“You pulled me up from nothing, Mr. Rayner. You saved my life. Now…this? I don’t know what to say,” I stammered.

“Please, call me Paul.” Paul grinned from ear to ear, wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes. For a split second, I would’ve sold my soul to be a part of his family.

“I don’t deserve this, Paul,” I said, gawking at the sleek black 2014 Tesla Model S in front of me. Paul Rayner handed me the keys to the seventy-thousand-dollar car. “It’s yours. No strings attached.”

“W-why me?”

“I believe in hard work and merit, son,” Paul said, patting my shoulders. “You’ve got both. Besides, you need a proper vehicle if you’re going to do errands on behalf of me and my company.”

“But I’ve only been working for you for five weeks.”

“I could find this baby a new owner if you don’t want it,” Paul said, leaning against the hood of the car. It was the most beautiful vehicle I’d ever seen, let alone driven. Of course I wanted it. Who wouldn’t?

“Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do anything for you,” I blurted out, adrenaline surging through my veins. I meant it, too. If Rayner wanted me to, I’d lick his boots clean, daily.

Paul reached into his sports jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. “Tomorrow night at nine. The Keg on Grandview. Ask for Marty. He’ll know who you are.”

I nodded and pocketed the package.

Paul grinned. “Why don’t you take her out for a test drive?”

I trembled with excitement, like a boy on Christmas morning. “R-right now?”

“Yes, right now!”

I nodded, pulled open the door, and slid into the dark leather seats. The interior was saturated with that new car smell, a scent I’d never had the luxury of inhaling before. I loved it.

“Catch you later, Ryder.” Paul gave the Tesla a final pat before I sped off, going from zero to sixty in about three seconds. Hot fucking damn. I was ready to conquer the world.

* * *

The job was so simple, I thought I’d hit the fucking jackpot. Every ten to fourteen days, I’d meet up at designated locations with certain people and hand them a sum of money. I never spoke to them, and I had no idea what the money was for. Maybe it was bribery. Drugs. I didn’t give a fuck. Paul paid me to keep silent, and he paid me well. Each time I successfully handed over a thick, padded envelope stuffed with crisp bills, I got two thousand bucks. Easiest four grand a month I ever made. Better still, when I wasn’t running errands for Paul, he paid me by the hour to be his bodyguard. Me! I had no idea why. I wasn’t particularly fit, though years of grunt labor had given me bulk where it mattered. Maybe he hired me because I looked intimidating. Serious. Like a man and not a boy. Someone who’d take the role seriously. As a bonus, I knew my way around a gun, and my aim was flawless.

Life was fucking amazing. For the first time since I left home, I had extra cash to burn. I could afford to dine out, not at shitty McDonald’s either, but upscale places, like Hennessey Eight. I could take pretty women out to the movies and pay for popcorn and drinks. I even rented a fully-furnished, sweet ass bachelor pad on Eleanor Drive. When I hit Rayner’s clubs, I got VIP treatment. When I visited Rayner’s bars, drinks were always on the house. He took care of me, took me under his powerful wing, and nurtured me like a son. In short, he was the father I never had. His kindness was a debt I could never repay.

For months, we carried on that way. Each envelope full of cash contained two or three grand, easy. Delivering the packages couldn’t have been easier; everything was so automated, it felt like clockwork. I was always on time, if not early. The other party was rarely late, either. We never spoke, never shook hands, and usually wore dark glasses and caps so we couldn’t identify one another. I’d give them the envelope, and they’d just walk away.

Simple.

Eventually, I didn’t even wonder anymore. I just did what I was told. Because questions could get a man locked up, or worse, killed. And my life was worth something now. I was worth something now.

Sometimes my conscience nibbled on my psyche like a starved rat. What if I’d been part of a human trafficking ring? What if this money bought kidnapped little girls and turned them into sex slaves? What if this money bought cocaine or heroin that ruined families, fueled gang-related crime, and devastated cities? What if this money paid off hitmen who’d murdered innocent people?

But I reasoned that if I didn’t do the job, Rayner would just find someone else to do it. I was expendable, a dime a dozen. I was also in no position to turn down the job. The job kept me from being evicted. The job kept my stomach full. The job put new clothes on my back and new confidence in my swagger. A flash of my new leather bi-fold, the glint off my new Tag Heuer, a cocky grin, and chicks would spread their legs for me. Chicks would do anything for the Hustler, because money talked. The more green you had, the more likeable you became. Benjamins spoke louder than humor, intelligence, and wit combined. I didn’t mind that, seeing as I wasn’t particularly smart or witty. I got laid, and chicks got paid. It was a great life.

I didn’t look down at myself anymore. I looked up and ahead. Even the nightmares became more infrequent. I was finally a man going places, and it was all thanks to Paul Rayner. He was my God, my savior, and I worshipped him. My heart beat to his anthem. He owned my mind, body, and soul, and I let him. Because he was my salvation.

Everything was perfect—beyond perfect.

I was living la vida loca, and I never wanted it to end.