The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(17)

The bell rings over the door as I walk into the taxi head office just at 8:00 a.m. I’m dripping with perspiration, having had to walk here at the crack of dawn, six fucking miles.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.

“Yes, I’m here to pick up my license. There was a problem with my card last night.”

“Okay.” She pulls out a drawer and picks up a stack of licenses held together with an elastic band. “What was the name?”

“Christopher Miles.”

She flicks through. “Here it is.” She puts it down on the counter. “That will be twelve euros.”

“Yes.” I fake a smile. “I was wondering if I could speak to the manager, please?”

“What about?”

“I’ll let them know when I get a chance to talk to them.”

“I’m the manager.” She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “What do you want?”

“Oh.” I fake laugh. “My apologies, you’re just so young.”

She stares at me deadpan.

“So.” I smile. This woman has the personality of a wet blanket. “Here’s the thing.” I smile goofily again. I practiced this speech in my head all the way over here, but somehow, it’s already not going to plan. “My card was stolen last night, and it’s going to take a few days to sort out my funds.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m calling the police.”

“I can work it off.”

“What?”

“I have an international license.” I point to it as it sits on the counter. “I speak Spanish, and I can read Google Maps. I’m the perfect employee for you.”

“You speak Spanish?”

“Uh-huh . . . ,” I lie. “I could drive for you all day, and then I could pay you this afternoon with my wages.”

She stares at me as if thinking.

“I’m very trustworthy.” I hold my hands out. “See, I turned up and am offering my services. That’s trustworthy if I ever saw it.”

“Do you know your way around Barcelona?”

“Uh-huh . . . ,” I lie again. I mean, how hard can it be? “Of course I do.”

She picks up my license and stares at it. “I do have a few drivers off sick today.”

“You do?” I smile excitedly. “That’s great . . . I mean . . . not great that they are sick, obviously.”

She stands and takes a set of keys from the keyboard and then points at me. “One scratch and you’re dead.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“You bring my taxi back to me in perfect condition . . . or else.”

“Deal.”

She passes the keys over. “It’s parked out the back. Come and I’ll show you.”

I can’t believe this plan is actually working. We walk out the back and over to a cab. “This is the brake. It’s standard auto.”

“Okay.” I get in and start the car. “What do I do?”

“You can do the airport run.”

“So I just go to the airport and wait in line?”

“That’s it. Pick up the people, drop them off, and return straight to the airport.” She looks at her watch. “Be back here at four.”

“Okay, no problem.” I grip the steering wheel as excitement runs through me . . . look at me, getting jobs on my own and shit.

“And remember the customer is always right.”

“Gotcha.”

“No speeding, and the credit card machine is tap only.”

“Okay.” I nod as I look around the cab. “Sounds easy enough.”

“Good luck.”

I smile. “Piece of cake.” I drive out and put the blinker on to pull out into the traffic. I watch her back inside, and as I get to the first intersection, I laugh out loud. I look left; I look right . . . now . . . where’s the fucking airport?



The taxi line moves forward at a snail’s pace. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath. It took me fifty minutes to find this fucking place, and now that I’m here, I have to line up for customers.

I don’t have time for this shit. I roll my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as I wait. I need to make some cash for that vinegar-tits taxi bitch . . . and on the double.

The double doors of the airport open, and a woman strides out. She has honey-blonde hair in a high ponytail and a spring in her step. She oozes happiness. I smile as I watch her . . . hot.

The line moves up, and oh shit, I’m next. I pull up next to the line and get out. “Hello.”

“Hi,” the guy grumbles as he throws his bag at me. He’s in his late teens and all scruffy looking.

I catch his bag in midair and glare at him.

Don’t piss me off, dickhead.

I go to put it in the trunk. Wait a minute, how do I open it? I look around on the dash, and the taxi behind me beeps his horn. “Hurry up,” he yells out the window.

“Shut up,” I yell back. “Wait your turn.”

My eyes nearly bulge from their sockets. “Where the fuck is the open-trunk button?”

“Come on, man,” the guy groans from the back seat. “What are you doing? I’m so not in the mood for this shit.”