Mister Prick, Page 2

  She pawed for the dash. “You might want to slow down a little.”

  I flipped the paddle shifter again. Despite the seventy mile an hour speed, the rear tires broke loose. The car’s rear end slid to the right six inches.

  She sucked a quick breath. “Jesus.”

  I flipped the paddle shifter again, this time at one hundred and eight miles an hour. The mere ten seconds it took me to get to that speed was exactly what drew me to the inconspicuous sedan with supercar power.

  “Mister Devoe,” Jess pleaded, her tone expressing equal parts fear and excitement.

  “Mr. Devoe’s an old prick. I prefer Vince.” I veered to the left, flew past a Toyota, and then swerved right just in time to narrowly miss a truck. After shifting gears once more, our speed was just shy of one hundred and fifty. Pleased that the car would suit my needs, I lifted my foot from the accelerator pedal.

  As the car decelerated, Jess let out a breath and then glanced at me. “Well, Vince. That was…interesting.”

  “These cars aren’t made to get groceries,” I said. “They’re a driver’s car.”

  “I’ve been on my share of test drives, and I’ve never experienced anything quite like that,” she said with a light laugh. “I felt like we were in the Indy 500.”

  “I need a car that performs. Regardless of what the manufacturer’s claims are, I need to find out for myself.” I changed lanes, hoping to make the next exit. “It’s exactly what I need. Fast, smooth, and luxurious. I’ll take it.”

  She let out a breath and then brushed the wrinkles from her blouse. “The M5’s performance is second to none,” she said in a confident tone. “I was sure you’d buy it if you drove it.”

  Time sensitive departures were often needed throughout the course of my work day. It was equally important that I couldn’t be identified through a license plate check. Although stealing a car was often done in movies, in real life key fobs were electronically linked to the car’s computers. In short, hotwiring German and Italian supercars was a thing of the past. Fitting my personal car with a stolen license plate allowed me to perform my duties without exposing my true identity.

  I managed to make the exit without causing an accident. As I came to a stop at the first light beyond the off-ramp, I looked at the SUV parked in front of me in awe.

  A flat black Range Rover with tinted windows and blacked out emblems wasn’t an oddity in Southern California. One with New Jersey plates, however, was an uncommon sight. My eyes shifted from the traffic light to the SUV and back while I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel in anticipation.

  “You can make a U-turn at the light and get back on the freeway,” she said.

  “I’m going up a block or two before I turn around,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Okay.”

  When the light changed, I edged my way into the left lane. I didn’t have to go any further to see that it was Marty. The dent that I’d kicked in his driver’s door was still right where my foot had left it.

  There’s no way.

  I clenched the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.

  I was thirty miles from home, in a city that I didn’t normally frequent. Marty was more than a hundred miles from where he last lived. In the twenty-four months that I’d spent trying to find him, I was advised he’d not only left the state, but the entire country.

  I gawked at the SUV in sheer disbelief. Obviously, my information regarding his whereabouts was inaccurate. I changed to the far-left lane and began to follow him.

  I gestured toward the back seat. “Would you mind handing me my bag?”

  “You uhhm. Do you need it now? While you’re driving?”

  The reality of our chance encounter started to gnaw at me. I glared at the SUV. “Yes,” I said under my breath.

  As the four lanes of vehicles slowed to a stop at the next signal, she unbuckled her seatbelt and grabbed the leather bag. After placing it on the console between us, she reached for her seat belt.

  The thought of trusting someone made me feel uncomfortable, but my choices were few. I either had to take my chances with Jess or potentially lose Marty forever.

  “Leave it unbuckled,” I said flatly. “You’re going to be driving in a minute.”

  “What?” She shot me a look. “Why?”

  “There’s a guy in front of us that I’ve been trying to find for a long time. I’m not going to go into detail about it, but if I don’t seize this opportunity, I may never have this chance again. I’ve got to talk to him before he gets away, so I need you to drive this car.” I gestured toward the SUV. “I’ll be in that black Range Rover ahead of us. Just follow me.”

  Her face contorted. “You’re going to get in with him?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked with an unsteady voice. “Can’t you just honk at him and get him to pull over?”

  I shot her a quick glare. “I’m getting in the Range Rover.”

  “I guess I’ll uhhm...” She let out a sigh. “I’ll follow you.”

  I slid the satchel into my lap, opened it, and counted sixteen bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills. With six of them pinched between my thumb and forefinger, I extended my hand.

  “Take this.”

  She looked at the money and then at me. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “What are you--”

  I dropped the money into her lap and then handed her the remaining ten bundles, five at a time.

  She returned a petrified look. “Wait…what am I going to do with…”

  “That’s one hundred and sixty thousand bucks. One forty-one for the car, and nineteen for following me…” I met her wide-eyed gaze. “And for keeping your mouth shut.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that this would be my only chance to resolve what I should have done two years prior. Despite being in the presence of a woman I wasn’t certain I could trust, I lifted bag’s strap over my shoulder and reached for the door handle.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  “I guess so.” Without argument, she pushed the money off her lap and onto the floorboard. As she lifted her left leg over the console, she met my gaze with curious eyes. “Everything’s okay, though? Right?”

