Young Love Murder Part 1

Young Love Murder.

Book One of Young a.s.sa.s.sins.

April Brookshire.

For my Wattpad fans, thanks for the encouragement.

Chapter 1.

Annabelle.

Moving seductively to the pounding rhythm of the music, I throw an enticing smile over my shoulder at the guy grinding up behind me. Buddy, enjoy it while you can. Although, the last thing I'm feeling right now is s.e.xy. The dark, smoky atmosphere of the club is making my eyes water, or maybe it's the blue contacts in them. The song ends, streaming into the next, and I lead my prey over to a booth tucked in a dark corner. While he's kissing my neck, I'm taking a filled syringe out of my red wrist clutch. As he's sliding the thin strap of my dress off my shoulder, I'm gently, swiftly sticking him in the thigh with the needle. The syringe is emptied and slipped back into my clutch before he can react. After all the drinks I've made sure he's had, he doesn't even notice. Besides, he's a little preoccupied with sucking on my shoulder at the moment. Making a sound of irritation, he absentmindedly scratches his leg where I've stuck him with the needle. He'll be dead by morning and I'll be long gone. Good riddance, he's a bad one.

His obituary will read that he was Christopher Gage Bingman, age twenty-four, born in London, England. It'll say that he's survived by both parents and an older sister. It'll leave out that he's deeply involved in the human trafficking of young women from Eastern Europe, using his charisma and looks to lure them in. To me, he's just a job and now that job is done. Freeing myself from his repulsive embrace, I excuse myself to use the little girl's room.

Walking out of the club, I catch a cab to my hotel, glad to be leaving Prague. For as much beauty this city has, it has just as much depravity. During the ride, I send a message to Uncle Simon.

It's done Once back at the hotel, while taking the gold and gla.s.s elevator up to my room, I get a reply.

Transfer complete The elevator doors slide open on the seventh floor and I step off. My footsteps are m.u.f.fled by the patterned carpet of the empty hallway. Sliding the keycard through the slot on door, I receive the okay to enter from a green light. Not until I'm in my room do I message him back.

New contract?

Throwing the clutch down on the bed, I slip off my light jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair. My black strappy heels are next, along with my red satin dress. A beep from my cell phone alerts me to a new text message.

Not at this time Well that calls for a toast. Later. No time to hang out in the hotel bar when I might be able to catch a red-eye flight tonight. I send one last text to Simon.

Flying to New York After a five minute shower and throwing all my belongings into a suitcase and carryon, I call my older brother, Jackson. He doesn't answer. Not that I'm surprised or even worried since he's also on a job right now. A quick text message to let him know that I'm flying to our apartment in New York should suffice for now. He'll call me when he can, or when he's bored.

Arriving just past 4 a.m. Eastern time the next morning, I take a cab to the two-bedroom apartment that Jackson and I share in Manhattan. Although, we're rarely here at the same time so not much sharing is involved. The place could use a dusting, but I'm too exhausted from the flight to deal with it right now. Looking at the spa.r.s.ely furnished apartment you'd think we couldn't afford more, or a bigger place. The fact is anything bigger would be a waste. We each spend less than two weeks here a year.

Instead of giving the place the cleaning it needs, I pad into my room, exhausted from traveling. It's always hard for me to sleep on airplanes ever since I stopped having Jackson or Simon's shoulder to rest my head on. Laying down on my queen bed, sinking into the white down comforter, I take a deep breath. The only places where I can relax are the homes that Jackson and I keep in cities around the world. Here, I don't have to be someone else. Here, I get to be me. And I happen to think that me is kinda awesome.

I'm in repose not even five minutes, blissfully being me, when my phone rings. Checking the caller id shows that it's Simon. Tempted to let it ring to voicemail, I reluctantly answer it. "Uncle Simon?"

"Another job has come up," he says promptly. These days it seems that's the only reason he calls me.

No point in arguing, this is my life. Sometimes the breaks are short in-between jobs. But there's no other life I'd want. "What's the job?"

"You'll be going to Miami. Given your age and gender, you're the best person for this one. I'm faxing over the information now. Call me tomorrow night after you've settled into a hotel," he says, knowing I won't turn it down.

"Okay, talk to you then." Sighing, I press 'end'. It's always about business with my guardian.

