Chapter Text
Crowley restlessly tapped out a rhythm on the dashboard of the Corsa as he waited for his next student to arrive. Was there any vehicle on Earth uglier than a late model Vauxhall Corsa? More attractive lorries were used to haul sewage. One day, he’d have enough money to buy his own car rather than using the driving school’s car. He didn’t mind giving driving lessons: he’d done worse for a living, and his marketable skills were pretty much limited to driving and listening to anxious teenagers. But the Corsa was an insult. And his new student was late. That was never a good sign. New drivers who were late tended to be flustered and made all sorts of mistakes, and Soho traffic was viciously unforgiving. He double checked his phone for the schedule. A.Z. Fell, novice driver, yup, already six minutes late.
He shouldn’t have traded lessons with Newt, but originally, he’d been scheduled to give a lesson on driving on the correct side of the road to an American with a California driver’s license. Crowley preferred to work with new drivers, so he’d talked Newt into trading students. He hoped this wasn’t about to bite him in the arse.
He waited at the kerb, engine idling, parallel parked behind a puke-green Ford. He snarled at his phone screen. People who weren’t going to show up should cancel properly so he knew not to leave the house. This was the only plan he had for the day, and the April sky was lead gray and damp. He could’ve stayed in bed until late afternoon. Hell, he could’ve stayed in bed until June.
A tap on the window startled him. A man in his 40s with a poofy halo of white-blond curls waved at him, and his heart sank. Was this someone from his past? Couldn’t be. If he’d ever seen this man before, he’d remember. He’d never seen anyone with such fluffy hair. Nobody from Crowley’s past would wear such a sheepish expression. He shook his head – I don’t know you, mate – and the man held up an honest-to-god pocketwatch. Crowley had definitely never met anyone who—
Oh. Right. This was his appointment. A.Z. Fell.
He motioned impatiently to the door on the driver’s side. Maybe this was the student’s father, although he doubted it. Nothing about this man, from his three-piece suit to his innocent smile, hinted at being the parent of a teenager. Sure enough, the man who opened the car door was alone.
“My sincere apologies,” he said in a voice so posh, he should’ve come with a manservant. “I’m afraid I quite lost track of time. Entirely my fault.”
Crowley shrugged. “No harm, no foul.” And then, after nothing happened, “You want to get in the car?”
“Oh! Right, of course. Behind the steering wheel, then?”
“Yeah, you’ll need that to steer the car.” He hoped Newt was having a good time with his American, who probably hadn’t time traveled here from the Edwardian era. “Are you A.Z. Fell?”
“I am. Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand, but then his smile faltered. “I shouldn’t have assumed you shake hands. It’s going a bit extinct, really. In any case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, ah …”
“Crowley,” he said, despite a momentary spark of mischief that made him want to leave the man in suspense.
“Crowley.” The smile was back. The man wiggled a bit, like he could smile with his entire body. And the way he drew out the vowels, like he was tasting them – Crowley had never heard his name sound remotely like that.
But he’d made the decision to be annoyed when Fell was late, and he wouldn’t go back on it now. He was determined to see it through to the bitter end.
“So, Mr. Fell, you’re older than my other students.” The hundred-watt smile dimmed. Good. “Have you ever been a driver before?”
“No, no, I never thought it was necessary. I’ve lived in the city all my life. In fact, I wasn’t sure I should take this lesson, but it was a gift I couldn’t see my way to refusing.” He was nervous, twisting his hands one over the other. “I hope I’m not wasting your time.”
“My time’s been paid for. You can’t waste my time.” Although it was taking an eternity to get to the driving portion of the lesson. “Why don’t you start by getting comfortable?”
“I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you. It’s very toasty in here.”
Crowley struggled not to be amused. “No, I mean, check that the seat and the mirrors are in the right positions,” he said.
Fell actually blushed, little clouds of pink appearing on his cheeks while he fluttered his eyelashes. “Of course, how silly of me.”
Crowley watched him feel around for the lever to move the seat. Look at those soft, round hands, never done a hard day of labor in his life. Crowley, whose idea of overly strenuous exercise was hanging a houseplant in front of a window, approved. Fell had to be gay, right? He was practically broadcasting it, although Crowley didn’t think it was an affectation. He could spot a liar, always could. He probably had a rich husband … no, no ring. So, probably someone he called his life partner, some toff with a Mayfair flat and a tuxedo in the closet and a name that went back to the Domesday Book. Someone Crowley would absolutely hate. Someone who—
“I believe everything’s in position,” Fell said, interrupting what had been an enjoyable mental tirade. “Now what?”
