Screwed

by Van Barrett

  Screwed

  By Van Barrett

  Copyright 2017 Van Barrett

  All Rights Reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All characters are above 18 years old. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  A Word From Van Barrett

  Chapter 1

  Big Break

  Liam Byrne

  I plunked a Styrofoam cup of ramen noodles into the microwave, punched a minute into the keypad, and quietly sighed under the appliance's droning hum.

  Some people think that once they graduate college, they'll quickly snatch up a good job and the days of living off of ramen will come to an end. They don't realize that the days of being gifted a decent job right out of the gate are long gone—especially if you major in, say, broadcast journalism, like I did. (Yes, I know; it's a dying industry. But I've got my reasons.)

  Instead, the doe-eyed college graduate enters the terrible purgatory of the unpaid internship. The only light at the end of the tunnel is the dwindling hope that all your thankless work might someday lead to an actual job.

  Keyword: might!

  My empty stomach groaned with dissatisfaction as I watched my uninspiring lunch slowly pirouette inside the microwave.

  Don't get the wrong idea: I wasn't one of those people. I listened to my professors' warnings, and I knew the path ahead wouldn't be easy. I argued with friends and family—yes, I knew journalism was an old and dying beast. But that didn't mean I couldn't make it if I put my head down and busted my ass.

  That said? As Miami 8 News' longest-tenured intern of two years, I was low on optimism and running on fumes. A man can live on credit cards for only so long before it's time to bite the bullet and work a job, any job, to stop the debt from piling higher.

  I've often thought how quickly the day is approaching—the day when I'll lose my last remaining shred of hope and submit an application at the local coffee shop. But until that day arrives, I'll continue to work hard, day in and day out. Because you never know when that big break will come.

  Beep, beep, beep! The microwave sounded at the same time senior producer, and my boss, Angela, burst into the break room with a manila folder in hand.

  “Liam! There you are. I've got something for you,” she said, smiling and waving that folder as if it were a prize. “But it can wait if you're about to step out for lunch.”

  Angela is one of the good ones here at ol' Miami 8. Lately, she's sensed that I'm at my rope's end—and she keeps telling me to just hold on a little bit longer, because she'd love to bring me on board if a position ever opens up.

  “Nah, I'm not going anywhere. I was going to eat at my desk and finish logging some tapes.”

  Angela beamed. “Perfect! Come with me. You're gonna love this.”

  I followed Angela back to her office, passing the scorching cup of noodles from hand to hand like a hot potato.

  “You know, you shouldn't get my hopes up like this, Angela,” I joked.

  She didn't reply with words. Instead, she turned to me and gave me a smile that said it all.

  Oh shit, I thought. Could this really be it?

  She closed her office door behind us. I took the seat opposite hers, and my heart started to race—even as I pleaded with myself to not get too excited over this.

  Angela sat smiling at me, dragging the tension out like a cat toying with its prey.

  “You're killin' me, Ange,” I laughed.

  “Alright. I'll get to the point.” She laid her palms on the table. “How's this sound to you: Liam Byrne, field reporter at Miami 8 News.”

  I blinked while I waited for reality to hit me. For better or worse.

  “A--amazing?” I stammered. I still wasn't totally sure this was real, and not just another carrot dangling ahead of me. “But is this an actual job opening, or …?”

  “Well,” Angela gritted her teeth, which told me all I needed to know. “Not quite. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Ah.” Trying to hide my disappointment, I held the cup of soup to my nose and inhaled the hot, briny ramen vapors.

  “But Liam, but! This assignment could very well lead to a staff position, if it goes well. I know you've heard that before, but … this time, I think it might be different.”

  “Different how?”

  “The assignment comes from the station owner, Mr. Johnson, himself. I told him you'd be perfect for it—since I'm always putting your name in his ear. This time, I think it stuck.”

  My ears perked up. “Wait, really? Mr. Johnson's involved?”

  “Yes, Liam! I launched into this long diatribe about how long you've been an intern for us, working day and night, never complaining despite never getting paid … how you even ended a long-term relationship to stay with us …”

  I slapped my forehead. “You really told him about Eric?”

  “I didn't go into details, but hell yeah I did! I'm trying to get you a job here!”

  Slightly embarrassed, I nodded. “Okay. I appreciate it.”

  “Liam, I made Mr. Johnson promise he'd create a salaried position for you. He agreed, he just wants to see how you handle this first.”

  “Whoa. Whoa.”

  “I told you! This has potential. Field work, on camera, in disguise—”

  My eyebrow arched. “Disguise?”

  “It's an investigative report.”

  “Shoot! I'm sold, what the heck is it? This sounds huge.”

  I immediately started thinking who could have potentially crossed our wealthy station owner. Did Mr. Johnson fall prey to a phony investment scheme? Was I about to go after corrupt bankers for my first big story?

