"Uh-huh. A biker who installs security systems? Does he keep a 'backup' copy of the code?"
"Petty larceny is hardly profitable enough for the Saints to bother with--if they involved themselves in criminal activity, which they do not. Any system I buy from them would be both secure and affordable."
Having survived that fall off the back of a truck without a scratch.
"I still can't afford--"
"I'll deduct it from your pay. Now, I seem to recall you saying once that your father had a garage full of cars?"
"Yes . . ."
"You should take one."
"I'm not--"
"Let's take a look."
He limped off, leaving me to follow.
CHAPTER THREE
Gabriel scanned the two rows of cars. His Jag might reach six figures, but he could have bought two of them for the price of any of these vintage sports models.
I stifled any twinge of guilt. Yes, Dad had inherited the Mills & Jones department store, but it'd been close to bankruptcy when he'd bought out the Mills family. He'd earned every penny to buy these vehicles, the same as Gabriel had for his.
"My dad loved fast cars," I said as I walked over.
"As does his daughter."
Gabriel's Jag had five hundred horses under the hood, but for him it was only a status symbol, a mobile business card that said, "I might be young, but I'm a fucking genius at what I do."
"Which is your favorite?" he asked.
I opened my mouth to say that I didn't have one, but he'd already noticed where my gaze slid. He walked behind the two-seater.
"A Maserati?" he said. "Not much trunk space."
"You don't buy a 1961 Maserati Spyder for trunk space."
"All right, then. Where are the keys?"
"I can't--"
"Does your mother use these cars?"
"No, but--"
"Does anyone else use them?"
"No, but--"
"You need a vehicle, Olivia. The fact that your mother continues upkeep on these suggests she considers them yours, for your use, the same as your laptop or your clothing. I suspect if you checked the will, your father left them to you. If you feel the need to check with her, do that."
"I don't. But a waitress with a Maserati? That's not who I want to be. Yes, I need a car, and once I'm working for you I'll rent or lease something. Right now--"
"Whose vehicle is that?"
He cut in as if I'd stopped talking a few sentences ago. For him, I probably had--or at least I'd stopped saying anything worth listening to. I followed his finger to a decade-old VW diesel Jetta tucked behind the Rolls.