Leaving my room, I walk over to the fax machine in our office/dining room and catch the incoming fax before the papers drop to the floor. When the fax machine has finished printing the last page, I straighten the stack of papers, take a seat at the desk and flip them over. The feeling I get when receiving a new a.s.signment, like opening a big present on Christmas morning, flutters through me. Time to get to know the next person I'll kill.

Rifling through the papers, I take a look at the grainy pictures first. The first is of a dark-haired Hispanic man in his mid-forties. Above the picture is written Xavier Sanchez, target. The next picture is of a beautiful blonde woman, who looks a few years younger, but you never know with all the plastic surgery procedures out there. Written on it is Eva Sanchez, wife. Don't you mean future widow, Simon? If it's any condolence, at least she'll be a pretty one.

Another picture is of a young man, a teenager most likely. Unexpectedly, my breath catches as I stare at it. Sure, he's handsome, but that's not what catches my attention. It's his light-colored eyes, blue or green, impossible to tell in the black, white and gray image. There's something about them. He's looking into the camera in a way that makes me feel like he's looking directly at me, which is impossible of course. Like he's staring right back at me. I shake my head quickly and rub a hand over my eyes. Get a grip, Annabelle. You're being ridiculous and imagining things. There's something about him, though. Written at the top of the page is Gabriel Sanchez, son, 17. d.a.m.n, I need to get a good night's sleep.

The last picture is of another teenage boy. He looks kind of like Xavier Sanchez. All I see in his dark eyes is warmth and friendliness. His description is Max Garcia, nephew, 17. I'm starting to get an idea as to why Simon chose me for this contract. The boys are my age.

Time to read the notes Simon sent. The target is Xavier Sanchez, a businessman in both legal and illegal ventures. His legal businesses include a chain of Cuban restaurants and gas stations throughout the South. His illegal business involves drugs, most notably cocaine. The DEA has been trying to take him down for years, but he's evaded them by never giving them the opportunity to catch him in the act of doing anything illegal. Minions haven't been as lucky, though. Unfortunately, most have been rather tight-lipped upon arrest. There had been one informant who was going to testify to seeing Sanchez executing an employee mafia-style, but that informant was killed in a car bomb before the trial. My, doesn't it suck when that happens?

It can be a.s.sumed that the contract wasn't taken out to rid the world of a sleazy restaurateur serving inedible food. Someone is obviously willing to spend a small fortune to put Sanchez in the ground. Either it's his compet.i.tion in the drug world or someone wanting to right the wrongs Sanchez has committed.

Most of the time, other bad guys hire me to take out a target. Compet.i.tion in the criminal world can be ruthless. On the other hand, sometimes it's hard for 'by the book' government agencies to take down men like this because they have to follow the pesky laws the criminal element choose to ignore. Can't have the FBI or Interpol offing any person they suspect of committing murder and mayhem. That would definitely make my job more hazardous.

If I ever get caught, as unlikely as it is, my crimes can't be traced back to the client and the client must be able to claim ignorance. Fine by me, because if I ever get caught, it'd be for about as long as it takes to take down or elude my captors.

Those in my field get hired for all sorts of reasons, by all sorts of people. The clients are usually anonymous and, even in the rare instances that they're not, Simon deals directly with them. All I have to do is point and shoot. Or bomb, or poison, or cut. Sometimes clients request that it look like suicide or a mugging gone wrong. No two jobs are the exact same. Varying methods are a must. Don't want to establish an M.O. that could link my executions together. A hitman who kills in only one way might get pleasure from that method, pointing at a possible serial killer.

So, maybe the new client is a government official who's fed up with Xavier Sanchez getting away with murder and more. Maybe it's an anti-drug group with rich backers, playing vigilante. Who cares? I just go in, get the job done and get paid.

I continue reading the information. Sanchez is a hard man to get to since he has a security force that includes armed bodyguards and a top of the line security system at his Miami estate. Plus, he's often on the move. No one knows when he'll be home in Miami and when he'll be traveling elsewhere. In the past, he's even employed the use of decoys to throw agencies off his trail or hide his whereabouts.

My instructions from Simon are to enroll at the high school that Gabriel and Max attend as seniors. Well, this is a first. After that, I'm to gain the trust of at least one of the boys and, as a result, also gain access to Sanchez's home. Once I've gained access to the house and grounds, I'm to wait for an opportunity when Xavier is home to make the kill. It all seems simple enough. Why do I get the strange feeling that this job isn't going to be like any other before? Maybe it's because I'm a teenager who isn't a teenager. Maybe it's because I'm sleep deprived.