  She slid the manila folder across the desk to me. I flipped it open. The first page was a print-off from a gaudy website with a layout so dated, it looked like it had been lifted straight from the Geocities era. Big, bright yellow letters, in Comic Sans font, read: Scud's Auto Repair.

  “Scud's Auto Repair? What is this?”

  “So, Mr. Johnson's wife took her Jaguar to these guys for a simple alignment. She ended up driving off with a whole new rack and pinion, apparently.”

  “Wuzzat?” I asked.

  “Honestly? I don't know either. But the big boss is furious, because he says the car didn't need that, and the shop swindled him out of $5,000. He sicced his lawyer on the shop to threaten them. But apparently, they're not backing down. His lawyer says they probably wouldn't win a lawsuit, either, because that kind of fraud is hard to prove.”

  “So he wants to catch the shop in the act, and make them look bad on the nightly news.”

  Angela nodded. “Yup.”

  “A crooked auto repair shop.” I chuckled. It wasn't the white collar crime of the century I'd hoped for—but this still had potential. “Well hey, I'm o
bviously thrilled to do it.”

  “Great.” Angela reached into her desk, pulled out a neatly folded item of clothing, and set it in front of me.

  I unfolded it and stared. “A lab coat? The heck is this for?”

  “It's your disguise. We have to make you look like someone with money. So, you'll tell them you're a doctor.”

  “Oh my God,” I laughed. “No one's going to believe that, Ange. People already have a hard enough time believing I'm 24. Not to mention, I don't know the first thing about being a doctor.”

  “Your Mom's a nurse though, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but that's hardly—”

  She cut me off. “You think some skeevy mechanics know more about being a doctor than the son of a nurse?”

  I shrugged. “Uh, I guess not.”

  “We already bought a car and had it outfitted with seven, count 'em, seven spy cameras. Under the hood, in the cabin, under the car, and even a few outward facing cameras.”

  She slid a set of car keys across the desk. I picked the keys up and tightened my fist around them.

  Finally, no more public transit. I'll be riding in style … at least for a little.

  “So what am I going to be driving?” I asked, imagining a BMW, or a Mercedes, hell, maybe even a Rolls Royce.

  Angela stalled. “It's um, a 1993 Acura Legend.”

  I blinked at her. I half-expected her to start laughing uproariously, and then shout, got ya! You'll be driving a Porsche, duh!

  … But she didn't.

  “So I'm supposed to be an incredibly young doctor who makes good money, but for some reason drives a 1993 Acura Legend?”

  “Yeahhh …” Angela bit her lip.

  “I mean … I'm sure that was a very luxurious car … two decades ago.”

  “It was the best our budget allowed for.”

  I chuckled. “I'm not so sure they're gonna fall for it, Ange,”

  “Believe me, I hear you. But I've been doing this kind of thing for a long time. And in my experience, these criminal types don't think rationally about stuff like that. They get so blinded by greed, all they can think about is how they're going to get your money. Just look at these guys, Liam.”

  She reached over the desk and flipped through the stack of papers in front of me. Each page showed a profile of the mechanics who worked there, complete with a picture and a short bio about his experience. Strangely, their headshots looked more like mugshots—they weren't exactly the most welcoming group of people.

  “These guys are crooks,” Angela said. “Professional con-men. Trust me, they won't know what hit 'em.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  But Angela had left one page unseen. Curious, I flipped the last page and saw the picture of Scud's last mechanic, Paul Parisi. While the other mechanics didn't inspire much trust? This one looked like he was cut from a different cloth—well, he was gorgeous, anyway. I guess I shouldn't presume anything about his personality just based on his looks.

  “Yow. Hey there, handsome.” I ran my finger-tips over the page to sweep away some grime over his photo—but then I realized it wasn't grime on the paper, it was a smudge of automotive grease on his face.

  Huh. Never thought grease could be attractive, but he sure pulled it off.

  “Hate to be the guy that gets Mr. Movie Star tossed in the clink, mm?” I mused aloud.

  Angela giggled.

  “He might be handsome, but these guys are scum, Liam. They prey on people who don't know anything about cars.”

  “I hear ya. And don't worry.” I shut the folder and clapped my palm on it. “I'm not going to go soft on this assignment because of a pretty face.”

  “Great. Deadline is two weeks from today. In the meantime?” She pulled out another set of keys and dangled them. “You can set up shop in Walt's old office.”

  “My own office!” I smiled from ear-to-ear. I hopped up and shook Angela's hand. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

  “My pleasure, Liam. Now make it count.”

  ***

  I unlocked the door and stepped into my new office. The air was musty, a heavy layer of dust covered everything, and at least half of the room was cluttered with bankers boxes—filled with documents and stacked from floor to ceiling.

  When Walt retired a year ago, his office was turned into the station dumping ground.

  But hell … as creepy and stale as this office was? It was mine.

  I sat in the old, creaky chair and sighed.

  Feels good, man.

  I pulled open the desk drawer. No one had really cleaned up after Walt retired, and the old man had left behind notepads, pens, papers, a bottle of Advil, and--

  “Ew, no way,” I choked when I spotted a trial pack of Viagra. At least it hadn't been opened!