“Well, Mr. Fell—"
“Oh, please, that sounds so formal. Call me Aziraphale.”
“Call you what now?”
He sighed so wholeheartedly that Crowley realised he’d hit a nerve. “Aziraphale,” the man said – Aziraphale said – emphasizing each syllable. “It’s a family name.”
“There’s someone else in your family running around with the name Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale’s nostrils flared, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel a shot of amusement. God, he was such a prick, but this was becoming fun.
“When I say a family name,” Aziraphale said testily, “I mean that my mother chose the name without consulting me.”
“Huh. You were probably busy, being born and all.”
“Quite. But people have a terrible habit of assuming that I picked the name out myself. And I did not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I just wanted to make that clear.”
“I could call you something else. Bill? Onno? Lucifer Morningstar?”
Crowley could feel his grin ramping up to obnoxiousness. Any second, and Aziraphale was going to flounce out of the car. That would also be fun, but on the other hand, he couldn’t afford to get a bad review, and he suspected that Aziraphale Fell’s bad reviews would be very convincing. Time to cut his losses.
“Let’s get started then,” he said, “Engage the brake before you—”
“It’s an angel’s name, if you must know,” Aziraphale said, as if this continuing conversation was Crowley’s fault. “My mother named me after the guardian angel of queer people.”
This was so much better than Crowley could’ve imagined. There was no way he was getting the stupid grin off his face now. He didn’t know what question to ask first, and ended up spitting out some random consonants before he managed, “Why?”
Aziraphale leaned closer, tilting his head to share a confidence. His aftershave pricked at a memory Crowley didn’t have, a sense of being tucked under a blanket. Someone resting a hand on his forehead to feel for fever. Maybe he was running a fever now, because how else could a smell trigger a memory of something he’d only seen in the movies?
“My mother didn’t tell me for sure,” Aziraphale said. “But about a year after I was born, she left my father and me to live on a commune with her very special lady friend.”
“So, yeaah, you could make some guesses there.” He wasn’t going to laugh, he really wasn’t. “Do you, uh, tell everyone that story?”
“Good lord, no. I haven’t told anyone that story in years.” Aziraphale studied the dashboard instruments. “Obviously, I’ll say anything to get out of driving.”
He did look a bit pale. Reassurance wasn’t Crowley’s strong suit, but he wanted to be a good instructor, so he took a stab at it. “Hey, nothing bad is going to happen. We do this at your pace, when you’re ready.”
Aziraphale pouted. Damn, it was sort of cute. “What if I’m never ready?” he asked.
“Then I have to ask why you decided to book a lesson in the first place.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a greeting card. He opened it and began reading aloud. “Happy birthday to my favorite brother. I got you something you really need. A driving lesson! They say old dogs can’t learn new tricks, but you never know. Tell you what. If through a miracle you ever learn to drive, I’ll let you pick out one of my cars for yourself. Something tells me my cars will be safe in my garage, ha ha.”
Aziraphale read as if he was on the stage at the Globe. It definitely painted a picture. “He wrote out ha ha, did he?” Crowley said.
“Yes. I suppose I’m fortunate he didn’t use LOL.” Aziraphale tucked the card back into his suit jacket. “It goes without saying that I’m not his favorite brother as much as I’m his only brother. Half-brother, actually, my mother being … I told you that part, didn’t I?” He scrunched up his nose in confusion.
“So, you’re here to show up a right prick then?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call Gabriel that,” he said with a pleased shimmy. And Crowley felt inexplicably proud of himself.
“’S not like everyone needs to drive,” he said, firmly believing the world would be a better place if people stayed off his bloody roads. “What do you do for a living, anyway, that you need to drive all of a sudden?”
“I’m a literature professor.”
Honestly, if Crowley had been forced to guess, he would’ve come close. Aziraphale’s beige overcoat and tartan bow tie had ‘professor’ written all over. “Alright, Professor, stick with me, and you’ll be driving to campus in your half-brother’s car before you know it.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “Just the one lesson, I’m afraid. I’m sure you’re a wonderful teacher,” and here he blushed pink again, “but I’m on sabbatical, and I’m leaving the country tomorrow.”