Setting down the papers, I call Jackson's cell again. At the fourth ring, he picks up with a careless, "Yeah?"

"About time you answered your phone, punk," I chide playfully, leaning back in my chair, wincing when it squeaks throughout the entire backward tilt.

"Whatever Annie," he replies, scoffing lightly over the line. "I got your message from last night. Are you in New York yet?"

"Yep, but I'm flying out again tomorrow. I've got a job to do in Miami. You'll never believe it, I have to enroll in high school," I inform him in a morbid tone.

After a moment's pause, he chuckles on the other end of the line. "Seriously?"

"Uh-huh. I'm actually kind of nervous. I haven't felt like this since the first jobs I went out on with you. I mean, we never even went to public school, Jackson. I've technically been a graduate since I earned my GED when I was fourteen." Hey, maybe it'll be a unique experience. For a while, when I was little, I'd wished that I could go to school like normal kids. That bit of craziness was cured when Simon explained how monotonous the life of the average kid is.

"This is too funny." He laughs harder, loudly enough to have me moving the phone a few inches away from my ear. "I may have to fly to Miami just to watch you attend school."

"I'm so glad the thought of watching me go through any sort of real teen angst is so amusing to you," I tease him, knowing the ridiculousness of it. "I'm not used to dealing with other teenagers besides you. My youngest target has been twenty-three." Aren't there bullies in school? Wow, that'd be kind of fun to deal with, in my unique way. Someone tries to steal my lunch money and he'll be the one walking away with empty pockets.

"Well, I'm almost done with my job here in Amsterdam. We haven't spent time together since Paris. How about I meet you in Miami in a day or two? I'll tell Simon that I'm taking a short vacation." Evident antic.i.p.ation in his voice almost makes me want to forbid him from joining me. My brother can be a pain in the a.s.s when he's decided that he's bored and I'm to be the entertainment.

"That'd be great." I suppose. "Call me when you fly into Miami and I'll let you know where I'm staying," I tell him, almost dreading the invitation. He's my only family, though, besides Simon. Not even when you're an a.s.sa.s.sin can you choose your family.

"Will do. Love ya, baby sis," he says mockingly.

"Alright, love you too," I reply grudgingly. It's always the same routine with us. Embarra.s.sed to show any real affection, we play it off as part of our banter.

Relaxing back into the squeaky office chair again, I pick up the picture of Gabriel Sanchez. This job will be just like all the others, I rea.s.sure myself. I get in, make the kill and get out. Simple and uncomplicated. The average teenage boy is no threat to someone like me, a seventeen-year-old highly-trained a.s.sa.s.sin. I'm probably the best in the world. And so modest. Unfortunately, a.s.sa.s.sination isn't an Olympic sport, yet, so the ongoing argument with Jackson continues. But if it was, I would so beat out Jackson in every category. Although, he might take the gold medal in making it look like an accident. He really took to Simon's teachings in that area.

The next morning, after a good night's sleep, I catch a flight down to Miami and check into a spa hotel in South Beach. Not that I plan on scheduling any mud baths or ma.s.sages, but this looks to be an extended stay and the hotel's fitness room is supposed to be excellent.

The two-room suite has the same layout as many of the ones I've stayed in before, but I'm digging the Asian-inspired theme and decor. The bedrooms and living area are tidy, with an uncluttered feel to them. I suspect even a UV light test wouldn't find much hidden filth. Under the scent of incense, it smells of lemon cleaner and salt from the ocean. The living room has a TV in a bamboo parquet cabinet against the wall. There's a gray low back sofa, two matching armchairs and a rosewood coffee table, making up a seating area. The room has beige walls with black framed art of Chinese symbols. There's also a small kitchenette with a mini bar, small stainless steel sink and a coffee maker. In a basket on the counter are some dry creamer and sugar packets, but no coffee. Good thing I'm not much of a coffee drinker.

To the right and left of the kitchen are the two bedrooms. I select the room farthest away from the suite door, feeling that it's a more secure location. That leaves the other bedroom for Jackson, whenever he happens to arrive. My room has a simple queen size bed with rosewood night stands on either side. There's a small closet and a door to the private bath. A plasma TV is mounted on the wall above the rosewood dresser. One whole wall is made up mostly of windows, showcasing a great view of the ocean, with a balcony looking out over the beach below.