  I slammed the drawer shut. If the station really brought me on as salaried employee, I knew I'd have to give my office some TLC.

  Until then?

  I flipped to that photo of Paul Parisi, the hot mechanic. I read the bio written under his picture:

  About Paul:

  Paul loves cars. He grew up working in a shop and dreamed of being a certified mechanic. He holds ASE certifications in Engine Repair, Engine Performance, Brakes, and Electrical Systems. He loves long drives to nowhere, long walks on the beach, listening to music, and taking great care of your car!

  “Long drives to nowhere and walks on the beach,” I read aloud with a laugh. His bio sounded like a dating personal. And with that rugged jawline, and strong cheekbones, and that not-quite-a-smile, but totally sexy smiling glint in his eye?

  Hell, I wished it was a personal.

  If, y'know, he wasn't a dishonest mechanic.

  “I'm sure you take great care of cars, Paul,” I said with a sigh.

  And I was also very sure that he took great care of the hordes of women that, no doubt, threw themselves at him wherever he went.

  Wasted potential, I thought with a sigh.

  Chapter 2

  What's Your Story?

  Paul Parisi

  Summers in Miami can be real muggy. But tonight was perfect—warm, but with a cool, silky breeze from the ocean that had you tasting salt with every breath.

  “Beautiful night, isn't it?” I asked my date, Leena. We'd just eaten dinner in South Beach and were walking back to my car.

  “Sure is,” she answered.

  On our first date, we must've looked like an odd couple. Like we'd dressed for different occasions. I wore a dress shirt and chino shorts. Leena was stuffed into a busty crop-top that showed off her bare mid-riff. Her tattered and frayed jean-shorts were so small, the bottom of her butt cheeks peeked out when she walked.

  I smiled when I saw her—my car, a black 1990 Mazda RX-7 Turbo II.

  “Here we are.” I opened the passenger door for her.

  “Hot and a gentleman,” Leena giggled as she climbed in. I gently shut the door after her and made my way to the driver side. When I turned the key, the rotary engine purred to life.

  Leena popped a stick of gum into her mouth and started smacking it.

  “Okay, Paul, let's cut to the chase. You're hot, you're sweet, you pay for a fancy Italian dinner and you open car doors. What's your deal? Are you a serial killer or something?”

  I laughed. “Is it that rare that a guy gets dinner and opens doors, that you think he's a serial killer?”

  “A guy I met on Tinder?” Leena made a sassy face. “Yeah, believe me, it's rare. So tell me, what's your story?”

  I tugged at my collar and grumbled. “I don't have one.”

  “Yeah, right. I don't buy that.”

  “I mean, I already told you. I work at the shop. A lot.”

  “Do you meet a lot of girls on Tinder?” she asked.

  “Nah. This is actually my first Tinder date.”

  Her jaw dropped. “No. Way.”

  She gave me a long stare—that is, before she broke into laughter. I laughed too—but mainly because I didn't get the joke.

/>   “What? What is it?”

  “I can tell it's your first, stupid,” she said with an eye-rolling laugh.

  “What's that mean?”

  “Nothin', nothin'. You're just not like other guys, is all.”

  My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Girls always said that to me. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew I always hated the sound of it.

  I put the car in gear and we took off.

  “You mean, because I'm a mechanic, or something?”

  “No. It's got nothing to do with that. Actually, when you told me you were a mechanic, I got excited. Sounds sexy—a man who works with his hands. But no, it's more like … most guys I meet on Tinder are only after one thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you? I'm not so sure about.” She paused—and then asked, almost in a teasing tone, “Are you looking for a girlfriend, Paul?”

  I froze like a deer in the headlights.

  Truth was? I didn't know.

  “Uh …” I stammered.

  Leena chortled. “Relax. You really need to relax, man. You're so uptight.”

  “I don't feel uptight.”

  “You are, though,” she said, and she sounded quite convinced about that.

  “Whatever.” I shrugged. “Guess I'm stressed with work.”

  “I thought you said working on cars was easy? That all cars were basically the same?”

  “Yeah … it's not the repairing cars part that's stressful. It's the other stuff. The office politics. You know how it goes.”

  “Not really. But whatever. I get ya.” She reached over, ran her hand up my arm, and gave my shoulder a deep squeeze. “Maybe once we're back at my place, I could help you de-stress.”

  I gulped. “Oh, yeah, maybe.”

  The light turned green, and we drove onto the causeway, over the Biscayne Bay, and towards Leena's place in Hialeah.

  ***

  I pulled up outside Leena's apartment and parked. I looked at her, with the engine still running, waiting for what came next.

  “So …” I trailed off.

  “So,” Leena picked up right where I left off, “this is the part of the night where you're supposed to say something smooth to see if I'll invite you up to my place.” She leaned over the center console and lowered her voice. “Here's a hint: I will.”