“Oh.” He felt his face droop. Why was that so disappointing? Had Aziraphale noticed that he’d stopped smiling? Should he smile again?
But Aziraphale was still talking. “I’m very excited about it. I’m going to Paris! It’s for a writing retreat. I had to submit three chapters of my work in progress and all of my publishing credits to even be considered. It’s a very competitive program. All expenses paid.”
“All expenses paid in Paris? Huh. I’m in the wrong line of work.”
Aziraphale laughed. It was hard not to laugh along with him. His laugh was so bubbly, Crowley was carried away on the sound.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Gone off on a tangent to avoid driving. I really am a terrible driver, you know.”
“I promise, you’re safe with me.” It came out much more serious and hushed than Crowley had intended.
Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “Do you know, I believe you.”
Something behind Crowley’s ribcage did a weird, fluttery flip. His heart? That couldn’t be healthy. He wasn’t in his thirties anymore. He’d have to get that checked out if it happened again.
Crowley cleared his throat so he’d start talking normally. “Yeah. Yup. So, uh, press down the brake pedal with your right foot and I’ll release the parking brake.”
Aziraphale wrapped his fists around the steering wheel and squeezed, turning his knuckles white. “I’m ready now,” he said.
Crowley released the parking brake. The Corsa was parked on a slight downslope, and the car rolled forward and tapped the rear bumper of the Ford in front of them with a polite klunk. Aziraphale let go of wheel entirely and squeaked in horror. And Crowley, no longer able to hold it in, burst out laughing.
“Oh, stop laughing, you fiend,” Aziraphale said, his breath ragged. “This is humiliating. Please tell me you’ve seen worse.”
“Right, right, sure,” Crowley managed to spit out.
Aziraphale breathed in and out deeply, making his broad chest rise and fall, not that Crowley was trying to notice. “You have seen worse?” He beseeched Crowley with puppy-dog eyes.
“Nah, not even close, mate,” Crowley said. “That was … yep, that was epic.”
Aziraphale ducked his head and slumped his shoulders to make himself smaller. It was the strangest thing, practically an out-of-body experience, but it was like an alarm blared in Crowley’s head. Fix this, fix this, fix this NOW.
“It’s fine. It’s fine!” he insisted. “It was a gentle tap. Didn’t leave a mark. Nobody’ll notice it. Honest.”
Aziraphale stared at him as if his opinion was important, the very last word on the subject. “Really?” he said. “Do you think it will be okay?”
“’Course it will,” Crowley said confidently. Should he put his hand on Aziraphale’s arm? Just to comfort him? No, that would be too much. “This is nothing to—”
Bam! Bam! The sound of a fist falling on the roof of the Corsa startled him to silence. Only one man would dare. Sure enough, Sergeant Shadwell, that ancient street beast of the Soho patrol, loomed over the Corsa in his rumpled uniform. Crowley lowered the window, curling his toes as the cold air whooshed in. This had better be a short conversation.
“Ach, weel, if it isn’t Crowley,” Shadwell said, trying on yet another accent today. “And what’s the trouble this time, boyo?”
“No trouble at all, Sergeant,” Crowley said. “Did you want something?”
“No trouble at all, he says,” Shadwell mimicked, and Crowley knew his voice didn’t sound remotely that … mincing. “One of your students just collided with another hautomobile. Isn’t that trouble?”
Aziraphale leaned over the centre console to talk out the window. Crowley sucked in his breath. Aziraphale’s aftershave was very noticeable, not too strong, but a touch spicy. Cinnamon, maybe. “This is entirely my fault, officer,” Aziraphale said. “I should have some identification with me—”
“Noooo,” Crowley insisted. “You don’t need to show your papers. Nothing happened here.”
“I’ll be the judge of what happened,” Shadwell said, pushing out his chest like a mangy pigeon. “This is an incident, that’s what this is.”
Aziraphale patted himself down. “I could swear I brought my wallet … oh, goodness. This is so embarrassing. I do apologise, officer, but I don’t seem to have my identification with me.”