I throw my suitcases on the bed to unpack and give Simon a call, to let him know that I've arrived. More than a few days without word from us and he'll have one of his computer geeks hack into government satellite systems to pin us down, especially me and Jackson. A lecture usually follows after that, something to be avoided.

Simon isn't really our uncle he just raised us after our parents died. He was their best friend, possibly their only friend. When Jackson was four and I was two, they were both killed during a job. I don't remember them and Jackson only has the vague memories of a small child, but Simon has always made sure to tell us stories about them. Not always pretty ones, but appreciated nevertheless. They were a.s.sa.s.sins like Simon, like Jackson and I are now. Following in their footsteps usually makes a parent proud, right? I'd like to think they'd be.

When Simon took us in, he raised us the only way I think he knew how. As killers and chameleons like himself. As children he tutored us himself. Not only in academic subjects, but also the unconventional subjects of real life, hard situations and secrecy. He taught us about weapons of all kinds, martial arts, people, cultures, languages, stealth and any other skills an a.s.sa.s.sin may need. We traveled the world with him while growing up. He began sending us out on what he called 'training missions' when we were still kids. It started off small, like gathering information on targets, but eventually it progressed to bigger and more dangerous things. Murder and mayhem, as I like to refer to it.

He never lied to us about what he was and what he did. He sat us down, explaining it all, letting us ask questions. He takes on jobs that involve killing the big bad wolves of the world, the men and women who elude governments and justice. Let's face it, it's not like many contracts are taken out on teachers or firefighters. All the people I've executed were asking for it. And Simon never accepts the contracts that are otherwise.

When we were little, Jackson and I thought of Simon as a superhero of sorts. We know better now, I'm definitely no super hero myself, but Jackson and I both agree that the jobs we do, however hard it would be for others to understand them, have to be done. We're the world's necessary evil.

Jackson was sent on his first real job when he was fourteen and I was twelve. Simon allowed me to help him with everything but the actual killing for the next two years. At the time, I was so envious. I suppose in the way that some younger siblings are jealous of an older sibling being given more freedom. And, being the older sibling that he is, Jackson rubbed it in my face.

When I was fourteen and he was sixteen, Jackson helped me with my first job. Simon monitored us both on our first a.s.signments, saying that he'd be there if needed, but that he didn't want us to think he'd always be there to clean up our messes. Parenting 101: Teach the child to be self-reliant. Some basic principles are universal.

My first target was a p.o.r.n king in L.A. who had a kiddie p.o.r.n business on the side. The police would have had no trouble gathering evidence against him, because the guy was as sloppy in his actions as he looked physically. Why we were brought in, I don't know exactly. I didn't ask either. But my guess is that he put the wrong person's son or daughter in one of his flicks. We were told to destroy all of his footage and equipment.

Pretending to be a runaway who just happened to stumble in his path one day, he thought to make me the star in his newest film. That is, until I took a knife to his throat and he realized that the only type of movie I would ever be in was a snuff film. Guess what? He'd be the star!

I had felt a little numb afterwards, having only been a witness to executions before, never the executioner, but I didn't feel guilty. Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a sociopath, but I don't think so. I couldn't kill an innocent human being, just monsters like him. People who prey on the innocent and crouch in dark alley ways or even in the light of day, waiting for their next victim to unsuspectingly come along. Jackson was a bit overzealous in starting the fire that night, but an anonymous call to 911 got it contained.

The morning of my second day in Miami, Jackson calls from the airport letting me know that he's arrived and in a taxi on his way to the hotel. Thirty minutes later, he enters the hotel room carrying luggage and a plastic shopping bag. "What's in the bag?" I ask him, pausing to take in his appearance. Nice, I think humorously, he's going for the dorky tourist look with plaid board shorts, tank top and flip flops. All he's missing is a visor and obscenely large camera hanging from his neck. Huh, his hair's blonde, haven't seen it that color in a while. Guess while I work, he plans on b.u.mming around, enjoying his vacation.

Towering over me, at a couple inches over six feet, he gives me a sly grin before answering, "Your training videos, my young apprentice."

I raise my eyebrows arrogantly. "Training? Me? You're looking at the master."

