Seventeen.

The bastard made me pick up the package. Kneeling down in front of the driver’s door, retrieving it from the sand, on one knee, looking up at him. The Sheik smiling down with his dazzling, perfect grin.

“Hey, Davey, I’m not anyone special.” He took a drag off his smoke. “No need to bow.”

Later, bouncing across the desert, he took a hand off the wheel, pulled a white business card out of the air and handed it over to me.

SHEIK EUROPA

SPECIALIZING IN HIGH CONCEPTS
AND THE UTTERLY KICKASS

“What’s that mean?”

He smirked and dug into the gas just in time to fling us over a dune. I grabbed the roll cage just in time to keep from being thrown.

“Means I’m an idea man, Davey. Means that you stick with me, you’ll have more story ideas than Stephen King, Michael Crichton and Joe Esterhaus put together.” He goosed the throttle and we bounded over another dune. He pulled a lit cigarette out of the air and handed it over to me. I took it and bit down on the filter to keep the wind from whipping it away. “Means that we’re a match made in heaven, friend.” He turned to me and grinned. “Means we’re just about to lay down an epic that’s gonna be the most classic of classics that ever was.”

I closed my eyes and smoked my cigarette and dreamed about Mags’ thighs as the Sheik arrowed across the desert.