“Oooh, you don’t, then?” This seemed to be Shadwell’s posh accent. “Wot do you propose we do about that, then?”
Aziraphale looked at Crowley helplessly. Oof. He really shouldn’t get Shadwell’s shorts in a twist. He was already on the patrolman’s shit list. He opened the glove compartment without a word, hoping Newt had left the insurance certificate in the glove box.
“Please, officer,” Aziraphale said sweetly. He even clasped his hands together. What kind of monster could refuse that? “If there’s anything I can do … leave you my home phone number, perhaps …”
“You have a home phone number?” Crowley said. “Where’s your mobile?”
Aziraphale blinked twice, those pretty eyelashes aflutter. “I didn’t think to bring it with me.”
Crowley’s lips tugged upwards. “Aren’t you supposed to be mobile with it? Sort of the point.”
“Yes, well, I don’t like to be bound to it.”
“God forbid. Huh. Wait. If you don’t drive, and you don’t carry a phone, how do you call a ride-sharing service?”
“Why would I want to do that?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley left off the futile search for the Corsa’s paperwork. “What do you do when you want to go somewhere? Just –" and here he made an ambiguous hand gesture – “stand in the street and whistle?”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted. “Buses and taxis exist for this very purpose, my dear.”
My dear? Crowley’s chest did that pulling thing again. Great, another medical problem to ignore. He opened his mouth to reply, but the “my dear” had scooped out his brain entirely.
“So, no identification, eh?” Shadwell said. “What do you think you’re playing at?”
Aziraphale leaned over Crowley again to reach the window. Spicy wasn’t the right word for the aftershave. Maybe … oceany? Was that a word? It was nice, whatever it was. Very nice.
“I’m not playing at anything, officer,” Aziraphale said, his politeness fraying at the edges.
“This is a motor vehicle haccident,” Shadwell said. “You didn’t think you were going to get away with a crime like this in broad daylight, didja?”
“Now look here,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve been assured this is what’s known to professionals as a ‘gentle tap’. I don’t see how that’s a crime.”
“Oh, you don’t, do you, you great Southern pansy?”
Normally, Crowley’s anger ran cold, but a searing wave of righteous indignation on Aziraphale’s behalf burned through him. It led him through flinging the car door open and standing toe-to-toe with Shadwell with no awareness of how he’d gotten there.
Apparently, his mouth was also on autopilot. “You stupid, shallow, bigoted man,” he was apparently ranting while apparently poking his finger into Shadwell’s personal space. “If you think for a minute that we’re going to tolerate prejudice from a representative of the police department, you are flapping mad. I’m going to see your captain right now.”
“Ach, you wouldn’t dare, Mister Anthony J. Crowley.”
Shadwell spitting out his full name was probably supposed to be a threat of some sort. Crowley was past caring. “And I captured that whole exchange on my phone, slur and everything, so don’t try to worm out of it,” he said loudly.
“Crowley, I’m sure everything’s fine.” Aziraphale had left the car, and he rested a hand on Crowley’s forearm without hesitation. And Crowley had been right, it really was too much. His arm was practically on fire. It was the only part of his body that wasn’t completely numb from damp.
“Dah … But … everything’s not fine,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale’s blond eyebrows rose, his eyes twinkling. He had the most expressive face. “I’m sure we wouldn’t want to get the fine patrolman in trouble,” Aziraphale said. “Who are we to mar his record with his only citizens’ complaint?”
Oh, that was bloody brilliant. “You don’t think Shadwell has other citizen complaints?” he said, ready and willing to play good cop-bad cop against the actual cop. “You heard the language he uses.”
“Now, now, gentleman, I think there’s been an innocent misunderstanding,” Shadwell said. “I think you may have, weell …”
“Misconstrued you?” Azirphale offered.
“Recorded you?” Crowley said. “And posted it online?”
Shadwell made a production out of leaning down to inspect the cars’ fenders. “Look at that, willya? I don’t think these cars so much as touched each other.”
Crowley glared at him over his sunglasses. “That has nothing to do with your dehumanising language, so don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily.”
“But we understand how busy you are.” Aziraphale tut-tutted. “It’s a very stressful job, I’m sure. I can sympathise. Think no more about it, officer.”
Shadwell touched his hat brim. “Thank you, sir. Nice to talk with an upstanding citizen such as yourself. You have a good day.”
