the man I met at the custom car show was so familiar with TV and movie cars because he works in the business. He’s a producer for the TV network RBC, and Creswell is the creative force behind the new Magnumesque reboot.

David adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “We want you to build the car our hero on Midnight Steel drives.”

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.