  “It will be in a few minutes.” I gave her one last look. “Can I trust you?”

  With one of her silky-smooth legs resting on her seat and the other draped over the console, she looked me in the eyes and gave a sharp nod. “You can.”

  With those two spoken words, I opened the door and stepped into the street.

  3

  Jessica

  I hoped whatever Vince was involved in was nothing more than a legitimate encounter with an old friend. Based on his facial expression and tone, I had my doubts that was the case.

  For nineteen thousand dollars, however, I was willing to find out.

  I fumbled with my seatbelt while I watched him take each meaningful step toward the Range Rover. After several unsuccessful attempts to secure the buckle in place, I took a quick look at what I was doing, snapped it into place, and then looked up.

  Holy shit!

  Vince was pulling against the SUV’s door handle with one hand, and pointing a pistol at the window with the other. Completely shocked at what I saw, I drew a quick breath, and all but choked on it.

  Curious, and a little frightened, I rolled the window down.

  “Open the God damned door, Marty,” Vince said, seeming more annoyed than anything.

  Southern California wasn’t excessively violent. At least that’s what I’d told myself. The people driving past the black Range Rover without taking a second glance led me to believe I was wrong. They either didn’t care about what was happening, or that they’d simply become immune to seeing such acts.

  The cars positioned between me and the SUV changed lanes and sped ahead to merge into passing traffic. With slight reluctance, I released the brake and inched forward.

  The Range Rover’s door swung open.
r />   “Move over,” Vince seethed. “I’m driving.”.

  My heart thrashed against my ribs. During what should have been a simple Monday morning test drive, my otherwise dull existence had been thrust into the equivalent of an action-adventure movie. One starring a sexy armed man toting a messenger bag filled with money, and some yet to be seen jerk named Marty who drove a tricked-out British SUV.

  I fully expected Samuel L. Jackson to appear out of nowhere and drop a few f-bombs.

  Vince took a quick glance in my direction. Being new to commandeering SUV’s at gunpoint and not knowing the standard protocol, I lifted my fingers from the steering wheel and gave an awkward wave.

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. He then climbed inside and pulled the door closed.

  They turned around and got on Highway 15. After driving thirty exhaustive miles, I began to wonder how much further we were going to go. Visions of taking Marty into the desert, killing him, and burying his body in a shallow grave swirled around in my imaginative mind.

  Just outside of Temecula, Vince turned onto Rancho California Road. We then drove to a rural area a few miles west of the highway. As far as I could see in any direction, there were no homes, cars, or signs of life. Having grown up in San Diego, I found the desolate mountainous land to be far from serene. In fact, it was growing quite eerie.

  Despite the air conditioner’s sixty-six-degree setting, I grew uncomfortably warm as I followed him into a section of land marked by a white picket fence that sprawled through the tree-lined hills for miles.

  He pulled into a drive and up to an ornamental gate. Beyond it, the paved entrance weaved through the trees, up the side of a mountain, and disappeared in the distance. While I stared in wonder of where the road might lead, the gate opened, and Vince drove through it. I glanced at the pile of the money on the floorboard, swallowed heavily, and followed him.

  A leather bag filled with money, a gun, and the seclusion of the desert were ingredients of a disastrous recipe. As I shadowed Vince up the winding road, my mind darted to scenes from every movie I could recollect where someone was questioned, killed, and covered with dirt on the side of a rarely traveled desert road.

  As we cleared the top of the hill, I was relieved to see a sprawling ranch home at the bottom of the valley in the distance. Although I had no idea what Vince had planned, the home offered a sense of reassurance that I wasn’t going to be involved in disposing of a body.

  Or, so I thought, anyway.

  He came to a stop in front of the garage. I parked a car’s length behind him and to the side. Nervously, I waited. For what, I didn’t know. In no more than a few seconds, Vince stepped out of the vehicle and pointed his pistol inside the opened driver’s door.

  I rolled the window down a few inches.

  “Get out,” Vince demanded.

  The passenger door opened, and someone stepped out. During our drive, I managed to conjure a mental image of who I expected Marty to be. The man who got out of the vehicle, however, was in no way how I pictured him.

  Dressed in brick-red skinny jeans, black sneakers, and a brown tee-shirt with Do Epic Shit printed across the front, Marty looked like a twenty-something SoCal native. His long blonde locks fell onto his cleanly shaven – and rather boyish – face.

  I rolled the window down a little further.

  He brushed the hair away from his eyes as he walked toward the front of the SUV. “Brah. I swear. I’ve been trying to get that money. It’s like, really been weird around here since--”

  “Don’t brah me, you deceptive little prick. I’m not your brah, bro, buddy, or friend. You owe me two hundred grand. No, you owed me two hundred grand. With twenty-four month’s interest, I’d say we’re closer to two eighty.”

  “Dude. Two eighty is--”

  With his right hand pointing the pistol at Marty, Vince reached into his bag with his left. “Two eighty is what you owe me. It’s not negotiable. I’m a prick when it comes to money. You knew that going into this deal.” He removed a pair of handcuffs and nodded toward the front of the SUV. “Put your hands on the hood.”