Shadwell scowled darkly at Crowley before he left, muttering not-quite under his breath about accident forms. He’d be back, Crowley was sure of it, to find the owner of the Ford. Or possibly, knowing Shadwell’s low cunning, he was on his way to report the accident to Crowley’s boss to land him in hot water.
“I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
The confident Aziraphale who’d stood up to Shadwell sagged, and Crowley watched him try to curl in on himself again. He tried to form words with his mouth faster than his brain could keep up.
“No, look, you – grahh, you don’t have to apologise.”
“I sort of feel like I do,” Aziraphale said. Then he glanced up at Crowley through his lashes with a tiny smile. “I don’t know that anyone has ever rushed to my defence so quickly. At least I should thank you.”
“Pffft.” Crowley waved it off. “No thanks necessary.” That sounded cool, right? Yes. Totally cool.
“You may have saved me quite a bit of trouble with your smooth talking. I’d offer to buy you a drink, but unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten my wallet.”
Smooth talking, eh? That was better than cool, really. It would probably be even smoother if they stopped grinning at each other like idiots in the middle of the pavement.
“Right,” Crowley said. “I should get back to the office anyway and find my insurance information before Shadwell comes back.”
Aziraphale didn’t have his mobile, so no exchanging phone numbers. Just as well. Aziraphale was on his way to Paris. There was no point in asking him out; they’d never see each other again.
“You could do me one favour,” Crowley said.
“Oh, yes, anything.”
Crowley took a step closer and growled in his ear. “Promise me you’ll never get behind the wheel of a car again.”
Aziraphale giggled, a real-life giggle. “You are an absolute demon,” he pronounced.
Crowley rocked on his heels. Warmth radiated from his center and unfroze his long-suffering toes. He thought he might treasure that compliment forever.
Unfortunately, Crowley had been right about needing to get to his office before Shadwell. What with the traffic stuck behind a stalled-out Honda CR-V – nobody who owned a CR-V should be licensed to drive, only blind people bought CR-Vs – and a pushy bus driver whose route Crowley couldn’t avoid with a detour, Shadwell was able to walk to the driving school faster than Crowley could get there. He pulled the Corsa into the car park next to the other Corsas. One day, one blessed day, he’d have a real car, something to be proud of. Something with style.
In fact, Crowley had never so much as sat behind the wheel of a car that had style. He’d learned to drive in a rusted Citron hatchback with badly aligned steering, slipshod brake pads, and stolen plates, and the hand he’d been dealt in the automotive department had deteriorated from there. Over the years, Crowley had let all the crappy bedrooms and bullshit jobs from Beals fall out of his memories, but he remembered every shitty car he’d driven with crystal clear precision. Years ago, when Beals had quit their life of crime to slavishly follow the Great Plan, Crowley had hoped that earning an honest living on his own would improve his lot. Nope. It was Austin Allegros and Corsas and secondhand CR-Vs all the way down.
He threw his keys on his desk while he watched Shadwell get pissy with his boss in said boss’s office. Crowley couldn’t hear them behind the office’s window, but he could see Shadwell pinwheeling his arms. This wasn’t going to play well. If only he’d recorded Shadwell earlier. At least he’d know he hadn’t imagined the entire encounter. Nobody who looked and sounded as posh as Aziraphale Fell had ever talked with Crowley like he was a person. No, not just a person. A smooth talker. A professional. Someone who rushed to defend the innocent despite the risk to his career.
“Yoo-hoo, Crowley.” Newt waved in his face, interrupting his mental … whatever it was. “Get into it with Shadwell again?”
“He insulted my client.”
“He’s just a harmless old man,” Newt said. “I feel sorry for him.”
“You would.” Poor Newt, always letting people take advantage of him. Speaking of which … “How was the lesson with the American?”
“Ah, that.” Newt picked at one of his cuticles. “She was … it was …” Newt swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his face turning brick red.
“Hell, mate, did she offer you a blow job?”
Predictably, Newt’s jaw dropped. Unpredictably, his next words were, “She offered me a chauffeur’s job.”
