Page 7 of Final Verdict
It slips from his fingers and falls onto my seat.
He and his friend rush to the car that’s stalled right ahead of me.
The gray Corolla with the yellow “I Love Uber” bumper sticker.
I crank my engine and pull into the other lane, driving five blocks before picking up the card.
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“Oh my God, thank you!” The woman moves back onto the seat. “Your thirty-dollar tip is back on the table again.”
“I don’t need any money from you.”
“It’s my pleasure, and you deserve it. You helped me out back there.”
“I’d rather give you a tip instead.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“A negative fucking hundred, which is the same level as your survival skills.” I look at her through the rearview mirror. “You’re locked in a car with a stranger who literally told you he wasn’t your Uber driver.”
“Okay, that’s it.” She groans. “I’m not sure what title you want me to call you, but…”
She taps her phone’s screen a few times, and her face pales as the next light ahead turns red.
“Oh my God...” she mutters. “I am... I’m really in the wrong car.”
“No shit.” I take a long look at her exposed thighs. “Where was he supposed to take you?”
“Nowhere.” She looks toward the window. “Can you let me out at the corner up there?”
“Don’t try to save your life now.” I hold back a laugh. “Where are you headed?”
She tugs on my door handle, but it doesn’t give. Then she pulls a glittering stiletto from her bag and holds it up high—like she’s about to break my window with it.
I immediately slam the brakes.
“I wish you fucking would…”
“Okay, I believe you, sir.” Her eyes are wide as she clings to the seat. “I can now see that this is a Porsche GT3 and not a Toyota Corolla.”
“Those two cars have never looked similar.”
“Yes, well.” She swallows, and I instantly save that image to my memory bank.
“I’m not ready to die,” she says, “so just let me out and I won’t tell the cops on you for kidnapping me.”
“Your legal skills are even worse than your survival ones.” I press the gas again and realize she’s actually terrified.
“I’m not interested in making you feel any pain,” I say. “That’s not my style—outside the bedroom anyway.”
“Wait,what?”
