by Lisa Ferrari
“Yes. But no, because the promoter is paying for our travel. It’s part of my fee for the guest appearance.”
“How much is your fee?”
“It varies by show. This is a fledgling competition. It’s only their second year so they don’t have tons of money. So we worked out a deal where I get a percentage of ticket sales plus whatever I do at my booth.”
I’m fascinated by every word that comes out of Kellan’s mouth.
And by his actual mouth.
Let’s face it, I’m smitten.
Chapter 7
WE LAND AT John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana. Not at LAX.
I don’t understand why.
We’re among the first people off the plane and we make our way through the terminal.
“The show is in Hollywood, right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And the hotel we’re staying in?”
“The Chateau Marmont.”
“Right. It’s in Hollywood, too. Right?”
“West Hollywood, technically, but yes.”
“So why did we land in Irvine? Did the pilot get lost?”
“I want to do a little shopping before we head to Hollywood and to the hotel.”
“Shopping? Where?”
“Newport Beach.”
“What’s in Newport Beach?”
“Lamborghini of Newport Beach.”
“We’re going to look at a Lamborghini?”
“Yes.”
“But you already have a Lamborghini.”
Kellan merely smiles his million-dollar smile and I relent. I don’t care where we go or what he looks at. I’m just so tickled to be here with him, for as long as it lasts.
I quickly curse myself for my pessimism and negativity, and for my complete lack of dignity.
Then I curse myself for cursing myself.
What a conundrum.
But then I remember from high school algebra that two negatives make a positive. So cursing a curse is actually…what? A blessing?
Kellan is on the phone as we stand in the airport. It has a high, white-arched ceiling. It’s beautiful. There’s a Ruby’s Diner with model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. There’s a McDonald’s, a Carl’s Jr…
I see a Starbucks.
I could go for a coffee. All that champagne and exquisite food has me about ready for a nap.
From the sound of Kellan’s conversation, he knows the person on the other end of the line. Kellan says we’ll be there in about an hour.
He hangs up and makes another call. He chats briefly and hangs up.
“They’re already here.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see. You want a coffee?”
“Desperately.”
We grab a couple of Venti coffees and head out front, where I am amazed by a humongous statue of John Wayne. It looks almost lifelike, cast in bronze.
“Claire. Over here.”
I walk over to Kellan. He’s standing at the curb. In front of him is one of the most beautiful and shiny red sports cars I’ve ever seen. I see from the little silver horse logo on the back that it’s a Ferrari.
Kellan is standing there with two men in slacks and matching black polo shirts that have a yellow horse logo embroidered on the breast.
All three of them are looking at me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“This is a Ferrari 458 Spyder,” says Kellan.
“Okay.”
“This is our rental car.”
“What?”
Kellan introduces me to the two gentlemen, both of whose names I immediately forget as I’m standing there trying to comprehend what is happening.
Who rents a Ferrari at the airport?
A Chevy, a Ford, a Toyota, a Nissan…. Sure.
But a red convertible Ferrari?
What is happening?
Kellan and the guys do a bit of quick paperwork, they hop into a black SUV and depart, and Kellan opens the passenger door for me and helps me into the Ferrari.
He sets up the GPS in the dash and we’re on our way to Newport Beach.
“SO, HOW MUCH is this going to cost?” I ask. Truly I have no idea. But it’s got to be a lot.
“Only $750 a day.”
Lord, that’s almost as much as my rent.
“But I got a good deal on it,” Kellan explains. “Only $1500 for the whole weekend, including today. We saved 750 bucks. It’s like getting a whole day for free. Especially since we’re returning it early Sunday morning. I wish we could drive it to Palm Springs for a week. Can you blow off that event Sunday night at work?”
I consider this.
Actually consider it.
A week in Palm Springs with Kellan. Surely we’d be naked for much of that time. Wouldn’t we?
But no, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself knowing I’d flaked on Nancy and the crew and left them trying to figure out how to serve 300 hungry people, that I likely ruined the bride’s dream wedding.
“Tempting as it is, no,” I say. “I’d feel guilty. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
“What if you get sick?”
“I never get sick.”
“Me either.”
We get on the freeway. People in the other cars take pictures of us.
Then I remember what we’re driving. Kellan comments that the 405 is actually moving. That’s the freeway. I recall a comedian one time pointing out that that’s one of the differences between southern California and northern California: in southern California, the freeways are collectively referred to as proper nouns: the 405, the 10, the 101; whereas in northern California, they’re simply referred to by their number: 80, 5, 99.
Interesting.
But not as interesting as this gorgeous Italian showstopper I’m sitting in.
I do a quick search on my phone: Ferrari 458 Spider Price.
I see that the Manufacturer’s Suggested Retail Price (MSRP) for the 458 Spyder (spelled with a ‘Y’; weird) is $263,553 for this car.
Whoa.
And my fat butt is riding in it.
Still full and maybe even still a tiny but buzzed after our flight. In first class.
I sip my coffee.
What is happening?
We quickly exit and head down a long surface street and turn right. We pass a bunch of gas stations and then a Jack in the Box. Kellan says he could go for a couple of Breakfast Jacks. But we continue driving.
