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“Just veer to the right!” Ian said. “Get as close as you can without hitting him. He’ll take the hint!”
“It’s not the car I’m afraid of hitting. It’s the dog. Look at him. He’s got his neck three feet out the window. If I get in too close, I’ll lop his head off.”
“Who the hell puts a dog that size into a Porsche anyway?” Ian grumbled as he rolled down his window.
“Ian, don’t—”
But it was too late. Ian’s upper body was sticking out the window.
“Hey, asshole!” he yelled to the Porsche’s driver. “Do you think you can tell your giraffe to pull his head in the car? People are trying to move here!”
“Hey, shit for brains,” the man in the Porsche yelled back, “do you think you can suck my cock for lunch?”
“Ever hear of animal cruelty, dickface! He’s going to get crushed to death back there!”
“I didn’t design the car, motherfucker! It’s not my fault the backseat’s so tight!”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you went to the pet shelter and adopted a buffalo, fucktard!”
I pulled Ian back into the car before he and his new friend had a chance to exchange any more Manhattanesque terms of endearment. “Way to not attract attention.”
“I can get past this asshole,” Ian said, pointing to the steering wheel. “Let me drive.”
“A Chinese fire drill?” I said. “Here? There isn’t even enough space to open the car doors.”
“Climb over the console,” he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “We’ll swap seats.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “You’re not behaving rationally and I’m not going to let you get into a wreck with my mother’s car.”
“We have to move and we have to move fast. If I get into a wreck, I’ll buy your mom a Maserati.”
Right. Billionaire. I kept forgetting.
“Okay,” I reluctantly agreed, “but you have to promise to drive safely.”
“I promise to drive safely.”
Against my better judgement, I put the car into park and began climbing over the console to the passenger seat. At the same time, Ian began climbing to the driver’s seat. It was a tight squeeze and an extremely awkward transition, to put it mildly.
“Maybe in retrospect this wasn’t a great plan,” Ian said as we inadvertently rubbed our asses together.
“You think?” I said as I put my foot on his ass cheek and gave it a kick-push.
“Ow!” he said.
“Just be glad I changed out of my heels,” I said when I finally made it to the passenger seat.
I looked over at Ian. He was smushed into the driver’s seat, his knees pressed against the dashboard, his chest about one inch from the steering wheel. His left hand was manically feeling up the door panel. “Where the hell’s the seat adjuster in this thing?”
“Isn’t it under the seat?” I said, trying not to laugh.
“Who the hell puts the adjuster under the seat?”
“Mercury does,” I said. “In my car, there’s a bar under the seat.”
“Do you know where the adjuster is for cars manufactured this century?”
“No,” I said. “My mom always drives. I’ve never had to adjust her seat. Gas!”
