Hunter, riding shotgun, concentrated on the verdant pines as they whizzed by along the passenger side, forming a green blur. Andrea Bocelli piped through the car’s majestic sound system. The climate control chilled the opulent cabin. Mancini, tan and tieless, looked relaxed. His neatly pressed white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top. Testing the car’s limits, he helmed the quarter-of-a-million-dollar supercar as if they were on the autobahn. Of all days, he picked today to break in his new car. He was driving like a fucking maniac, too. In between the chirping of the radar and curt calls to the office, Mancini rocketed past the other commuters, who were seemingly standing still. Every so often, Hunter caught the jealous scowl of another driver. A blonde trophy wife in her Range Rover tried to keep up. Mancini dusted her too, but not before flashing her his best James Bond grin. Hunter wanted to enjoy this rare workday jaunt down the shore, but he kept racking his brain over the Mediacast debacle.
