Page 1 of Possessive Mechanic

Astrid

My Lamborghini sputters and kicks and I abruptly swerve multiple lanes in-between cars rushing past me at well over eight-five miles an hour. Horns honk and middle fingers extend in my direction. One driver even throws a Dairy Queen blizzard at my windshield, connecting which sends the Oreo ice cream splattering making my mission not to get drilled in this real-life game of high-stakes car Frogger all the more difficult.

Managing to make my way to the offramp just as the engine goes out, I throw my eighteenth birthday present in neutral and coast down the exit, my descent petering out as I merge onto a barren city road as my wheels come to an abrupt halt somewhere halfway to my destination.

Exhaling a long breath I wrap both hands around the wheel then lean forward, resting my forehead on the horn before suddenly jerking my entire body back into my seat and banging my horn into submission as I look in the rearview mirror, watching smoke pour out from the engine which sits behind me.

This is now what I need right now, especially in this rundown part of whatever town I’m in.

The sun is setting on the day which is also an accurate description of how I’d describe my chances of survival as I watch shady figures start to lurk in the area, seemingly coming out of the woodwork, which isn’t really accurate considering there is nothing remotely close to nature or living around here. This is clearly a concrete jungle, and I’m about to be swallowed up by a six-hundred-pound gorilla if I don’t think fast.

Reaching for my purse I pull out the pepper spray and then release the scissor door. It flips up and I step out, to the sound of catcalls from men who look like they haven’t seen a woman in years, which might be accurate considering the prison-style tattoos most of them are sporting.

Keeping my chin high I shut the door and engage the lock, strutting down the street like I know exactly where I’m going although that’s clearly the farthest thing from the truth humanly possible.

Lady Luck throws me a bone, as I spot a sign that reads Ferrari Fix-Up and walk directly toward it. My eyes narrow as I approach what’s clearly a mechanic’s shop, wondering who in their right mind would bring a Ferrari around this kind of place.

Smoothing down my skirt and buttoning one more button on my blouse, I yank on the door handle but it doesn’t budge.

I cup both hands and bring my face close to the glass, looking inside to see if anyone’s there. That’s when I see the clock that clearly shows it’s ten minutes after seven. Taking a step back from the door the hours of operation sign slaps me in the face like an overdue stack of bills.

The place closed at seven. I’m ten minutes late.

Bringing my face to the door again I knock on the glass. “Hello. I’m here for my appointment,” I lie, not about to look lost as I see a couple of dangerous looking men reflected in the glass, directly across the street.

This is not good. Not at all.

If these guys catch wind of who I am, or more importantly who my parents are, then I’m going to be on the eight o’clock news…guaranteed.

They’ll have me kidnapped and a ransom note issued so fast my head will be spinning, trying to milk my father, the founder, and CEO of Astrid Aeronautics, the company he started exactly one month after I was born and named after me, for every penny he’s got.

And does he ever have a lot. Enough to bribe two board members to vote so his thirty-three percent ownership, along with their eleven percent each, will give him the majority he needs to transfer the company to me, allowing him to disappear to Brazil for a couple of years to try and skirt a whole host of charges the I.R.S. is after him for.

Transferring the company to me allows it to stay in the family. Yes, we’ll take a big financial hit, but he won’t go to jail. Brazil doesn’t extradite its citizens and my dad has a Brazilian passport, thanks to a big investment he made in the country a decade ago.

So he’ll be safe. But me on the other hand? As things look right now…not so much.

“Hello. Mr. Ferrari. I’m here for my appointment,” I say, knowing I sound ridiculous, but I’m running out of options here. It’s not like I can pull out my iPhone and quickly book a hotel, or an Airbnb even, and just show up and slide into safety.

There’s nothing non-commercial anywhere within sight. And the commercial ventures around here look far from functioning, at least most of them. I’m starting to wonder if that includes the one whose window I’m banging on.

I need to get back on the road tonight, to make my ‘dinner date’ with the CFO of my dad’s company, the one who caught my dad preparing to do some accounting tricks to get the vote he needed. And that man is demanding I give him something I’ve never given anyone, in return for his silence and not speaking up and trying to prevent the vote from going sideways in three days’ time.

I’m running out of time for the vote in two days, just as I am for my dinner meeting tonight, just as my life expectancy is at this current moment.

“You don’t have no appointment,” a gruff voice says behind me and I almost jump straight out of my Prada’s.

I’m expecting it to be one of the thugs across the street, but it’s not. I can see the reflection in the mirror and when I turn to get a better look I have to work hard to keep my mouth closed.

Tall, dark, and handsome is the understatement of the year.

He absolutely towers over me, clearly, well above six feet, probably somewhere around six and a half.

His shoulders are so wide I can’t even see the guys across the street anymore, his big frame completely blocking them out, and replacing them with a new worry. Him.

But not exactly in the kind of way those other rough and tumble men had my stomach tied in knots, but in a way that causes me to question everything I know about men, and my attraction, or more accurately my lack thereof, for them.

My mom and dad try relentlessly to hook me up with other high society boys. But I find them boring and too…juvenile. All they seem to do is sit around and brag about how big their bank accounts and yachts are. Sure, some have rock-hard bodies from having nothing to do other than count their money and pay for the best personal trainers on earth, but they’re just not that…exciting. And they’re boys.