Page 4 of Mister Prick

2

Vince

I backedthe car out of the stall and pointed it toward the dealership’s exit. “Buckle up,” I warned over my right shoulder.

“I always do.” She snapped her belt into place and looked up. “There. I’m good to go.”

Her voice was soft, yet exuded confidence. I glanced in her direction. The seat belt’s shoulder strap was nestled between her perfectly sculpted breasts. Her auburn hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen her, but still long enough to drape onto her shoulders.

Her thin – but curvaceous – frame was shoehorned into a black pencil skirt. The accompanying wine-colored top she wore was revealing, yet concealed enough to tickle the mind’s eye.

She always looked as if she’d just completed a workout. The tawny light-brown tone of her skin seemed to have a tinge of pink beneath it. Not typical of Southern California’s beach dwelling youth, but it gave perfect contrast to her full red lips.

I tore my eyes from her, eased out of the parking lot, and came to a stop at the traffic signal where the on-ramp led to the highway. I stole a quick look and noticed she was relaxed in her seat, casually gazing at a lanky teen who skateboarded along the sidewalk across the street. Without warning, I shifted my eyes to the road ahead, and stomped the gas pedal to the floor.

The 600-horsepower twin-turbo engine whistled a shrill shriek and the car launched from the stop as if it had been shot from a cannon.

The car blasted up the highway like a rocket. When the tachometer reached 6,000 rpm, I flipped the gear shift paddle with my index finger. Through a series of relays and hydraulic servos, the simple touch of the steering wheel mounted lever caused the computer to depress the clutch, shift into the next gear, and release the clutch. The process – at least in the BMW M5 – took all of seven thousandths of a second.

When the transmission shifted, the car’s rear tires screeched, and the engine’s torque made controlling the vehicle a heart-pounding white-knuckled experience. As the distance between us and the car ahead vanished, Jess’ eyes shot wide.

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.