Becoming Rain: A Novel

“I take it you like boats.” I scan the framed photos of various ships that fill an entire wall in Aref’s office.

“I do. They’re all mine. My family owns a shipping company. We have a cruise line, tankers, freight . . .”

I watch him pour a golden drink from a fancy glass bottle into two fat-bottomed glasses. “So, a lot of ships.” There must be twenty pictured. And they’re all big enough to cross the ocean, no doubt. Rust said that Aref handled the shipping. I didn’t think that meant he owned the bloody ships.

He flashes a white-toothed smile. “A lot of ships. And some planes, too. And transport trucks.” He hands me the glass. “That’s how I met your uncle. We were buying trucks through RTM. I liked him the minute I met him. He’s a smart businessman.”

“He is.” My eyes wander over all the custom woodwork and ornate carvings in this expansive office located at the back of the house—past a locked door and down a long hallway, as if designed specifically to avoid prying ears.

“What do you think?” He nods toward my glass.

“Whisky?” Rust took me to a whisky bar and taught me how to drink it. A skill every refined, intelligent man should have, he said. Of course, the night ended with us trying to carry each other home and painting the sidewalk with our puke.

“A Macallan single-malt scotch, actually. Special edition, from 1946.”

I take a small sip, swirling the pungent flavor around my mouth. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before.

“I bought it at an auction several years ago for four hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

I struggle not to choke as I swallow. “You’re telling me this right here is, like . . .” I do some quick, rough math in my head. “Twenty grand?”

He smiles, clinks my glass in answer, and takes a small sip of his own. Clearly amused. Either he’s trying to impress me or show me up. He’s succeeded at both.

Aref isn’t just rich.

He’s filthy rich.

“So tell me more about this opportunity that Rust mentioned to me.”

Leave it to Rust to call it an “opportunity” rather than what it is—us needing help to offload this car. I give Aref the rundown. “So, would you know anyone who may want it?”

He stares at his glass, as if in thought. “Yes, I believe that I do.”

“It’s as custom as custom gets,” I warn him.

I get a dismissive wave in response. “That won’t mean anything to a buyer in Dubai. When would you need it moved by?”

“As soon as possible.” Apparently, Nikolai is a few blood pressure points away from a heart attack with that thing sitting in his garage. Getting caught in possession of a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car at your own home earns instant jail time and a reputation for being an idiot.

Aref pulls a phone out of his desk drawer and punches in a few numbers. Someone answers and he goes off in a language I can’t even begin to understand. So I busy myself with savoring the most expensive drink I’ll ever have in my life and listening quietly until he drops the phone into his pocket. “I’ll have a definite answer shortly, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He seems so relaxed by the entire thing. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

He shrugs. “I’ve helped out a few friends.”

“And what’s this going to cost us?” I hold my breath, waiting for it. The ridiculous terms he’s going to lay out to do this favor for us, his “friends.” At least maybe he’ll be willing to negotiate.

Dark, calculating eyes settle on me. “It was Viktor who approached me years ago to see if I’d be interested in shipping merchandise overseas. Cars weren’t part of my . . .” He pauses, searching for words. “ . . . portfolio. At first I said no, simply because I didn’t trust the man. But then I met Rust and I liked Rust. So I agreed to move their cargo for them. They pay me a rate per car and I make sure all the paperwork is legit and no customs officers stick their noses in where they don’t belong. It’s easy money.

“But I’ve figured out that there’s a lot more money to be had in selling the cars than simply shipping them. And I also know that Rust has a solid organization.” He pauses. “I’m a good person to know, Luke. I have buyers in other parts of the world. We could make each other a lot more money if Rust would ever consider selling directly with me.”

“What are you suggesting? That we stop doing business with Vlad and Andrei?” I’d be game for that, to be honest.

But Aref’s head is already shaking. “No. You keep that arrangement, and I’ll keep taking my minuscule fees for shipping. But why not start something new with me in a new market? I can ship and take care of the buyers on the other side.”

At what terms? Is he thinking about a partnership? Going halves? Would he try to rip us off like Vlad and his father do? Impossible to say, and I want to talk to Rust before I make myself sound too interested. For now, we have an immediate problem to handle. “How much is this deal going to cost us?” I push.

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll take a cut for red-tape cost and I’ll pass on the rest to you. Just this once, though, as a token of my appreciation for your trust, and a gesture of goodwill. If you are happy, then we can talk about a partnership. Fifty/fifty. You and Rust get me the cars and I’ll ship and sell them.” He’s smooth in the way he speaks. Obviously well educated. Definitely more pleasant to deal with than Vlad. “How does that sound?”

Too easy. But if Rust trusts him . . . “I think we can live with those terms.” I wasn’t supposed to commit to anything, but how can I not commit to that?

His laughter immediately relaxes me. “You remind me of Rust. I’m very glad we met.”

So am I. Walking into Aref’s office and asking for help face-to-face has been a million times easier than picking up the phone to call Vlad.

“I need to get back to my guests, and I believe you have a lovely lady to entertain out there.” He fills my glass with more scotch. That’s forty grand, by my calculations. Enough to buy a decent car. I’ve drunk a car tonight. “I’ll find you as soon as I hear something.”

“Thanks, Aref.”

The second we part ways, I dial Rust. “I’m waiting, but it looks like it’s a go. At cost.”

I hold my breath and wait for him to berate me, but he only says, “Good.” I can hear him sipping a drink on the other end. Likely vodka. He’d bathe in it if he could.

I drop my voice to a hiss. “Fuck Andrei. Why aren’t we working with Aref?”

“Come find me at The Cellar when you have an answer.” The phone call ends, leaving my frustration skyrocketing. Why the hell is Rust even talking to those other idiots when Aref’s sitting here, practically begging?