“Wot?” Crowley could see it, though. Newt was good with what was known as “customer service,” meaning he knew how to grovel effectively. Sure, he could see Newt in a black uniform with a silly hat, saying nothing but “yessir” and “nosir.” Shit. He’d kind of miss the kid, but Newt deserved better than this lousy gig-economy job. Plus, he was terrible with teenagers who used foul language, which Crowley was sure was at least 115% of them.
“What would you be driving?” he said.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” Newt said.
“What’s the salary like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure this is a real job offer? You don’t seem to know anything.”
Newt shrugged. “She was very distracting. Very, um, American. She’s a personal holistic health advisor.”
That sounded American alright. “Why did she need a driving lesson if she’s hiring a chauffeur?”
“Oh, um, I explained that wrong. She doesn’t need a chauffeur. She came here from California with her employer. She said he’s hiring an entire staff. Chauffeur, butler, security, the works.”
“Congratulations.” Crowley didn’t sound very bitter. If he hadn’t switched lessons, the job offer might’ve been his, but there was no guarantee it would’ve played out that way. He didn’t have any regrets, not even when he spotted Shadwell and his boss laughing together. Not an ideal sign there.
“I don’t think I’m going to take the job,” Newt said. “I don’t know, should I? On the one hand, I’d have to leave the city.”
“Your mother would be fine,” Crowley said. It was about time Newt moved out on his own. “What’s the other hand?”
“Oh, right. The other hand is … Anathema’s very …” Newt trailed off. So, Anathema the American holistic health adviser, huh? Crowley wouldn’t have pegged Newt as a sucker for girls with crystals and tarot cards, but you learn something new about people every day – whether you want to or not.
“Look, mate, the important thing is what would you get to drive?” Crowley grabbed himself a cup of water from the cooler, using his mug with the devil’s horns on it that nobody else dared to touch. Absolute demon, he was. “Is her employer loaded or what?”
“Dunno, never heard of him. His name’s Gabriel Horn. You ever heard of something called the Great Plan?”
Crowley’s sip of water went down the wrong pipe. Dying, he was choking to death. Newt pounded him on the back uselessly.
After Crowley recovered, he took a very slow drink and tried again. “Gabriel Horn? The Great Plan? He’s a crook, Newt. Been all over the news. How could you miss it?”
Crowley read all the news articles concerning Gabriel Horn, infamous millionaire embezzler. He was interested in Horn’s malfeasance because of Beals. Once upon a time, Crowley had been Beals’ getaway driver, until Beals became obsessed with the Great Plan. Crowley had earned a tidy sum as a getaway driver – not quite enough to purchase a decent set of wheels, but he’d been getting there, slowly but surely, until Beals shut it down.
Beatrix Beals was nothing less than a crime planning prodigy. They didn’t go in for splashy, newsworthy burglaries. Beals’ plans were so good, they’d never even been a person of interest before they went straight. Never had to carry a weapon, either. As far as Crowley was concerned, Gabriel Horn and the Great Plan had screwed him out of a big chunk of tax-free cash.
“This Horn guy, he stole from his company,” Crowley explained. “Robbed the stockholders blind. The American government, too. Some sort of tax avoidance scheme.”
“Really? How come he didn’t go to prison?”
Crowley barked something like a laugh. Newt was so naïve. “You can’t touch a guy that rich. He’s surrounded by a moat filled with man-eating lawyers. He made a deal to pay restitution. He’s supposed to be poor now, if you can believe that. Huh. Wonder what he’s doing in England?”
“Hiring a staff,” Newt said.
Crowley looked up Horn on his phone to show Newt he was telling the truth, and also to see if any news had dropped about Horn moving across the Atlantic. The Great Plan had started in some uniquely West Coast American cult before taking the world by storm as the definitive self-help program to achieve personal success. Crowley clicked on a headline about Horn moving to an English town named Tadfield. Horn’s arrogant smirk filled the screen, and Crowley scrolled down quickly, skimming the article as he went. Until a photo towards the end of the article made him gasp.
For the second time that day, Anthony J. Crowley fell deeply in love.
She was black and sleek and classically gorgeous, with curves in all the right places. Long and lean, the 1933 Bentley showed off the full impact of the merger between Rolls-Royce luxury and Bentley power. Even in a pixelated photo on his phone, the chrome work gleamed. Somehow, some way, that car was going to be his.
After all, how hard could it be to steal from a crook?