Paul held a prominent executive position in a major company. His family owned a substantial share of the stock. Working at the firm was a family affair.
Paul’s father, George Alexander, once remarked that everything in their family was meticulously planned years in advance. So, even before Paul was born, a seat on the board of directors was already reserved for him.
He lived in a grand, beautiful mansion that resembled a true palace. However, he had an utterly deplorable character.
— Despite all your obvious qualities, you have a dreadful personality, — his older brother Anthony told him.
— Oh, please. Not everyone can be as perfect as some people.
Anthony was married for the second time and had children from his first marriage. He lived separately and was considered the favorite son of the Wentworth dynasty.
Anthony had been intelligent and mature beyond his years since childhood. Paul, on the other hand, was a joker, frivolous, and spoiled by wealth.
— When will you finally grow up? — George Alexander asked him.
— I’m doing just fine as is. His father only shook his head in disappointment.
— I wonder at what point in your life you think everything’s fine: when you made the entire office parade around in their underwear? — Anthony asked.
— What? It was an underwear party.
— Sure, it was especially fitting when the Japanese delegation visited, — Anthony’s wife, Irene, chimed in.
— No, maybe everything was fine when you and your friends decided to repaint our business partner Eugene Valentine’s pristine white Cadillac in rainbow colors overnight? — Anthony pressed on.
— What? It’s a great color. Turned out cheerful. White is just dull and boring.
— Haha. That was a collector’s model. A rare classic. Oh, you. What do you call yourself? Loki? The god of pranks, fun, and deception? Some god you are, — Irene said, giving Paul a playful smack on the back of the head.
— Hey, hey. I’m untouchable.
— You’re a big kid, — Anthony said.
— I’m Loki.
The next morning, Paul woke up to gentle pats on his cheek.
— Wake up. Good morning, sleepyhead, — Anthony said.
— What’s going on? Why are you waking me so early? Be a decent human and let me sleep.
— I’m waking you to remind you. Do you know what day it is?
— Yesterday was Tuesday. Logic suggests today’s Wednesday.
— Don’t play the clown. It’s Eleanor’s birthday—Nicholas Gregory’s daughter. I’m reminding you, she’s a key business partner of our company. They’ve worked with us for years. Plus, your dad dreams of you marrying Eleanor to strengthen our families’ ties. It’s a perfect match for you.
— Blah, blah, blah. Did anyone ask me? Maybe I don’t even like her. Maybe I don’t want to get married at all!
— Eleanor is a wonderful person. Smart, beautiful, and comes with a million-dollar dowry. Just what the doctor ordered.
— Yeah, right.
— That’s not what I meant. I know you. Promise you’ll behave decently and not pull another stunt? I’d rather not be embarrassed by you.
— No ideas at the moment. But I’m not fully awake yet. Can’t guarantee something won’t pop into my head after lunch, — Paul said with a playful wink.
Anthony rolled his eyes and smacked his forehead.
— You’re expected at the formal reception tonight. Please, behave yourself.
After lunch, Paul sat in his office in a large leather chair, absentmindedly pressing a pencil to his nose. Next to him at the desk was his friend and personal assistant, Andrew. Together, they always concocted pranks and schemes that put others in awkward situations.
— How about ordering a giant cake? At the crucial moment, you pop out and blast the guests with chocolate from a special cannon. It’ll look especially dramatic on white leather couches and clothes, — Andrew suggested.
— Not bad. But I think that’s been done before. Not original enough.
— What about a rain of black paint on the guests?
— Nah, we did that two years ago. Not fresh.
— Maybe the birthday girl falls into the cake, or the cake falls on her? Then everyone starts throwing cake at each other?
— Cool, but not original. That happened, like, four years ago.
— We could do it again.
— I don’t like repeating myself. This time, it needs to be something different.
Paul glanced out the window and saw the parking lot filled with cars.
— Got it, got it. Come on, we’re heading to a biker bar.
— Whoa. Came up with something that fast? Awesome. I’m already excited.
Minutes later, they were speeding toward the nearest biker bar. At the entrance stood a burly, bearded man covered in tattoos, a bandana on his head.
— Hey, where you going? — the giant stopped the two well-dressed, clean-shaven young men.
— To the bar to cool off, — Paul said, slipping a few bills into the pocket of the guard’s leather jacket.
Inside, Paul scanned the room.
