Transformers Dark of the Moon (10 page)

“What’s that?” It might well have been the first time Brazos was responding directly to Sam rather than just listening to himself talk. “
You
don’t
think? You?
You know how many Ivy League Phi Beta Kappas would kill to set foot in my office?”

Sam paused long enough to scrape together what was left of his self-respect. He straightened his shoulders, turned, and said proudly, “Mister … I saved your life. Twice. I can’t tell you when, where, or how, but rest assured, I have done shit that matters. And I’d kinda like a job where I matter again. Thank you.” He pumped a fist. “Keep it yellow. Goodbye.”

He turned, reached for the door, and started to open it. To his surprise, Brazos was fast enough to make it around the desk and shove his hand against the door, slamming it closed. “What’s your story, Witwicky? Walking out on my interview? No one’s ever done that before.”

Sam didn’t think he really needed to add much to the sentiment that he didn’t want the job. How was he supposed to elaborate on it?
I really
, really
don’t want the job, you pompous windbag?

Yet again, Brazos didn’t bother to wait for a response. Clearly suspicious, his face inches away from Sam’s, he said, “You really
don’t
want this job, do you? You want the job after it. And one after that. But this job’s the one in your way. And that’s why you’re gonna be good at it. That’s right, no secrets here. ’Cause I look at you and see a younger
me.
”

Sam was backing away from Brazos, wondering if they were on a high enough floor that if he went crashing through the window, he would fall to his death. Anything was better than the notion that he was going to age into Bruce Brazos.

He bumped into a chair and flopped into it. Brazos leaned on either armrest, effectively pinning Sam where he was. “Nine
A.M
. tomorrow. I need that mailroom desk filled or …” He hesitated and then, for the first and only time, dropped the macho, greed-is-good routine and admitted, “… it’s my ass.” Then, rallying, he said, “So welcome to gut-check time, Witwicky. ’Cause I say I just found my new company man.”

What just happened here?

“I have no idea what just happened there,” Sam told his parents. “I don’t know how much it pays. I don’t know who the recommendation came from.”

They could not have cared less. Instead, his mother was too busy making noises about how her baby was all grown up and his father was extolling the virtues of starting low on the corporate ladder and working your way up through sheer grit and determination, which Sam obviously had because it was what all Witwickys had, and Sam was a Witwicky, so he had it. QED.

And even Sam had to admit on the trip back to his place that having his parents being jubilant and extolling his virtues was far superior to having them offering halfhearted support in the face of ongoing rejection.

Once there, he climbed into his car, deciding to take one more shot at starting the stupid thing up. This time it roared to life as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Of course it did. Now that he didn’t have an appointment, failing to start up wouldn’t have been an inconvenience.

He backed out of the driveway. His parents were standing on the sidewalk, waving, his mother shouting to him, “Go give Carly the good news!”

Sam gave his mother a thumbs-up and thought,
Finally. Something that even my parents can’t wreck by saying the exactly wrong thing
.

“Yeah,” called Ron. “Tell your sugar momma her boy toy’s finally pulling his weight.”

Spoke too soon
.

He had entered the address of Carly’s new place of business—where she had been hired as an assistant events manager for some high muckety-muck—into his GPS, and the handy little device guided him right to it, navigating him around some traffic tie-ups along the way. It was no Bumblebee, of course, but at least it got the job done.

Still, when he arrived at the destination, he briefly thought that either the GPS had steered him wrong or perhaps he had entered the address incorrectly. “This
can’t be,” he muttered, staring at the building looming in front of him.

But having established that he was in the right place, he parked the car and slowly approached the astounding building that lay before him.

Set back across a granite plaza, it was a towering structure that was a symphony of glass and steel. I. M. Pei, the so-called master of modern architecture, would have been proud of it, assuming that he had not in fact designed it himself.

Sam entered the foyer. It was cavernous. They could have fielded an arena football team in there. In a daze, he wandered up to the receptionist and said, “Um … Carly Spencer?”