"Not when it comes to this subject. Check it out." He tosses me the bag and wheels his suitcase into the spare bedroom, knowing instinctively which one I'd already chosen.

Awkwardly, I catch it and pull out a stack of DVDs. Looking through the movies I realize that my brother has a talent for torture, beyond what Simon taught us. They all appear to be teen movies. "You've got to be kidding me, Jacks," I yell through the open doorway. "I don't need these!" I toss the pile onto the couch, watching them scatter.

He reenters the living room, unfazed by my indignation. "Yes, you do. You don't know how to act like a regular American teenager, Annie. These will help you," he says s.n.a.t.c.hing up one off the couch. "I'll put in this one first." He's holding up a case that says Superbad on the cover. Never heard of it, but the boys on the cover are normal enough looking, if a little badly dressed. Another one has a pink cover and says Mean Girls, which doesn't seem very pleasant at all. I give one t.i.tle, High School Musical, a skeptical look. What the h.e.l.l does singing and dancing have to do with high school? Okay, even with my limited pop culture knowledge, I know that this next movie is in no way related to my job.

I hold up the case. "Really, Jackson? Do you think I'll be running into many teenage vampires on this a.s.signment?"

He holds both palms over his heart, sighing dramatically. "That movie is so romantic. Team Edward forever." I throw the movie case at his head, which he predictably catches while it's midair.

Shaking his head, he clucks his tongue, with a disapproving expression. "I think someone needs to watch Mean Girls first."

Many hours of torture later, we've watched all of the movies. I learned that all teenagers think about is what the opposite s.e.x is thinking, getting drunk and getting laid. Oh, and not getting caught while doing any of those things. Social domination seems to rank up there in priorities for some of them too. Somehow, I doubt the whole breaking out into song and dance part in the musical. Oh yeah, and the vampire hidden in plain sight. I'm sure vampires would have as much aversion to public education as I do. If I were a vampire, I'd at least pretend to be human while attending college.

If the films can be trusted as fact, teens lack communication skills, which result in misunderstandings between friends and lovers. They also aim to keep their parents in the dark about as many aspects of their lives as possible. I find it all fascinating and potentially useful. I did learn one other thing, teen movies are hilarious, realistic or not.

Of course, Jackson thinks this job is some sort of entertainment for him. He insists on helping me out with it. The first thing to decide upon is the part that I'm going to play. Who will I need to be?

After Jackson and I read over the latest information on my phone that Simon has sent by email, including the comings and goings of Gabriel and Max, we decide that I'll play the part of a teenage vixen. Teenage boys seem to love the type of girl who has confidence and shows a higher level of s.e.xual maturity than other girls. The information that we have on Gabriel and Max enlightens us to each of their personalities, their social habits and the places they frequent.

Max is the 'nice guy'. He's had a couple of serious girlfriends, but is currently single. Gabriel is also single, but has had a long line of short meaningless relationships. He's also known to be a bit of a jerk. They're more than just cousins, they're best friends. Gabriel's father, Xavier Sanchez, is brother to Max's mom, Lucy Garcia. Max is full Hispanic but Gabriel is half because his mother is white, of German and Scottish descent. Max's father died when he was little so he's been raised by a single mother. Max's mother manages Xavier's restaurant chain, along with overseeing day to day things for the gas stations.

As Jackson leaves the room to take a shower, I go to my own room to lie on the bed, over the tea green comforter. Deciding to take a cue from Simon's computer geeks, I log onto the internet on my tablet using the hotel's Wi-Fi to cyberstalk the boys. Gabriel's Facebook page is set to private, d.a.m.n, but Max must be the trusting type, so naive, because his life is all laid out publicly for the world to see. Max has 376 friends. In self-derision, I think about the number of friends I'd have upon joining the social network, uh, none. The few people I suppose it could be said that I socialize with would never have a Facebook account. Except maybe Porky . . . Well, there you go, I'd have one friend on Facebook. But there's no rule that says I have to actually know my friends.

Max has numerous folders in his Photos section. Clicking on the one labeled Family, I browse through them. Mostly they're of special occasions, birthdays, holidays and whatnot. Here, I get to see pictures of Lucy Garcia, Max and the Sanchez family. They look like the happy families I've seen across the world, smiling and carefree. Wonder which of them knows the entire truth behind the Sanchez wealth and if any are actually ignorant of the dirty secrets.

