Four Of A Kind

Chapter 28: [2.1] My Social Status Is A Rental

[VOLUME 2 COVER]

[Week 1: Monday – 7:35 AM]

The Lexus smelled like money.

Not in an obvious way. Not like perfume or cologne or anything you could identify. Just… expensive.

The leather had that particular softness that came from being treated with chemicals whose names probably had more syllables than my entire vocabulary.

The dashboard gleamed with a matte finish that absorbed light rather than reflected it.

The steering wheel fit my hands like it had been custom molded for them, which it definitely had not been.

I sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off, staring at the Hartwell Academy parking lot through a windshield so clean I could count the individual leaves on the oak tree forty feet away.

It was 7:35 AM.

School started at 8:00.

I had been sitting here for thirty-two minutes.

This is insane.

The car had arrived at our apartment building Sunday evening, exactly as Miranda’s email promised. A driver in a black suit had handed me the keys, explained the basic functions and then disappeared into an Uber before I could ask any follow-up questions.

Iris had practically vibrated out of her skin.

“It’s so shiny,” she’d whispered, running her finger along the hood like she was afraid it might bite her. “Zay, it’s so shiny.”

“Don’t touch it. You’ll leave fingerprints.”

I had spent Sunday night reading the owner’s manual cover to cover. Then I’d read it again.

Then I’d watched YouTube tutorials on hidden facts about the vehicle until two in the morning, because apparently my brain had decided that sleep was optional when anxiety was available.

The drive from Philadelphia had taken two hours instead of my usual three hours of train and subway transfers.

I’d white-knuckled the steering wheel the entire way, certain that at any moment I would crash this vehicle worth more than every possession I’d ever owned combined into a guardrail and spend the rest of my life paying off the damages.

I hadn’t crashed.

I’d found the Hartwell parking lot.

And now I was sitting here, in a sea of Porsches and BMWs and Range Rovers.

It’s not yours, I reminded myself for the hundredth time.

I looked at the key fob in my hand. It was heavier than I expected. Solid metal, brushed finish, the Lexus logo etched into the surface.

At any moment, security is going to notice you. They’re going to see the scholarship kid sitting in a luxury car. They’re going to drag you out, call the cops, and you’ll spend the rest of senior year explaining to a judge that you weren’t stealing, you were just committing economic fraud on a smaller scale.

The paranoid voice in my head was extremely convincing.

The rational voice pointed out that I had signed a contract, received legitimate documentation, and technically had every right to be here.

The paranoid voice responded that technically having rights had never stopped rich people from ruining poor people’s lives before.

I closed my eyes. Breathed.

Get it together, Angelo. You’ve handled worse than this. You’ve dealt with drunk customers at 2 AM who wanted to fight you over the ice-to-whiskey ratio. You’ve survived Ms. Vance’s pop quizzes on three hours of sleep. You’ve raised a teenager.

Okay, that last one was ongoing. But the point stood.

I opened my eyes.

The parking lot was starting to fill up. Students in designer clothes and hundred-dollar haircuts were climbing out of vehicles that ranged from “casually expensive” to “my father bought a small country.”

A girl in a white Porsche 911 was redoing her lipstick in the rearview mirror. A guy in a matte black Mercedes was blasting music so loud I could feel the bass through my closed windows.

Normal Monday at Hartwell Academy.

Except now I was part of the scenery instead of the punchline.

A massive Range Rover pulled into the spot next to me with a throaty roar that suggested the engine had been specifically designed to intimidate pedestrians.

The door opened and Felix Beaumont emerged, wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky and a blazer that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

He spotted me through my window.

His jaw dropped.

Not metaphorically. His actual jaw physically descended, creating a gap between his lips that could have accommodated a small bird.

“BRO.” He was already moving toward my car, his sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead. “BRO. WHAT. WHOSE CAR DID YOU STEAL?”

I sighed.

Here we go.

I opened the door and stepped out, leaning against the Lexus.

“Morning, Felix.”

“Morning my ass!” He was circling the car like a shark that had spotted a particularly interesting piece of chum. His hand ran over the hood with the reverence of a man touching a religious artifact.

“This is a Lexus ES. This is a 2024 Lexus ES. This is a forty-thousand-dollar car, minimum, probably more with all these options. Isaiah.”

“It’s not mine.”

“No shit!” He’d reached the back now, inspecting the tail lights. “No offense, but you literally told me last week that you were eating instant ramen for the third day in a row because the grocery store was too far to walk to after work.”

“That was… a slight exaggeration.”

“Was it though?”

It was not.

Felix completed his orbit and stopped in front of me, his expression a mixture of awe and suspicion. “Seriously, man. What is this? Did you win the lottery? Did one of your rich old lady customers at the bar finally adopt you?”

Felix’s eyes went wide “Is this some kind of sugar mama situation? Because if it is, I’m not judging, but I am taking notes.”

I pushed off from the car and shrugged. “One of my regulars at the Velvet Room is out of the country for a few weeks. Asked me to look after it. Pays better than a parking garage.”

Felix’s eyes went wide. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“Someone just… gave you their car? To watch?”

“They’re in Europe. Didn’t want to pay for long-term parking. I check the oil, drive it around the block a few times to keep the battery charged, make sure no one keys it. Easy money.”