Page 6 of Mister Prick

3

Jessica

I hopedwhatever 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.

“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.