Up ahead on the left, I see it. A big white building on the corner, with black letters on the front: LAMBORGHINI NEWPORT BEACH. There are a bunch of Lamborghinis in the parking lot. They are all different colors. Orange, green, black, white, yellow, red. They’re so wild and crazy, they almost don’t look real.
But the surrounding neighborhood is very suburban middle-class feeling.
“What do you think?” Kellan asks.
“I was expecting…” I’m not sure what I was expecting.
“Regular people, Claire. Just like you and me.”
Kellan turns in.
“So, why are we driving a rented Ferrari into a Lamborghini dealership?” I ask.
Kellan smiles at me. “Leverage.”
WE PARK DIRECTLY in front of the showroom. I guess you can do that when you’re driving a car like this. A 458 Spyder.
We meet Kellan’s friend Nick. He seems nice. Nick is tall and wearing grey pants and a shiny grey silk shirt and a purple tie. He has long curly hair, like a surfer. He looks like the kind of guy who should be selling cars like this. He’s surprisingly casual.
Behind him, in the showroom, I see a bunch of Lamborghinis of different colors, many of them with their tops down and doors open. Wow.
Kellan introduces me to Nick and explains that we’re in town for a guest posing and he’s test driving the Ferrari.
Nick steps closer to the Ferrari and sizes it up. “Thinking about replacing your Huracan?”
“Thinking about it. But I wanted to see what you guys had in stock before I signed the p
apers on the 458.”
“Why not the 488?” Nick asks.
“I like the lines on this one a bit more. Not as bulky. It’s also 20 grand less. It reminds me of a Miura. I really like it.”
“What’s a Miura?” I ask.
Kellan speaks “Lamborghini Miura” into his phone and shows it to me. I see a beautiful green car with long, graceful lines. It looks a bit old.
“Wow,” I say. “The front looks like a woman. With big eyes and long eyelashes.”
“Exactly,” says Kellan. “That’s what they were going for back in 1966 when they built it. It’s the car that really sent Lamborghini on the road to mid-engined psychopath supercars. They followed up later with the Countach, which is the car I first fell in love with. But, I must say, this 458 certainly gives the Bull a run for its money.”
Nick finishes his walk-around of the Ferrari. “She is a beaut. So what can I do for you?”
“Do you have an LP-Seven-Four in Azzuro Thetis?”
Nick’s eyes narrow and then widen. “As a matter of fact, we do. Did you check our inventory on our website?”
“No,” says Kellan.
“Interesting. Follow me.”
Nick opens the door for us and we enter the showroom. It’s crisp and cool with ample air conditioning and the smell of new cars and leather and the rubber of new tires, with a bit of a mechanical smell that makes me think of engines. OMD’s “If You Leave” is playing, softly.
I am in awe of all the beautiful cars. I never knew cars could be so exciting, such a turn-on. To see them up close and in person is amazing. Like seeing Kellan’s green Huracan for the first time but amplified by about a million.
“Ooh, get the black one over there,” I say, pointing. “No, no, get that orange one. Oh, look at the purple one.” There’s a yellow one I also really like, until I look down into it and see purple interior. Must’ve been ordered by a Lakers fan.
I see the gleaming, sparkly, immaculate red Ferrari 458 sitting out front where Kellan parked it. The Spyder. “No, stick with the Ferrari,” I say.
Kellan is all smiles as he watches me scurrying through the showroom, inspecting the cars.
He and Nick follow me. Nick is watching Kellan closely. Kellan looks out at the Ferrari several times.
Nick eventually leads us over to the car Kellan asked about. The LP-700-4.
Holy cannoli.
Like…holy…cannoli.
It’s stunning.
It’s ice blue with a beige and cream interior. It reminds of a diamond.
“What do you think, Claire?” Kellan asks.
I want to tell him that it’s one of the sexiest, most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. That it’s not just a car; it’s a work of art.
But I decide not to act too excited, lest Nick decide to jack up the price.
“It’s nice,” I say finally.
“Nice?” asks Nick. It’s very nearly an actual guffaw. I think he’s offended by my understated reaction. “This is a Lamborghini Aventador. Seven hundred horsepower. All-wheel drive. This is hand built in Italy. There is no other car like it anywhere on earth. This is a piece of art.”
Nick has taken the words right out of my mind.
I decide to play it cool. I look out at the Ferrari. “So is that.”
Meanwhile, Kellan is not listening to anything Nick and I are saying. He’s already sitting in the Aventador, scrutinizing every little detail, flipping switches and checking the sun visors. He’s so cute. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s like a kid in a candy store. Or a toy store. With one-of-a-kind, hand-built Italian toys.
“Claire!” Kellan nearly shouts my name he’s so excited. “Get in!”
I walk around to the passenger side. There’s no door handle. Then I see it integrated into the actual door, and I lift up. The entire door scissors open toward the ceiling. Whoa.
I get in and reach up and pull the door back down. It’s surprisingly not that heavy.
“You guys take your time,” says Nick. He disappears into an office and speaks with two other men in charcoal suits that look expensive.
