Ferrari Man

Sliding in through the staff entrance, a nondescript side door, with his key card, he arrived at the valet terminal with no time to spare.

As he turned the final corner, Ricard, his boss, was already perched behind the desk, tapping away at the computer. Ricard's eyes flicked up the moment Dean stepped in, and his disapproving glare locked on him immediately.

"You're late," Ricard said without missing a beat, his tone cold and mechanical, simply waiting for the opportunity.

Dean glanced at the clock. It was 3:51 PM—Still nine minutes before his shift started. He opened his mouth to correct Ricard, but didn't get the chance.

"I'm actually—"

"You're supposed to clock in 15 minutes before your shift," Ricard cut him off, reciting the corporate scripture. "Otherwise, you don't get paid for the whole hour. I'll be deducting that from your wage. Now, go man the stand."

Dean looked at the ground quietly, and grit his teeth.

Turning, he cursed soundlessly under his breath, as Ricard returned to tapping away at whatever nonsense he typically worked on.

As far as Dean was concerned, they were inconsolable enemies. For some reason, Ricard agreed. This was the invisible bond that exists between the bitter employer and the battered employee.

Walking towards the front of the house, he wondered duly if they were actually quite close.

Pushing open the door, he was greeted by the scent of velvet and the exhaust of a nearby car, and a cacophony of red and yellow undertones. Vaguely, he thought it was amusing how much it reminded him of the circus.

"Why so glum?"

Dean turned to see Viktor leaning against the valet stand, his typical easy-going smirk in place. Victor was one of the few things Dean actually liked about the job. The guy had a way of cutting through the tension with just a few words.

"Same shit, different day,"

Dean muttered, shaking his head as he joined Victor by the stand.

"Let me guess,"

Viktor spoke with a soft chuckle,

"Ricard? He's been riding your ass again?"

"Yeah, that guy's got it out for me, man. I swear. It's like he gets some kind of joy out of it," Dean replied, rolling his eyes.

They fell into their usual rhythm, talking about everything and nothing as the minutes passed.

They joked and laughed, discussing the nature of the clientele, theorizing which of the rich guys had the smallest dicks, and who would actually probably be cool to hang out with.

Stepping out of pace, Viktor smacked the table and exclaimed -

"Dude, I didn't tell you… Kana Cane was here last night."

"Kana Cane?!?"

Dean's eyes widened, and he turned to face Viktor completely.

"No way… does she look as good in person?"

Supermodel, sex symbol, and all around general stunner, she'd been Dean's celebrity crush since his balls had dropped. Although she was getting on in her years and her fame was fading, she was still a genuine dime.

Victor shrugged Dean's hands off and gave him a knowing look.

"Hate to break it to you, man… but she wasn't alone. Concierge said she went up the elevator with three guys. Word is, it was a wild night."

Dean blinked, processing the news. "…Damn."

Victor smirked and patted him on the back. "Cheer up. Sounds like your chances just went up."

They both burst into laughter, shaking their heads.

They were interrupted by the arrival of a bright red Ferrari roaring up to the curb, demanding attention.

There was something magical about the vivid red, the glossy finish of the supercar that managed to grab attention without fail, drawing in the eyes of everyone in viewing distance.

The car skidded to a stop in front of the stand, as the two men exchanged a glance.

Viktor cleared his throat, nodding in the car's direction.

"You've got this one."

Dean shook his head, and braced himself for the coming events.

The ferrari door swung open with menace, and a dramatic flair.

Out stepped the driver - tall, impeccably groomed, a man in his twenties, who was accordingly, very arrogant. He was decked out head to toe in form fitting designer, the totality of which likely equated to Dean's yearly salary.

His gold watch shone with annoying splendor.

His slicked-back hair was styled perfectly, with a singular strand loose for effect, as he leapt out of the car with a smug smile that seemed etched onto his face.

Trailing behind him was a woman to match the car - effortlessly high class, Dean observed, watching her simple gait.

Sparing Dean a single glance, the man tossed the keys in his direction like flicking crumbs off a table.

They jingled as they hit Dean's chest before he could even catch them.

"Make sure you park it somewhere it doesn't get scratched," the guy said dismissively, voice dripping with condescension.

"I don't even want to see a single fingerprint on it when I get back."

Nodding his head in typical deferential customer service manner, Dean agreed and assured him the car would be kept safe.

The strain in his tone was difficult to hide.

The man didn't even acknowledge him, more focused on continuing his performance for the girl at his side.

With a loud laugh, he said something Dean couldn't quite make out, but knew was at his expense.

She laughed dismissively, glued to her phone. He could tell that she was used to this sort of spectacle.

With a last, loving glance at his Ferrari, the man wrapped the woman's waist in his arm and sashayed towards the hotel entrance, puffing out his chest with dangerous levels of arrogance.

Dean could still hear his laughter echoing as they disappeared into the revolving doors. It was a familiar knot of frustration that tightened in his stomach as the weight of the interaction fell onto his shoulders.

Victor strolled over lackadaisically.

"That dude was the worst."

He shook his head.

"Guys like that think driving a Ferrari gives them a free pass to be a jerk."

Dean nodded in agreement, still fuming.

"No way karma's real. Otherwise, we'd be on the other side of this counter and he'd be scrounging for food in some nowhere village in Malaysia."

"Amen to that, brother."