Chapter 6
SIX
The rumble of my Harley Davidson echoes off stone pillars as I pull up near the front steps of Bayridge Country Club and kill the engine.
“Sir, you can’t park here,” a valet says, stepping out from behind his fucking podium with a slick suit, too much hair gel, and not enough authority.
For a brief moment, I consider telling him where he can stick his clipboard.
But I head up the stairs as his voice trails off behind me, and I haul open the massive front door.
I’m already pissed about the hour-and-a-half drive to Rothesay to nail this fuckwit down, and just being here is getting me even more riled up.
This place is all stone columns and glass, polished brass door handles that probably get wiped down between handshakes, and manicured shrubs in matching planters.
It’s the kind of place where old money goes to pretend they don’t launder theirs too, and where new money slaps each other on the back and makes jokes about ethics between bites of seared tuna.
I push through the glass doors and walk into a lobby that smells like money and lemons, with soft, smug background music playing. The murmur of overpriced lunch and scotch comes from the dining room to the left, so I head that way.
And I’m met with another fucking podium. Jesus. This one is manned by a young-looking girl in a navy blazer, who stands up straighter when she sees me.
“Hi… welcome to—”
I walk right past her, not in the mood to be asked for a membership card I obviously don’t have, and head straight into the dining room. Tables full of pastel polos and Rolexes go quiet as I walk through, and people glance up from their overpriced salmon salads before quickly looking away.
Victor Thorne’s at a table near the windows with a few other men, all middle-aged and self-approving with their sport coats draped over the backs of their chairs.
But Victor is one of the wealthiest assholes in this room. He’s a repeat customer of the Basin Kings, and until now, he was one of the few who paid on time and didn’t ask questions. He used to throw money down like it didn’t matter—for Ferraris, Bentleys, even a fucking boat once.
And this time, it’s a Porsche 911.
He requested it. He said he wanted in on our auction so he could outbid everyone. And now he’s trying to back out and fuck us over.
Not today, Vic.
I walk up to his table and pull out the empty chair across from him. He goes pale as I take a seat and lock my eyes on his, and the other men still.
Victor clears his throat and sets his scotch down gently. “If you could give us a moment, gentlemen.”
They hesitate, but I don’t look at them. I keep my eyes on Victor as they eventually stand and slip away. Victor then makes a motion to wave someone off, which is likely security, and cautiously brings his attention back to me.
But I continue to sit in silence and let him make the first move.
He shifts in his seat. “Look, you have to understand—”
“Oh, that’s where you’re very wrong,” I say.
“I do understand. You asked for something, and we delivered. You specifically wanted a Porsche 911 so you could show up to the auction, toss your money around and outbid every asshole in the room. You wanted to beat them all. But you didn’t just want the car…
You wanted the status. The attention. The fucking applause.
You wanted to look like the most sophisticated, most successful prick in the room, and make damn sure everyone saw it. ”
I lean in, and he leans back.
“We used to do this quietly. You ask, we deliver. But you wanted to make a show of it this time, and you wanted to use our auction to make yourself look good.”
His gaze darts around the room to check if anyone’s watching. And I don’t have to take my eyes off him to know they are.
“Eyes on me, fucker. I’m talking to you.”
They immediately snap back to mine.
Fucking pathetic. This spineless, wealthy collector with a hard-on for rare, illegal, or banned imports, who’s obsessed with exclusivity, and toys with legality. He’s all about the show… but now, he can’t back up what he asked for.
“Look, I…” he leans in, lowering his voice.
I lean back, not giving him the opportunity to shield his cowardice behind his polished facade.
He presses his lips together, and I try not to smile at how annoyed he looks.
“It’s a big risk,” he says through clenched teeth. “I just need to—”
“You just need to shut your fucking mouth and listen.” I reach across the table to grab his scotch and take a swig.
“I never wanted to let you into the auction in the first place. You rich assholes treat it like a game, while we’re the ones risking everything.
I’ll say it one more time, Victor. You asked. We delivered. Now you fucking pay.”
“Alder…” he shakes his head. “I can’t go to the auction and—”
“You,” I say, pointing a finger at him, “wanted in. You are the one who came to us because you wanted to flash your wallet so the investors in your new ‘import venture’ would think you’re the goddamn king of the black market.”
He nods a bit nervously, but then he throws his hands up and leans forward again, his eyes looking a bit too wild for my liking. “Fine,” he grits out. “I didn’t think the room would be so fucking heavy this time. There’s heat, and people are watching. I can’t be tied to this publicly.”
I finally take my eyes off him to glance around the room, catching the stares and hushed whispers aimed our way.
“You already are.” I take another drink, almost tempted to drag this out just because it tastes so damn good. “Pay now, or I make this even more public. Right now.”
His eyes widen.
“We risked prison so you could make a scene in front of your little investors, and now you’re choosing to fuck over the Basin Kings? This isn’t a flex, Victor. This is a deal. Pay. Or disappear.”
His eyes flick to the bar behind me, where his tablemates are seated, then back, as his fingers start picking at the edge of the tablecloth. “I don’t have that kind of cash on me.”
“Then wire it.” I hold his gaze as he squirms under my stare. “You know where.”
He hesitates, then pulls out his phone and starts tapping.
“Since you were ready to throw down at auction, might as well make it an even six figures.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
I take another drink of his scotch as I watch him. “And add another five grand for inconvenience.”
He glances up at me, fingers hovering over the screen.
“Want to make it ten?” I ask, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table.
Victor holds my gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes back to his phone as he finishes tapping away at it. “Done.”
“Show me.”
He pauses halfway through sliding his phone back into his pocket, but then turns the screen to show me the full amount deposited into our burner account.
I drain the last of his drink as I stand and glance towards the bar. “Good luck explaining this one to your buddies,” I say. “Come get your car in the morning.”
Then I turn and walk out, past the head shakes and whispered disbelief, down the stairs, and right by the valet who half-heartedly says something I ignore.
As I swing my leg over my bike and start it up, I finally let out my sigh.
Auctions used to be the best way to move cars. It was fast money, and big money, with no haggling and no chasing.
But not anymore. Because now even the assholes with something to prove, and the money to do it, are starting to back out. And if this keeps happening, we’re headed for more risk than reward, more heat than profit, and a whole lot of shit we can’t afford to sit on.
I pulled it off with the Porsche this time and got the price we wanted. But if the next buyer flakes, we might not be so lucky.
I turn my bike down the long, manicured driveway of the club and rev my engine loudly, and just obnoxiously enough to send one last message to the rich fuckers behind me.
As I turn onto the highway, I decide I’ll worry about next steps later.
Because there’s a different kind of chase calling me now… and it starts at UNB.