“So, I know you were acting disinterested before,” Kellan says conspiratorially. “What do you really think?”
I try to conjure the words to convey what I think. “I want to have sex with this car.”
Kellan laughs. “Me too. That’s exactly how I feel about it.”
Nick comes back and hands Kellan the key.
Kellan just looks at it. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Pasquale said it was cool, since you bought your Huracan from us. I’ll get the door.”
Nick unlatches the windows in front of us and they swing open. They’re actually a giant, wide door. So that’s how they got all these cars into the showroom.
Kellan inserts the key, flips up the red cover on the ignition, and presses the button.
The engine whines for a second and then roars to life.
The engine is in the rear, behind us. It’s smooth, but there’s a low, rumbling vibration. I can feel it in my body, in my back, my hips, and between my legs. Wow. Italian women must love these cars.
Kellan drives us slowly out of the showroom.
We pull out of the lot and commence our test drive.
Immediately I remember two days ago when Denise and Mark went for a test drive, and what they did.
I’m not sure if Kellan would want our first time to be in a car.
I’m not sure I would want our first time to be in a car, either.
But holy cow, if he pulled over somewhere discrete and wanted to do me on the hood, I might just let him.
Kellan turns to me with a big smile on his face. “Does this car make you as horny as it makes me?”
God, it’s like he can read my mind.
“Uh-huh.”
Kellan laughs. “Okay, do you want to know why we flew into John Wayne instead of LAX and why we paraded a 458 Spyder into a Lamborghini dealership?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay. THIS is the Lambo I really wanted. I’ve been thinking a lot about what I said to Denise at the BMW dealership the other day and I’ve decided to buy this car. It’s damn near what I paid for my house but screw it. Yolo, right? You Only Live Once.”
“So, you knew you were buying this car before we even saw it?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew they had this particular car?”
“Of course. I’ve been tracking the whereabouts of this car on Carfax for months now.”
“So pretending to be considering the Ferrari was all a ruse in order to make the Lambo guys get their panties in a bunch so they’ll knock a few bucks off the price?”
“Exactly. See, I knew you were smart. Smart women are hot. Intelligence is the ultimate aphrodisiac.”
I feel my face tingle with a rush of blood at Kellan’s compliment. I have no idea what to say, so I move on. “So, that’s what you meant by leverage.”
“Exactly. We show up in a rented Nissan Sentra and we get one reaction. We show up in a 458 Spyder and tell them we’re just about to sign the papers on it, and we get a completely different reaction.”
I love the fact that he says ‘we’ instead of ‘I’, as though he’s including me in this. Wow.
“You ready to see what this thing can do?” Kellan smiles at me with his beautiful teeth. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but he looks so gorgeous I can hardly stand it, with the wind ruffling his hair. His muscles inside his black V-neck tee shirt.
“Sure.”
“No, I mean, are you ready? This thing has a V-12 behind us. Four hundred cubic inches. That’s basically three times the size of your Carolla, which is a four cylinder. This car has 700 horsepower. 700.”
“And that’s why they call it the L-P seven-hundred-dash-four.”
“Correct.”
“What does the four stand for?”
“Four-wheel drive. It’ll do 217 miles an hour. We’re not going to g
et close to that here on this street, of course. But I think we can get ’er up to a hundred.”
“A hundred? Really? I’ve never driven that fast. I was driving home from my parents’ house back to college one night during my junior year and I was so sleepy I just wanted to get there. It was late and there were no other cars on I-5 so I had the gas pedal all the way to the floor and my car wouldn’t go over 90.”
“How long did it take to get up to 90?”
“About five minutes.”
“This will do it in about three seconds. So be prepared.”
“For what?”
“It’s going to feel like the space shuttle blasting off.”
“What’s faster, this or your green one?”
“In the real world, they’re about the same. But on paper, the Huracan is faster than this.”
“How can it be faster if this has a bigger engine?”
“Good question. Weight. The Huracan is smaller and very light. It’s considered one of the best cars in the world right now.”
“So why do you want to replace it with this?”
“I just love this one. It’s so elegant. The Huracan is green and black and makes me want to drive like a hoodlum on crack. Which is great at the track but not for everyday use. This car makes me want to cruise nice and slow, to treat it gently and simply enjoy the ride. But before we do that, let’s see what it’s got. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“See any cops?”
I check up ahead and then stick my head out and look behind us. “Nope, all clear.”
“Okay. Here we go. Three… two… one!”
Kellan mashes the pedal down.
I am slammed backward into my seat. My head is pushed back against the headrest and I can’t lift it.
Kellan shifts, shifts again. The sound of the engine is unreal.
Kellan slams on the brakes.
I’m thrown forward against my seatbelt.
Finally, we’re back to normal posted speed limits.
Holy whiplash.
“How was that?” Kellan asks.
“I think I have whiplash.”
“I know. Me too.”
“How fast did we go?”
“97.”
“97? That was like, four seconds. Do it again.”
Kellan laughs. “Okay, one more time. But if we get caught, we’re going to jail. Do you see any cops?”
I look around once more. “No.”