  Marty ran his fingers through his hair and looked at Vince with thinning eyes. “Brah. Seriously?”

  Vince waved the pistol toward Marty’s leg. “Say ‘brah’ again, and I’ll put a bullet in your thigh. Hands on the hood.”

  Marty slapped his hands against the hood.

  With the pistol pressed into the center of Marty’s back, Vince secured the handcuffs on each of the long-haired surfer’s wrists.

  Things were getting more interesting with each passing second.

  “What happened to the girl, Marty?”

  Girl?

  What girl?

  Marty turned around. He gave an awkward shrug and then flipped the hair from his eyes with a quick toss of his head. “I don’t know. She disappeared.”

  “Again?” Vince barked out a laugh. “You owe me a quarter of a million, and you don’t even know where the girl is?” He shoved the pistol in the bag that hung from his shoulder. “Am I the only one here who sees the irony in that?”

  Marty returned an awkward look.

  “Business is business, Marty.” Vince gestured toward the garage with his hand. The door slowly began to raise. “I’m going to keep you here until you find a way to get me my money.”

  “I can have it tonight,” Marty said.

  Vice looked him up and down. “Two years of avoiding me at all costs, and you can have it tonight?”

  Marty gave him an apologetic look.

  “Go through the door beside the truck.” Vince gestured toward the garage. “I’ll follow you.”

  Marty did the hair flip thing again, and began to saunter up the driveway. Inside the garage, a red exotic car I didn’t recognize, a black truck, and several motorcycles were parked.

  “Bump into that Ferrari, and it’ll cost you another fifty grand,” Vince said flatly. “Walk beside the truck.”

  With his hands cuffed behind his back, Marty followed the order and shuffled into the garage, appearing defeated the entire way. Vince followed close behind. His confident strut stood as a warning of what he was capable of if Marty attempted to escape. After they both disappeared into the house, I let out a breath.

  Holy shit.

  Vince Devoe had my stomach twisted into knots. Surprisingly, they were knots of sexual tension and excitement, and I was enjoying it.

  In no time, Vince walked out of the garage. The door slowly closed behind him. As he sauntered past Marty’s SUV, he paused, reached into his bag, and then crouched underneath the back of the vehicle for a few seconds.

  He stood and wiped the dust from his sleeves. Then, as if nothing had happened, he walked to the car, opened the door, and gave me a look.

  “Well, are you going to move over, or do you want to sit on my lap while I drive?”

  I’d already made myself look like a tramp by climbing around the interior of the car in a skirt that was twice as tight as I would have liked for it to be for such things. As tempting as the lap option was, he didn’t look like he was in the mood.

  I swung my legs outside the car, stood directly in front of him, and within inches of his face, smiled. “I’d sit on your lap if I thought it’d make you smile.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’ve got a permanent shitty look on your face.”

  “It’s not shitty,” he said. “It’s serious.”

  “Seriously shitty.”

  I stepped to the side and walked around the front of the car. Although I couldn’t see him, I felt his eyes attached to my ass as I walked away.

  I opened the passenger door and got inside. After positioning my feet amongst the piles of one-hundred-dollar bills, I looked at Vince. “Do I really get to keep that money?”

  “Unlike Marty, I pay my bills.” He shifted the car into reverse and glanced over his right shoulder. “You promised to follow me and keep your mouth shut. Assuming you’re good for your word, the
money’s yours.”

  Saying anything about what happened would certainly sever my professional relationship with Vince, and that wasn’t something I was willing to do.

  But, I was a girl.

  And, girls are curious creatures.

  “So, what exactly is it that you do, Vince?”

  His eyes shifted to me and then back to the road. After an awkward moment of silence, he responded. “I dabble in a few different…” He paused and peered out the corner of the windshield before continuing. “Industries.”

  “Industries?” I chuckled.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I found it humorous that he pulled a gun on a hippy surfer and charged him eighty thousand dollars interest – after kidnapping him – and then described it as ‘working in an industry’.

  “What industry were you working in when Marty stiffed you for two hundred grand?” I asked.

  “Amongst other things, I have a knack for finding people. I found someone for him.”

  It was an interesting facet of his profession. I was curious as to what else he might be involved in, but feared asking. I glanced at his worn leather bag and wondered what – besides money, guns and handcuffs – he kept inside.

  “A girl?” I asked. “You found a girl, and then he lost her again?”

  He nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  The thought of it all made him more interesting, if that was even a possibility. “So, amongst other things, people hire you to find people that can’t be found?”

  “They have, yes.”

  I found it slightly humorous that Vince found the unfindable, yet he obviously couldn’t find a man who owed him two hundred grand.

  “Are you good at it?”

  “I like to think I am.”

  “Why couldn’t you find Marty?”

  He laughed a dry laugh. “I told him the common mistakes people make when they try to hide. Apparently, he applied everything he learned.”

  “What mistakes do people make?”

  “They use bank cards. Credit cards. They buy airline tickets. Bus tickets. They use their passport. They fail to delete their social media accounts. They take their cell phones with them. Hell, those things can be tracked even when they’re off.”