Without a word she pointed down a vast hallway. He turned and looked and saw, to his surprise, that Carly was standing at the far end, talking on a cellphone. Even more curious, there were two exotic cars on display on either side of her. It made Sam wonder if her job there was to be part of an exhibit on various kinds of totally hot bodies.

Seeing him, Carly held up the phone, pointed excitedly at it, and said, “Your parents told me! You really got a job?”

She doesn’t have to sound quite so surprised … aw, who am I kidding? Even I’m surprised. My parents calling her and blowing the news for me …
that
doesn’t surprise me
.

Hanging up, she threw her arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze. “See? What’d I tell you? The bunny!” She kissed him quickly on either side of his face and on his forehead, punctuating each one with a word. “You. Are. Welcome.”

He barely felt it, because he was still feeling a considerable amount of awe thanks to the environment. “Yeah … uh … you said you’re this guy’s new assistant
events manager. You didn’t mention he owns Space Mountain. What’s his name?”

“Dylan Gould.”

Carly hadn’t been the one to speak. The confident male voice came from behind him, and he turned to face the single most ridiculously good-looking man he’d ever seen. He was wearing a vintage leather racing jacket, a dress shirt, and a silk tie. He had wavy black hair and perfectly proportioned features and was clearly the kind of guy men wanted to be like and women wanted to be with.

He held out a hand. “Dylan Gould,” he repeated. “Please. Carly told me all about you.”

“Thanks,” said Sam, who couldn’t help thinking that Carly had told him absolutely nothing about Dylan. Was it just that she didn’t think it important? Or was she keeping it to herself so that Sam wouldn’t feel inferior, which he very clearly was. He glanced back at Carly. He could see it in her expression:
Isn’t Dylan just dreamy?
Then, just as quickly, Sam shook it off, telling himself that Carly wasn’t looking at Gould in any particular way. It was just his raging paranoia and feelings of inferiority showing. “Nice, uh, place you have here.”

“Ah.” Dylan actually had the nerve to sound modest. “Before she came in to help run the collection, it was in complete disarray. Now my restorations are on track. I’m showing at the top Concours shows again. This woman”—he took her hand and squeezed it—“she’s my secret weapon”

Yeah? My secret weapon is a Camaro that turns into a giant robot. Top that, hotshot
.

Carly was busy returning modest for modesty. “Mr. Gould, please. You’re so hyperbolic. All I’ve done is get you organized.”

“You’ve done more than that.” He brushed a stray
strand of hair from her face. “You’ve brought your radiance. My duchess.”

“Uh huh. Okay,” said Sam, and he quickly stepped in and took Carly’s other hand. “Nicknames. That’s fun.”

Gould affably released his hold on Carly’s hand and took a leisurely stroll toward one of the cars. Carly squeezed Sam’s hand as if to say,
Just calm down. He’s only my boss, okay? Granted, he’s handsome and confident and every woman’s dream, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to just take him and—

Sam shook the concerns from himself forcibly. He simply had no knack for making himself feel better.

“When I stole her away from the British embassy,” Gould said, “I told her: Helping manage a country is easy. Try managing a priceless collection of art. Take this Delahaye.” He pulled on a racing glove and slowly ran his fingers over the car’s exterior. He did it so lovingly that Sam kept waiting for him to start licking it. “The rich patina … the lines,” Dylan continued, his voice low and throaty. “Elegant. Sensual. Built to evoke the body of the ideal woman. You know why? Designed by Frenchmen.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said. “Are
you
French?”

“No.”

“That’s good!” he said with probably far more relief than he should have.

“Come with me,” Dylan said eagerly.

If I want to live?

“You’ve got to see my garage.” Dylan was gesturing for them to follow him through a bay door. At that moment, Sam would have preferred to go just about anywhere else, including directly into the targeting sights of Megatron. Instead, feeling like one of the walking dead, he stiff-leggedly followed Dylan. Carly was at his side, still holding his hand.

Sam realized as they entered the garage that Dylan Gould collected cars the way some people collected stamps or action figures. His garage consisted of row upon row of cars: classic cars, exotic cars, classic exotic cars. If it was worth more than most people made in two years, Dylan had it in his collection. It was enough to give Jay Leno feelings of inadequacy, much less a guy who owned exactly one car that ran only when it felt like it.

