Trapped with the Mob Boss: A Mafia Romance (Petrov Bratva), Nicole Fox [read novels website .TXT] 📗

with pink, telling me that he figured it was “girly.” I’d always hated it, and even more, the color made me stick out like a sore thumb.

Even if I managed to make it out of town without Ricky finding out, all it’d take was for him to put out a call to his boys, telling them to look out for a hot pink car. With only one highway out of town, I’d be spotted for sure.

I needed to either ditch the car or change the appearance. As the red light went on, I weighed the pros and cons. Ricky’d put the car in my name when he’d bought it, and it and the belongings that I’d hurriedly stuffed into the trunk were the only things I now owned.

No, I had to keep the car. No matter where I ended up, I’d need it, and the few possessions I had, to start a new life. That meant I had to change the car’s appearance. But how?

I drove on once the light turned green, keeping an eye open for anything that could help me.

Then I spotted it. Up ahead, on the left, was an autobody shop, the words “full-body paint jobs” written in gaudy letters on a plastic sign. That’d be it—I could have them do a quick paint job on the car, making it safe to drive out of town.

I pulled into the parking lot of the place; the two garage doors opened and I could see a team of men inside working on the cars within. I had no idea what to do—cars had always been Ricky’s thing, not mine—and I hoped the stories of women going into car places and getting totally screwed weren’t totally true.

The bell chimed as I stepped into the waiting room of the place. The room was small, the walls lined with plastic chairs, and a TV was in the upper corner, playing some daytime TV soap. The lights were harsh and the smell of paint was thick in the air.

At the counter was a man in his thirties, heavyset with a head of greasy black hair. He was dressed in a black and white jumpsuit that read “Vin’s Auto” in small, clear letters. The employee looked me up and down as I entered, as if trying to figure out what he was in store for.

“Vin’s Auto,” he said in an accent that sounded like it was right out of Brooklyn. “How can I help you?”

“I need a paint job,” I said. “For my car.”

“Not for yourself?” he asked, letting out a barking laugh at his own joke.

“No,” I said. “And I’m in a hurry.”

The man raised his bushy dark eyebrows.

“In a hurry, huh?” he asked. “And what we working with here? You got a little scratch or something that you need taken care of?”

“No,” I said. “I need a full paint job. For the whole car. And I need it done in the next couple of hours if you can.”

His eyes went somehow even wider.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “Lady, I don’t know what you think painting a car is like, but it’s not a small fuckin’ thing.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Painting a car’s not like painting a wall or some shit. You want a quality job done—the only kind of job we do here—then it’s not going to take a couple of hours, or be something we can do quickly on short notice.”

He went on, and I felt my stomach tighten by the second.

“We take all the parts off the car—doors, fenders, the hood—and spray each part individually. We take our time, and we get it right. I’m the manager of this place, and no car’s going off our lot with some third-rate shit.”

I collapsed into the cheap plastic seat behind me.

“And you want a job like that done, we’re going to need a few days’ notice. It’ll take at least a full day of work, too. Then there’s the cost.”

“What’s that?” I asked. “A few hundred dollars?”

A second employee, also dressed in the same jumpsuit, was in the back, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The man at the counter and the man pouring the coffee shared a brief look before bursting out into laughter.

“Lady, you’d be looking at a few hundred dollars to take out a key scratch. For a whole car?”

He turned the computer at the counter and typed in a few keystrokes.

“What kind of ride you got?”

“That one out there,” I said. “The hot pink one.”

Both of the men came over to the window and looked at the car.

“Nice color,” said the one with the coffee. “Might do that for my own ride.”

More laughs. I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach.

“You got a sedan,” he said. “Better than a van. Let me take a look and get you an estimate.”

He stepped back behind the counter again and did some more typing. More anxiety welled in the pit of my stomach as I waited for him to come up with the estimate.

“Here’s what you’re looking at,” he said, turning the computer monitor around to face me as I stood up and approached the counter.

“Five thousand dollars?” I asked. “Are you kidding?”

“Like I said—it’s a hell of a process to do a full paint job on a car. And if you want it done fast, there’s a premium for that too.”

I didn’t even have close to that in my account. Not even half of that. But I needed to get it done. If not, I was as good as caught.

“Isn’t there any sort of discount you can do?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I really, really need this job done.”

He laughed.

“You that desperate to get rid of that pink?” he asked. “I mean, it’s not my first color choice, but it’s not the worst thing in the world.”

I placed my hands on the counter and hung my head, my curly red hair falling down on both sides of my face. Tears formed in my eyes.

I knew there was