— What are we looking for? — Andrew asked, puzzled.
Paul spotted a striking long-haired blonde, covered in tattoos and piercings, sitting at the bar, leaning on her elbow, and twirling a shot glass.
— Her. She’s exactly what we need, — Paul said, approaching and sitting beside her. — Hey.
The woman eyed the young man in the expensive suit.
— What do you want?
— You got a motorcycle?
— Yeah, so? What do you want?
— Wanna make some money?
— I’m listening, — she said, turning toward Paul. He shared his latest outrageous idea—with a twist for the American audience: a flashy, over-the-top stunt to disrupt a high-society event.
— I’m in. You’re a fun guy.
— Cool. Be at this address at 10 p.m. sharp. I’ll be waiting, — Paul said, scribbling the address and his number on a piece of paper.
That evening, Eleanor’s mansion in an upscale neighborhood—say, Beverly Hills—was packed with guests. Prominent figures, including politicians, celebrities, and wealthy business associates tied to her father’s empire, filled the space.
Each arrived in personal luxury vehicles parked near the entrance. The array of high-end cars was staggering. Women wore exclusive designer gowns, and men donned tuxedos or sharp, expensive suits.
The event unfolded on a sprawling terrace adorned with ribbons and fresh flowers. Waiters glided through the crowd, offering champagne flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres. Tables groaned under the weight of gourmet dishes.
Near a large pool stood a wheeled cart with a towering, multi-tiered cake, set to be presented near the end of the evening. Eleanor, dressed in an elegant gown, graciously accepted congratulations and made time for every guest.
— Where’s that troublemaker of mine? — George Alexander asked Anthony.
— I don’t know, Dad. He was supposed to be here. I told him how important this is, — Anthony replied.
— Then why is he late?
At that moment, the roar of motorcycles cut through the air. Guests turned to see two bikers weaving through the parked cars, jumping and skidding, heedless of windshields, hoods, or chassis of the luxury vehicles.
Amid the guests’ gasps, the bikers triumphantly rode onto the terrace. One stopped near the tables, while the other gunned forward, hooked the cake cart’s handle, dragged it along, and deliberately dumped it into the pool.
Eleanor stood frozen, watching her massive dessert sink, leaving creamy white trails in the water.
— Hey, everyone, — the lead biker rode closer to the birthday girl, stopped, and dismounted.
— Oh, it’s you? I knew you’d ruin everything again, — Eleanor said.
It was Paul, joined by the striking biker woman who hugged his shoulders and gave Eleanor a pointed look.
— That’s me. And this is my girlfriend. Oh, and that bike’s a gift. It’s yours, — Paul said, gesturing to the motorcycle he rode in on, adorned with a congratulatory ribbon and bow.
Eleanor glanced at the bike.
— You can shove it, you know where. You ruined my entire party. What kind of person are you? It’s my birthday. Run from him, sweetheart, while you still can, — Eleanor said, storming back to her guests.
— Wait, this was a birthday? Why didn’t you say? You told me we’d just ride through some rich folks’ cars and have fun. You didn’t mention anything about a girl’s birthday. Man, you’re a jerk, — the biker woman said.
— Whatever. I paid you. Why bother with details? You got your money, did the job, now get lost back to whatever hole you crawled out of, — Paul said, staring her down.
— Screw you, — she snapped, pulling the cash from her pocket, tearing it up, and throwing the pieces in his face before hopping on her bike and speeding off.
— Looks like you’re out a girlfriend, — Andrew quipped nearby.
— Whatever, you all can go to hell, — Paul said, heading toward the exit where his furious father waited.
— This time, you’ve outdone yourself. Bravo, — George said, launching into a tirade laced with profanity.
Paul barely listened. He couldn’t stop thinking about the biker woman’s face.
— Look at her, all righteous and offended. Throwing money in my face like that? Bold girl.
— Here’s the deal. Your stunt crossed every line. You damaged so many expensive cars that even I can’t smooth this over. But I have an idea.
— Come on, Dad. I got carried away.
— Here’s how you fix it. Every car you ruined, you’ll repair by hand. Until you’re done, don’t show your face to me.
— That’s ridiculous.
— Not ridiculous. And trust me, I’ll make sure you do it yourself. Maybe hard work will finally make a man out of you.
After reconciling with his father and issuing a public apology to Eleanor, Paul drove home. The next day, accompanied by two security guards, he headed to the auto shop his father had specified, located in a gritty part of town—think East Los Angeles.