“My dad had a ten-dollar desk and a dream,” Dylan was telling them. “Built it into an empire. We’re one of the largest accounting firms in the U.S. I started up the venture side before he passed. It’s a gambler’s game, really, Sam. Invest in the future; try to bet on winners. Collecting cars”—he gave a little shrug—“it’s just to keep my sanity.”

Yeah, I’m really worried about you keeping your sanity considering I feel like I’m about to lose my mind
. “Uh huh. I get it,” Sam said, making only the slightest effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “You have more money than Congress. Must be nice.”

His attempt at sarcasm obviously failed, because Dylan was continuing to drone on about his cars. While he did so, Sam allowed his attention to be drawn away by a wall full of photographs featuring Dylan posing with a host of assorted politicians, actresses, business leaders, and more actresses. Sam recognized all of them.

The only one he was disconcerted to see, however, was one of Dylan posing with his arm draped around Carly. And in the photo, she sure didn’t look like she was uncomfortable with Gould being so close.

Carly noticed that Sam was staring at the picture. There was concern on her face. Unsure of how to react, Sam gamely said, “You guys look great!”

Apparently thinking that Sam was referring not to
the picture but to his staggering collection of vehicles, Dylan said, “You an aficionado, Sam? What do you drive?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. It was actually the question he’d been dreading ever since he’d first set foot into this display room for
Motor Trend
.

Carly chose that moment to step in with a quick rescue. “Sam used to drive this amazing Camaro.”

“One of a kind,” Sam said quickly, nodding his head so fast that he looked like a bobblehead. “Lotta special features.”

“Outstanding ride,” Dylan said with approval. “Like your taste. I mean,” and now the comment was clearly directed at Carly, “it’s quite evident.”

The words hung there like smoke, and Sam clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “So! I just came by to take Carly home.
Our
home. Duchess? Back to our chariot?”

That wasn’t an entirely unfair description. His car looked like a chariot, all right: one that Ben-Hur had kicked the crap out of during the big race around the Roman Colosseum.

Sam led Carly out to it, telling her in broad strokes about his new job while trying to find ways to avoid saying something as buzz killing as “working in the mail room.” When they reached his rust bucket, he opened the creaking door for her. As she slid in, he glanced behind them and saw, to both his chagrin and his horror, that Dylan was standing a distance away. His face was impassive, but Sam was certain that—even from here—he could see contempt in his eyes.

Quickly he slammed the door, almost catching Carly’s foot. She barely yanked it clear in time. He didn’t notice. Instead, he came around and clambered into the driver’s seat, firing an annoyed look in Dylan’s direction. “See
what he’s doing? He’s judging me by the car.
Never
judge a man by his car.”

“What is
with
you?” Carly said with obvious irritation. Nearly getting a broken ankle because her boyfriend almost shattered it with a car door was hardly going to put her in a good mood. “He’s my boss! This job pays for our food, our rent …”

“No, I get it,” Sam said. “It’s cool.
Duchess.
” He heard the anger, the jealousy in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He felt like he was drowning in it.

Carly sounded skeptical. “Come on. You’re not threatened by him?”

“Threatened? What’s threatening?” He tried to sound dismissive and casual and failed spectacularly at both. Instead, he ran down an imaginary checklist. “His money? Power? Good looks? What? None of the above? Check!” he said triumphantly.

As if he had settled something, he turned the ignition key. Naturally, the only response from the engine was a sound like a dying swan.

Sam moaned and slumped back in his seat. He wouldn’t have blamed Carly if she had stormed off in disgust. Disgust for the way he was acting, disgust for the car.

Instead she said, with as much patience as she could muster, “Sam, he’s not the first man ever to smile at me. I think I can handle it.”

“I don’t care that he smiles at you.”

“Then what?”

Sounding like a petulant child but unable to help himself, he said sulkily, “It’s the smiling back part.”

In a loving but mocking tone, she said, “Okay. No more smiling, I swear. Never again. Only for you.”