Slipping on a black leather jacket over a clean white T-shirt, Coyote ran a hand through his tousled hair, smoothing it back as he studied himself in the bathroom mirror.
He fastened a watch around his wrist—an accessory that he rarely wore, he just wasn't a watch guy, and gave himself a final once-over.
Yeah, this ought to do it, he thought with a nod of approval.
He wanted to look sharp for his meeting with Isabella Cruz. This wasn't just another day—it could be the day he gets the break he needed, a shot at landing a sponsor.
He gave himself a couple of spritzes of cheap cologne, stepped through the mist, and just as he exhaled, a car horn blared from outside.
That must be the chauffeur, he figured. Twenty minutes had passed since he sent his location to Isabella. Stepping outside, he spotted a sleek black Ford SUV idling at the curb—definitely not from around the neighborhood.
The window on the driver's side rolled down, revealing a middle-aged man whose hair had clearly lost its long battle with time.
"Excuse me, young man. Are you by any chance Coyote Watkins?" the chauffeur asked, eyes sharp and assessing.
"Yes, I am. And you must be Miss Cruz's chauffeur?" Coyote replied, though he already had a pretty good guess. He just wanted to be sure.
"Yes, sir. Please hop in, we need to get going," the man said, motioning toward the back seat.
Coyote turned to lock his front door, but just as he stepped off the porch, a voice stopped him cold.
"Today is your last day staying in my house rent-free."
Coyote flinched slightly as Mr. Murphy, his grumpy landlord, appeared out of nowhere. The man's grey hair looked windblown, and his expression was one of pure irritation. He wore cargo shorts and a faded blue polo, his usual getup.
"Go in there and pack your things. At once," Mr. Murphy snapped.
"Mr. Murphy, there's no need for that. I actually forgot to pay you last night," Coyote said quickly, trying to smooth things over.
But Murphy cut him off. "Do you expect me to believe you've got fifteen thousand dollars just lying around? Or wait—did you sell your car?"
His eyes darted toward the driveway, scanning for Coyote's red Chevy.
"No, I didn't sell my car," Coyote said flatly.
"Then stop insulting my intelligence and get out of my house," Murphy growled.
Coyote couldn't even blame him. He'd fed the man excuse after excuse for the past four months. At some point, even the most tolerant person hits their limit.
From the SUV, the chauffeur called out again, impatience creeping into his tone. "Mr. Watkins, what is the hold-up? We need to get going. Miss Cruz doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Coyote turned briefly. "Just give me a minute."
There was no point arguing. Money spoke louder than any excuse ever could.
He pulled out his phone, opened his banking app, and made a transfer. Within seconds, Murphy's phone pinged. The old man looked down at the screen. His eyes widened in disbelief.
"Wow... You really did have fifteen thousand dollars lying around?" he muttered.
"Should I still pack my things?" Coyote asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"I don't care what you do now. Just keep that money coming and we're good," Murphy said, suddenly much calmer, as he turned and walked away.
Coyote chuckled to himself. Money really is magic, it can turn a furious old man into a silent partner in under a minute.
He slid into the SUV, and the chauffeur pulled away from the curb without a word.
During the quiet ride, Coyote couldn't stop thinking about the stranger he was about to meet. His curiosity got the best of him, so he pulled out his phone and googled Isabella Cruz. What he discovered impressed—and intimidated—him. She was an heiress to the Cruz family fortune, a billionaire, a Harvard graduate, and to top it off, she was stunningly beautiful. The kind of beauty that could lock the gaze of a whole room and never let go.
He was still scrolling through her photos when the car came to a smooth stop.
They had arrived at the parking lot of Cruz Hotels.
Coyote stepped out of the SUV and glanced around. The lot was packed with rows of high-end luxury vehicles—sleek sports cars, rare models, million-dollar machines.
This must be where the top tier of society come to play, he thought.
He was still admiring the exotic lineup when the chauffeur tapped him gently on the shoulder. "Sir, follow me."
Coyote didn't ask questions. He just nodded and fell into step behind the man.
As they entered the hotel, the sheer opulence of the place hit him like a wave. Polished marble floors, cascading crystal chandeliers, and staff dressed so well they could've been celebrities themselves.
He hadn't stepped into a place like this in a long time.
"System, please activate the Charisma Boost. I think I'll need it."
[I thought you'd never ask.]
[Charisma Boost activated.]
Almost immediately, Coyote felt it—a subtle shift inside him. His shoulders straightened. His stride had more purpose. Confidence pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.
As they passed through the lobby, he noticed several women eyeing him—some boldly, others more coy. Lust glimmered in their eyes like he was an A-list actor or a rockstar they couldn't help but fantasize about.
The chauffeur led him to the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse suite.
Curious, Coyote asked, "We're going to the penthouse suite? Is that where the meeting's going to be held? In a suite?"
"Yes, Sir. Is that a problem?" the chauffeur replied, his expression unreadable.
"No, no, it's not. I just assumed we'd meet in a restaurant or something. But this is OK," Coyote said, although his thoughts were already running wild. Why a suite? What kind of meeting is this? What exactly is Isabella planning?
[Stop overthinking, Host. Just go with the flow.]
"You're right," he mumbled under his breath. "I'll just go with the flow."
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. The chauffeur led him down a hallway and stopped in front of a sleek black door. He pressed a discreet button beside it and waited.
A green light blinked on, and the door clicked open.
"After you," the chauffeur said, stepping aside.
Coyote walked into the suite—and froze.
The space was nothing short of majestic. Every inch screamed wealth and elegance. The soaring ceiling, custom artwork, golden chandelier, and panoramic view of the skyline all competed for his attention. He barely knew where to look first.
Then came the voice. Smooth, familiar. The same one that had called him. Invited him here.
"You like what you see?"
Coyote turned.
There she was.
Isabella Cruz.
She wore a red buttoned blouse that clung to her figure and revealed just a enough to make his brain skip. Her fitted trousers added a touch of class, and her long, jet-black hair flowed like silk over her shoulders. The photos hadn't done her justice. Not even close.
But what really stole his attention was how that blouse seemed to be fighting a losing battle to contain the huge melons on her chest.
He swallowed hard, then remembered she'd asked him a question.
"Yes," he said. "Everything is… breathtaking."
"You look well. It is almost as if you weren't in a car crash last night," Isabella said, her gaze sweeping over him, assessing every inch like she was inspecting something rare and valuable.
"Well, it helps that I wasn't in the car when it exploded," Coyote replied, trying to keep his tone casual, though he knew how strange—and suspicious—his rapid recovery must seem.
Isabella smiled, clearly unconvinced. There was something in the way she looked at him—like she saw through the cracks he was trying to hide. She gave him a knowing wink, a silent confirmation that she'd let him keep his secret… for now.
"Enough of that. Join me for breakfast," she said, turning on her heel and walking toward the balcony. Her confident sway, the way the sunlight kissed her silhouette, nearly made him forget how to breathe.
She walked like she owned everything in sight. And maybe she did.
And Coyote couldn't help but follow.