I study a close-up picture of the boys together, with the ocean as a backdrop. Both Max and Gabriel have that sun-kissed look, but Max's skin tone is darker in a way that only someone of full Hispanic descent possesses. His hair is the deepest of black. It tints blue under the sunlight, like a raven's feathers. His eyes are so deep a brown they could pa.s.s for black in the right lighting and he has a thick fringe of lashes around his eyes. There's innocence in his eyes and boyishness to his smile. I can't imagine how much more attractive he'll be growing into adulthood.

I know from pictures that Gabriel's mother has a fair complexion, blonde hair and green eyes, while his father has the dark hair and skin of his Hispanic ancestors. With the mix of blood, Gabriel's coloring is lighter than Max's. But as where Max is still growing into his hotness, Gabriel is already there. His eyes are knowing and his smile has a sensual lift to it.

Through my open doorway, I see Jackson exit his room and take up residence on the couch, TV remote in hand. Glancing again at the picture of Gabriel, my breath catches at the back of my throat. His lean, muscular body and tanned skin are shown off in a pair of white swim trunks. Dark chocolate hair, that seems to have natural highlights of black, and bright green eyes, surrounded by thick, long lashes, combine to create a lethal combination. Everything about him screams sensuality and a beautiful combination of two cultures. Talk about a nice mixing of genes.

When it comes to my own appearance for this job, I'll go for a more natural look. On my last job, I had my hair dyed a dark blonde and wore very dramatic makeup and clothing, wanting my looks to scream s.e.x so the target would target me in return for human trafficking. I aim to stand out while in Miami, but not too much. That amount of glamour on a teenage girl in high school might just scream easy.

For this job, I'll dye my hair a reddish dark brown, something similar to what I remember my natural hair color looking like. The last time I actually saw my natural color, of course. I'll wear simple but full makeup. In colors that will accent my golden brown eyes and fuller mouth, without overdoing it. I'll also wear clothes that other girls my age wear, expensive and fashionable, but reasonable for the age.

While traveling, I have to dress in more formal clothing. Don't want to look like a teen when my pa.s.sport says I'm in my twenties. Usually it's easy to pull off with my toned, but curvy, figure. While I have to stay in fighting shape for my career, I'm a girl who likes her food and every country I travel to seems to have a favorite dish of mine calling out, 'Eat me, Annabelle! That's it, girl, go for seconds!' Thank G.o.d for hotel gyms.

Men of all age like the challenge, or so Jackson tells me. As if I haven't figured that out years ago about grown men. I decide that my first encounter with Gabriel and Max shouldn't be at school. It's too boring and commonplace. I'd blend in too easily with all the other pretty girls. Tomorrow's Friday, but I decide that my first day at school will be on Monday. This weekend I'll stage my first encounter with them. Walking out onto the balcony coming off my room, I stare at the beach below, plotting.

Chapter 2.

Gabriel "Hurry up, man!" I yell out the car window at Max as he shuts the front door behind him, still b.u.t.toning the shirt that he just s.n.a.t.c.hed from my closet.

"I'm hurrying! Chill. The club isn't going anywhere," he says peevishly, descending down the stone steps to where I'm parked in the wraparound driveway.

"I know that, but I'm an impatient person, I don't like waiting." I glare at him jokingly. "If all the good ones are taken, it'll be your fault."

He makes a scoffing noise. "As if that would stop you."

Grinning unrepentantly, I nod proudly. "True. But don't worry. Since we're taking my car and the chicks get all excited when they see it, if the good ones are taken we'll just steal them with horsepower." Driving down the long tree-lined drive, I rev the engine, getting excited for the night to come.

"I still can't believe your dad bought you a Ferrari. My mom says you're too spoiled and that I'm stuck with my Mercedes until I produce a college diploma," he whines petulantly, tucking in his shirt. Shaking his head, he then pulls the shirt back out of his waistband.

"Yes, I am," I admit proudly, ignoring his indecision. "My dad has to make up for being gone all the time in some way and I'm more than happy to accept his gifts of guilt." I wave at the security men stationed at the gatehouse as I wait for the wrought iron gate to slide open.

Max laughs. "I don't even freaking have a dad. Does that mean I deserve something better than a Ferrari for that? Maybe I deserve my own helicopter?"

"How about this, Cuz, if I get laid tonight, then I'll let you borrow my car for your next date." I think the offer is very magnanimous of me.