The Billionaire's Driver (COMING SOON)

03 | Unhelpful Luggage

"Calgary? Cameron? Cadillac? No? Canterbury? I've got it. Carl!"

I pitched my final guess of Mikey's first name in the direction of the initials on his custom-made Samsonite that say C.M.C.

I haven't gotten to the M yet, but I've almost exhausted my stock of names that begin with C.

"Crispin," I said, earnestly to the suitcase that just sat there giving me absolutely no help.

My rear door opened and Chad got in looking like a stoic beanpole, if these ever was one.

I grinned at him. "Well, if it isn't Caligula."

Strangely, Carlton didn't look amused. If his expression weren't so stony, I might have even said that he looked a bit confused.

I looked at the time on my dashboard.

"You're early, Mikey," I told him.

"Mikey?" he asked, reaching into his briefcase.

"Carmichael is way too long," I explained.

"I see," he said, sounding almost like he didn't see at all, "Well, Cabbie, seeing as you held up your end of the bargain," He removed his hand from his briefcase and brought out Rosalita, bobbing away.

"Rosa! The things you must have seen!" I told her as I fastened her back to her dock. I turned back to him, "So, is it Cadbury?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your name. Is it Chevrolet?" I asked.

"I was not named after a General Motors brand of automobile," he told me.

"Then, what were you named?" I pressed.

After what seemed like painful consideration, Casper said, "Rick."

I made a face. "That's a blatant lie."

"How can you tell it's a lie?" he asked, looking unfazed that I had caught him.

"Your custom-made Samsonite has your initials, genius," I pointed it out to him, "What's your real name?"

He gazed back at me, his dark eyebrows contracting over his eyes. "Why would I tell my real name to someone who won't tell me theirs?"

"Excuse me, sir! Me? Lie? About my name? I don't think so. I am Lana."

Mikey cocked his head to a side about five fractions of an inch and looked a bit smug, which was a definite achievement for someone who barely had an expression. "That's only half true."

I retreated back into my seat a little. "How do you know that?"

Constantine raised his hand and pointed. "Your cab driver identification is right there, Svetlana."

I looked over at the other side of my dash that had my name, picture and a bunch of other information on a laminated card.

"You got lucky," I told him, dismally.

"I don't believe in luck," he replied.

I whipped my head around, making my shoulder-length hair whip around with me, and frowned at him. "Why the hell did you pretend like you didn't know and ask, then?"

"In my line of business, I've realized that people respond better when you ask them their names and I also assumed that having a strange man know your name wouldn't be something that is welcome," Mikey replied, folding his hands over his briefcase.

I glowered at him a little.

"Fine, Casablanca, what's your name?"

"Look, Cabbie –"