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Echo got up and greeted me by sniffing my balls.
“Get some manners,” I told the dog.
After a quick shower in the guest bathroom, I made it to the kitchen for a glass of OJ.
Echo followed.
The partially empty bottle of rum that I put back in the liquor cabinet attested to how much Nicole had imbibed last night.
I wrote out a quick note. I added my phone number and two Advil, but then I decided on another two lines.
Thinking of you
and tiramisu
That was as poetic as I could get. The memory of her snuggled against me this morning had blood moving south and my pants tightening.
I adjusted myself and chugged the rest of my orange juice on the way out. My first stop was the ground floor, where I filled in Oliver, who swore he’d take proper care of Nicole. This morning I chose the Lambo; it begged to be driven.
Dad hated extravagance. It would piss him off, and he deserved it for cutting my vacation short. I didn’t get a lot of chances at rebellion, so I wouldn’t let this one go to waste.
The engine started with a high-pitched roar. Once on the street, I pulled over for a quick call to Phil Patterson.
“Asshole, you better not be calling to tell me how fucking warm the Caribbean water is.”
Phil’s language was always colorful.
“No. I got called back early.”
“That sucks the big one.”
“Look, I need some help, stat. A friend of mine had her place broken into last night.” I didn’t really know when it had been, but that part of the story wouldn’t matter.
“Let me guess. You want the repair to go slow so she has to bunk with you for a few days? I can handle that.”
“Exactly the opposite. I need the door and windows repaired today.”
He sighed. “Man, I don’t know. I’m pretty backed up.”
“Would a pair of Lakers tickets help with your schedule?”
The elation in his voice gave him away. “Front row?”
“Is there any other kind?” I gave him Nicole’s address and drove off.
When I stopped at the third light on my drive into work, a Porsche pulled up next to me on the right. The kid driving it looked over and revved his wimpy little engine. Ah, southern California car culture at its best. It was good to be home. I smirked.
The light turned green.
I punched it, and three seconds later, he was in the rearview mirror. I put on the brakes to slow for the traffic ahead.
They never learned. My yellow rocket hadn’t lost yet. Life was fun in the fast lane.
* * *
Arriving at the company garage,I intentionally parked where Dad would see my yellow extravagance when he came down at the end of the day.
Upstairs, the elevator doors opened to Benson Corp. just as I had left it. The place was the model of efficiency with people at their desks, very little noise, and a small group discussing something on a whiteboard in one of the conference rooms. Someday, I’d replace Dad and rule over this money-making machine. That was the plan, and I followed plans.