Insidestruct The shop reeked of motor oil, grease, rubber, and rusted parts and tools scattered about. It was a massive garage with lifts and pits.
Paul approached a man tinkering under the hood of a sleek red Jeep.
— Hey, I’m looking for Joe, — Paul said, reading the name from the paper his father gave him.
— Over there, — the man pointed toward a nearby pit under a nearly new convertible. Paul crouched down.
— Hey, down there. I need Joe. To his surprise, his acquaintance from the night before climbed up.
— I’m Joe. Why’re you shouting?
— Whoa, plot twist. I thought Joe was a guy.
— Joe’s short for Joanna. And until yesterday, I thought you were a man, — she shot back. The men working nearby chuckled.
— Alright, Joe, give him a hard time, — one called out.
— Hey, chill. I get it, you’re a tough one. My dad should’ve called you to explain the situation.
— The only pain in my ass is you, because I’m stuck babysitting you. Yeah, I got the call. If you’re ready, start now. And change—unless you plan to fix cars in that suit?
— I’ve got a designer tracksuit. That work?
— Designer tracksuit, — Joanna mimicked. — Hey, Sam, toss him some coveralls, or this pretty boy’ll ruin his fancy clothes. The shop erupted in laughter.
— Sharp tongue, huh, — Paul thought, heading to change.
— Yo, Snow White, you ready? We’re short on time. Let’s start with dent removal on this car. I’ll show you how.
— Stop embarrassing me. I’m coming. Show me what to do.
— Don’t like it? What, only you get to humiliate people?
— I’m just having fun, not humiliating anyone.
— Sure. That’s why you’re here. Alright, princess, drag that tool over here. The dents aren’t deep. We’ll need a hammer, hooks, and a few other tools. Clean and straighten first.
— Got it. Goodbye, manicure and soft hands.
Thus began Paul’s time in the repair shop. He cut his fingers, broke nails, and got covered in oil and grease. At first, the work was tough, but what irked him most was doing it himself. Normally, he’d delegate, but his promise to his father forced him to see it through. Plus, that bold girl had caught his interest.
A month passed.
— Hey, princess, you’re making progress. You’re practically a pro at repairs, dent removal, and polishing. Maybe when your punishment’s over, I’ll hire you, — Joanna teased.
— Oh, how witty, — Paul laughed.
He approached her as she worked on an old but stunning motorcycle.
— What’s that?
— My brother’s bike. He passed a few years ago. It’s just a broken heap of metal for now. I dream of restoring it, but no time, — she said, covering it with a tarp.
— Sorry about your brother.
— It’s fine. Catch this jacket, let’s grab food.
— I’d eat anything from your hands, babe.
— Keep dreaming. Hurry up, get on.
They hopped on her bike, grabbed food at a gas station, and rode out of town. Paul held her waist tightly from behind.
— She’s incredible, — he thought. — Real. Bold. Not fake like my other girls.
— Hey, don’t get carried away. Hands back where they were.
— Sorry.
They reached a small lake, leaned against the bike, and ate gas station sandwiches.
— I love this place. It’s peaceful and beautiful.
— It is. And you’re beautiful.
— Enough. Let’s go. None of your tricks.
Weeks later, Paul had nearly adjusted to his new routine. Work was in full swing, and he stayed late, citing personal matters. A month later, his father visited to check on him.
— Hey, princess, you’ve got company, — Joanna called.
— Looks like you’re practically one of the crew, — George said, clapping his son’s shoulder.
— Yeah, well.
— I think your punishment’s served. You worked hard, fixed a lot, and hopefully learned something.
— What, already? I’d happily stay longer.
— Enough. Change, you’re free. Let’s go home.
— Alright. Paul changed quickly and stepped out. The shop crew, including Joanna, came to see him off.
— Thanks for everything. Oh, and Joe, I’ve got a gift for you, — Paul said, lifting the tarp to reveal her brother’s bike.
— Check it out. I fixed it for you, — he said, starting the engine.
— That’s why you stayed late every night?!
— You bet, — Paul winked.
— Thank you, — Joanna ran to him and hugged him tightly.
— Oops, my hands are oily. I’ll ruin your fancy suit.
— No big deal. I’ll buy a new one, — he said, turning her toward him and kissing her passionately.
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