Chapter 360: Sweet Talk
Soon, Damien Vaughn got his first customer.
A black McLaren roared up, its engine revving.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward, watching the car with a practiced smile.
Sure enough, the car stopped right beside him.
A young man with slicked-back hair got out. He wore a full suit but had the air of a stylish rogue.
"Hello, sir. Welcome..."
Damien Vaughn had a script prepared. If he delivered it perfectly, he was almost guaranteed a generous tip.
But before he could finish, the man tossed him the car keys and stuffed a five-dollar bill into his breast pocket.
"Be careful. Don’t scratch it."
Damien Vaughn smoothly parked the car, handed the keys and the license plate number to the front desk, and then returned to his post.
Soon, his second customer arrived.
He’d learned his lesson from the first time. He was standing by the driver’s door before the car had even come to a complete stop.
The moment the owner started to get out, Damien put on a look of pure admiration.
"Welcome, sir. It would be an absolute honor to park this car for you. I’ve admired this model for so long—it’s my dream car."
Everyone loves a compliment.
Just as a woman loves being told her makeup is beautiful or her figure is stunning, a man loves to hear that his car is cool and that he has great taste.
Sure enough, the man’s attention was instantly captured.
"Oh, really? You like this car?"
"Of course. This is probably every man’s dream car. It’s just a shame not everyone is as successful as you, sir, and able to actually drive one."
The man, who looked to be in his forties and was dressed more conservatively than the last customer, patted Damien Vaughn’s shoulder.
"You’re still young. If you work hard, anything is possible."
"Thank you, sir. You’re a good man."
The man handed him the keys and pulled out a ten-dollar bill he’d had ready for a tip.
Damien Vaughn was about to thank him again when the man pulled out a second bill.
"I see potential in you. Keep it up."
He’d received a twenty-dollar tip.
Staring at the second bill, Damien Vaughn felt a surge of excitement.
To him, that second ten-dollar bill wasn’t just money. It was encouragement, validation—the first real boost of confidence he’d had in over a month.
’I’m not useless. I can still accomplish things.’ Suddenly, the future felt full of hope.
Damien Vaughn tucked the lucky ten-dollar bill into an inner pocket of his shirt, keeping it pressed against his heart, hoping it would bring him good luck.
Whether it was because he was trying so hard or because the bill really was lucky, his tactic worked like a charm for the rest of the night. Every customer lapped up his flattery, and nearly all of them gave him an extra tip.
One particularly generous woman even gave him a hundred dollars straight up.
Seeing that the woman had come alone, Damien Vaughn took the money and said, with a thoughtful tone...
"What time do you think you’ll be leaving? If you have too much to drink and can’t drive, I can take you home. For free, of course. You’ve already given me more than enough."
Although the woman wore heavy makeup and a sexy slip dress, the firmness of her skin revealed she was quite young.
’She had an Asian face, too.’ Anyone who could afford to be here and drive a car like that was either a super-rich heiress or dating one.
Damien Vaughn knew that if he could get into the good graces of people like her, he’d have no trouble making a living.
Sure enough, the woman was pleased by his attentiveness. She reached out and pinched his cheek.
"Oh, you’re a real sweetheart, aren’t you? But I’ll be out very late. Just go home when your shift is over. Sweet nothings from a man are just that—words. I won’t take it seriously, and I won’t hold it against you."
With that, the woman walked away, her perfectly made-up face a lonely mask.
Damien Vaughn didn’t take her car keys to the front desk. Instead, he put them in his pocket.
He went back to work, charming one wealthy patron after another, until late into the night. Patrons began to stumble out, dead drunk and boisterous, in small, staggering groups.
When he saw customers who were too drunk to stand or who seemed particularly agitated, he would help steady them on their way to their cars, wishing them a pleasant evening.
He waited until the sky began to lighten. His back ached from standing so long, but at last, the young woman from earlier emerged.
Her handbag dangled precariously from her fingers, and her stilettos seemed ready to betray her at any moment on the brightly polished floor. Damien Vaughn rushed forward to steady her.
"Careful. You drank so much. Are you feeling sick to your stomach?"
The woman brushed aside a lock of wind-blown hair and leaned against him, looking up.
After a couple of seconds, recognition dawned. "It’s you? Why are you still here? Where did you hide my keys? You didn’t leave them at the front desk. I had to look everywhere, and I gave the staff hell for it!"
"I’m sorry. I saw you came alone and seemed upset, so I figured you might have trouble getting home. I took the liberty of holding onto your keys. I told you I’d take you home, and I meant it. I’ve been waiting for you."
The woman stared at him with drunken eyes. One second passed. Five seconds. On the sixth, she suddenly laughed.
"Where are you from? Do you know me?"
Honestly, Damien Vaughn had no idea where he was from. And he certainly didn’t know her.
But Sherry was oriental, and he could understand some of the old-fashioned phrases she used, so he guessed that he, too, was oriental.
"I’m probably oriental, I guess. I don’t know you. I just got here. Today’s my first day, and this isn’t even an official job."
He gestured to the beat-up sneakers on his feet.
Proper valets all wore polished leather shoes. Luckily, these wealthy people couldn’t be bothered to look at his feet, or his cover would have been blown long ago.
"I might get in trouble if I stand here any longer. Ma’am, let’s get in the car."
The woman was practically plastered to his side as he helped her back to the car.
He settled her into the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt, then asked where she lived. The woman mumbled an address.
He started the car. "I’m sorry, I don’t have a phone, so I don’t know exactly where that address is. Could you set up the navigation for me?"
"You don’t have a phone?"
The woman seemed to sober up instantly, sitting bolt upright.
"What exactly is your deal? You’re not..."
Damien Vaughn knew what she was thinking and said with a smile.
"Don’t worry, I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m not a fugitive. I was just in an accident a while back. I lost all my things, and my memory is temporarily gone, too. I promise you, I’m one of the good guys."
Maybe it was because his features were so clean-cut, a world away from the face of a criminal.
Maybe it was because the sincerity he projected felt so genuine.
Or maybe, women were just a sucker for his looks.
In any case, the woman quickly slumped back in her seat, her voice suddenly listless.
"It would be better if I were dead. No one cares if I live or die anyway. Even if you killed me, nobody would care. So I don’t care what you’re up to. Just go."