The Hot One

Here’s something I want to know. Why the fuck does the term guilty pleasure even exist? If something brings you pleasure, don’t feel guilty.

Case closed.

But let’s just be perfectly clear—I’m not talking about stuff a dude should feel ten tons of remorse about. Like, being a dick to your boss or cheating on your woman. If that kind of shit brings you pleasure, then may all the guilt from the skies rain down on you, along with golfball-sized hail and toads too.

What I don’t get is why people feel bad about the good stuff in life they enjoy. Buying that pool table just because it looks fucking awesome in your living room. Or drinking the eighteen-year-old Scotch one night after a long day fixing an engine on a Mustang, instead of waiting for a special occasion to crack open the bottle.

Fuck that.

Life is short. Savor it now.

Hell, if it floats your boat to sink into a steaming hot bubble bath every so often, then, man, turn the water up high and toss a bath bomb into the claw-foot tub.

Not that I do that. Hell, I don’t even know what a bath bomb is. And I absolutely, positively did not use the zingy lemongrass scented one the other night. The type that fizzes. I don’t have a clue why it’s missing from the cabinet.

Let’s just talk about something else besides guilty pleasure bubble baths, OK?

In any case, I say indulge.

Yeah, my pool table rocks, and so does the Scotch. But hands down, my favorite indulgence happens to be the one-night stand.

What? Like that’s such a crime? Nothing wrong with a night of round-the-clock fun of the X-rated variety. Besides, when I take a woman home for a one-and-done fiesta of five-star fucking, I’m honest about my intentions. I never promise more than I can deliver. But what I do serve up—in extra large quantities, thank you very much—is a fantastic time between the sheets with no strings attached when the sun comes up.

I’ve never felt guilty about this pleasure either, and that’s because I maintain a few key guidelines when it comes to my favorite horizontal hobby.

Don’t be an asshole.

Always be a gentleman.

And never sleep with the enemy.

Now, about that last rule . . . don’t break it. Don’t bend it. Don’t even dip your toe on the other side.

Trust me on this.

As soon as I realized I wanted a whole helluva lot more than one night with a certain sexy brunette, I went on to shatter that last guideline in spectacular fashion. Now I’ve got the brand new tattoo, the wrecked electric blue roadster, and a pet monkey to show for it.

Yes, I said pet monkey.

And that’s a big fucking problem for the King of Pleasure.



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Chapter One



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Cars are like ice cream.

There’s a flavor for everyone.

Some auto enthusiasts opt for vanilla. For them, a basic sports car will do just fine.

Others want a sundae with everything on it, from the badass paint job to the jacked-up wheels to the sound system that registers on the Richter scale.

Then, you’ve got the car buffs who gravitate toward a dark chocolate gelato when they fork over big bucks for a sleek Aston Martin, outfitted with an engine that kills it on the Autobahn.

Every now and then though, you’ll encounter the fellow who doesn’t know what he likes, so he goes for rainbow sprinkles, bananas, chopped nuts, and a cherry on top. Like this guy I’m talking to right now at a custom car show just outside Manhattan.

The bespectacled man strokes his chin then asks in a smooth, sophisticated voice: “Could you make an armored car?”

That’s the latest question from this thirtysomething guy in tailored slacks and a crisp white button-down. Wire-rimmed glasses slide to the bridge of his nose as he gestures to an emerald green, fully customized sports car that holds center stage.

“Armored cars are in my arsenal,” I say, since I’ve made a few beasts designed to outlast the zombie apocalypse. Yeah, I’ve got some survivalist clients, and they order the bulletproof glass too, I tell him.

He arches an eyebrow. “Could you add in some sleek tail fins?”

Ah, tail fins. I have a hunch where he’s going now, and it’s not to the land of the undead. “I can do that too.”

“And maybe it can even ride low and respond to commands?”

I stifle a laugh since I have his number for sure now, and I fucking love the enthusiasm of the newbies. “Absolutely. I assume you’d want it in black?”

His blue eyes light up. “Yes. Black would be perfect.”

For the Batmobile. Because that’s what the dude just described. I’m not knocking him or the Batmobile. That vehicle is absolutely at the top of my bucket list too. What self-respecting gearhead wouldn’t want to tool around town in a superhero’s tricked-out ride?

This guy’s nowhere near done though as he peppers me with a new set of questions. “Would you be able to make a car that—just for the sake of argument—can jump incredibly far distances?”

I don’t need precognition to know where he’s going with this new scenario. “Would you want it to play a little song when you hit the horn?” I ask.

His eyes twinkle. “Oh, that’s a nice feature indeed.”

I wonder where I came up with that idea. Could it be my vast knowledge of the General Lee from Dukes of Hazard?

The guy is rolling through the greatest hits of cars on TV or film.

And you know what? There’s not a damn thing wrong with that. If he learns about cars from the tube or the screen, so be it. He knows his famous cars, after all. Maybe he’ll ask me to make a VW Bug that talks. My sister has begged for that for years, and if I ever figure out how, I’m delivering it to her first.

“What about wings for doors?”

“Like a Delorean?”

He nods in excitement. “I love that car so much.”

“I haven’t met a Delorean I didn’t want to marry either. That’s the reason I got into this business in the first place.”

“Are you a Back to the Future fan too?”

I hold up a fist for knocking. “You know it.”

“Any chance you put a flux capacitor in it for me?”

“Absolutely. And I promise it’ll hit 1.21 gigawatts when you crank the gas,” I say, and as we laugh the click clack of high heels against asphalt grows louder. This show is swarming with women in heels, working the booths, posing seductively on hoods or beside doors. Can’t say that bothers me. Nope, I definitely can’t say I’m annoyed by the proliferation of female flesh one bit.

Cars and chicks—that’s all I need for sustenance.

But now’s not the time for checking out the scenery, because business always comes first. I extend a hand to the Back to the Future fan. “Max Summers of Summers Custom Autos.”

He shakes. “David Winters. And I know this may shock you, but . . . confession—I know nothing about cars.”