Run On Sunday, Sell On Monday

Preview

He told me some seedy little dive bar in some back corner of Nashville. Harry warned me about him, "Cara, Bryce, is to put it bluntly, an asshole. He's been known to get folks to jump through hoops and leave them hanging." That said he was the best consultant in Detroit, if I wanted to preserve my family's legacy, he was the only one that had a chance to set it right.

I wore sneakers and yoga pants, he told me to be casual. He didn't want a scene. I didn't know if it was for my benefit or his. I was more comfortable anyway, I missed running, I'd have preferred shorts, but he had a reputation. Fuck, maybe I should have worn the shorts. He was as fast with women as he was with cars. 

Neon signs and the blaring sound of country music, ugh, a bunch of old men sat smoking cigarettes. A few tourists tried to fit in, but were out of place, it was definitely a local bar. I thought about asking for Bryce Baker or BB as they called him, but was positive I'd get laughed at or turned away. He said I'd find him. Would he have an entourage? Would he have photographers? And there he sat, near a window open to the street wearing a tan linen suit and smoking a cigar while reading through a stack of newspapers.

I walked over and sat across from him. "Thought it would be jeans and a cowboy hat," I said as I removed my sunglasses. 

"Thought you'd look older." 

"Is this it then, we trade insults and then you expect me to fuck you?"

"Rumor says you've fucked half of Detroit."

I was ready, "Rumor says you fucked the other."

He finally looked up from the papers. He laid the paper down, held his cigar and took a swig of bourbon. It must have been a cue to staff. An older woman approached, "What will the lady have?"

"Get your fancy stuff..." he started to say.

"What he's having, I'll pay," I replied. 

"Right away miss," the waitress replied and patted Bryce on his shoulder before giving him a smirk. 

"Why Nashville?" I asked.

"Paparazzi here care more about singers and not about Detroit," Bryce replied. He sighed and sat the paper down. "My time starts now, why do you need me, why do you think I'll agree to help?"

"You're the best consultant there is," I replied. 

"Flattery, I know you Miss Grace Avanti. You did your homework, what exactly can I do to help you?" he asked. 

The waitress handed me a glass, I handed her my card, "Start a tab."

She turned to Bryce who shrugged, "Her money."

I took a sip, it was harsh, but not as harsh as Miss Annabelle had been a tutor. "Ford brought you in..."

"Mainly to look cool with a Mustang, Mulally, Bill, they handled their own shit, try again..."

"Stellantis..."

"How do you know about that?"

"How do you think?" I asked. "You said it yourself, I do my homework."

"My clients, my real clients, prefer discretion. I make the decisions they don't want to make. I know cars, I know people," Bryce replied. 
"Some people talk about you like Bennett," I said with a smirk.

"Oh you know the history," he replied with a smirk. "No, I'm just not afraid to tell some family heir rich boy fuck to find a new job. I don't mind telling some real estate exec that he knows nothing about cars." 

"That's why I need you," I replied.

"Need or want?" he asked. "You see the problem, you don't need me. You want me because investors like to see me and I fucking hate them."

"What do you know about Avanti?" I asked. 

"You make parts and about thirty or so percent of the time suck at it. Every recall in the last decade in Detroit goes back to your fucking company. I tried one of your cams once, cost me a whole block. You're quality control sucks. I could call up a company in Taiwan right now and have a part I need to spec shipped right to my door in a week and it would be a fraction of what you spent to get here. I could trade your family's jet for a factory in mainland China to mass produce that part and it would be guaranteed better than the shit your family's company has been producing the last ten years."

"Bryce, I want us back to building..."

He smirked and took a big swig of whiskey, raising his cigar to cut me off, "If you say a car, then you must be insane."

"I want to build a fucking, car, lock me up."

He smirked, "You better know my rates."

"Oh I do..."