Mister Prick Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Jessica

  Vince

  Also by Scott Hildreth

  About the Author

  Mister Prick

  Scott Hildreth

  Dedication

  To anyone who has ever had the desire to be a vigilante, if even for a moment, this one is for you.

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Prologue

  1. Jessica

  2. Vince

  3. Jessica

  4. Vince

  5. Jessica

  6. Vince

  7. Jessica

  8. Vince

  9. Jessica

  Also by Scott Hildreth

  About the Author

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  Mister Prick 1 Edition Copyright © 2017 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Website: www.scotthildreth.com

  Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth

  Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth

  Prologue

  I’d seen movies and even read a few books with scenes of heroines being tortured until they eventually gave up the desired information to their captor, but nothing could have prepared me for the real thing. Held captive in a small concrete room with my arms and legs secured to a steel chair with duct tape, the only resistance I could muster was mental or verbal.

  As far as I was concerned, the weirdo pacing the floor was going to have to kill me. My fear was that he had reached a point that he was prepared to do just that. Nevertheless, I had no intention of providing him one word of useful information.

  I’d promised Vince he could trust me. Making good on my promise to him was more important than anything.

  I turned my head toward the sound of his footsteps and opened my tired eyes. Dressed in a dingy wife beater, cut-off sweat shorts, and lace-up boots, he resembled a boxer in training – but I knew better. He was one of the upper echelon of the city’s underbelly, and he was currently $2,000,000 poorer than he wanted to be.

  He loomed over me with a blood-stained piece of leather dangling from his clenched fist. Over the last fifteen minutes or so, the three of us had become quite intimate. “I need that fucking money,” he seethed. “All of it. I don’t give a fuck that you’re a girl. I’m going to keep beating the shit out of you with this until you answer me or you’re dead.”

  Therein lied my answer.

  If he was going to slap me to death with his little piece of leather, it was going to be an extremely long night. I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer that Vince would find me before the sour-smelling prick beat the life out of me.

  I inhaled a slow breath and prepared for the inevitable.

  “Where is he?” he demanded.

  I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and attempted to generate enough saliva to respond. It wasn’t as easy as one might think. Reluctantly, I made eye contact. “I told you. Over and over. I have no idea what you’re…”

  In a blur, his hand came down hard against my cheek. A bright flash of light was followed by a burning sensation on the side of my face. I dragged the tip of my tongue between my teeth and my swollen cheek.

  The coppery taste of blood caused my stomach to convulse.

  He raised the strap and studied it. The skin on each side of the bridge of his nose was translucent and darkened, making his eye sockets appear to be sunken deep into his skull. Combined with the foul smell of his clothing, the greasy strands of shoulder-length graying hair, and his unshaven face, my guess was that he hadn’t slept in a week or more.

  “You know why it feels like you’re getting hit with a piece of steel?” he asked.

  It felt like he was hitting me with a ten-pound rock, but I didn’t bother responding.

  He traced his index finger along the outer edge of the kidney-shaped strap. “Because it’s filled with lead. Two pieces of leather with a piece of lead sandwiched between them. It’s made for knocking the shit out of people, and nothing else. Sooner or later, you’ll talk.”

  You don’t know me very well.

  Although my current situation was far from pleasant, I reserved hope it would end and end soon. If Vince was as good as I believed him to be, he’d manage to find me. I just hoped he did so before it was too late.

  Stinky man wiped blood from the surface of the leather with the tip of his thumb. “Where is he?”

  “If you’d tell me who he is, maybe I can help you,” I lied.

  A grumbling sound escaped his lungs. It resembled the growl of an animal. A predator. I clenched my jaw in anticipation of what was sure to come.

  With the strap clenched tight in his fist, he pressed the heels of his palms against his temples and murmured something. There were two modes of speaking for him – mumbling and screaming. Oddly, I preferred the latter. When he muttered I had no idea what he was thinking. When he shouted, at least his thoughts were made clear.

  He turned to face me.

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “The fucking ghost,” he said through his teeth. “El Fantasma. The man with my god damned money.”

  My eyes fell to the floor.

  That’s what they were calling him.

  El Fantasma.

  In and out without a trace. Some claimed he wasn’t human. Others believed what had been happening to the city’s drug dealers and thieves was simply karma.

  I knew better.

  El Fantasma was real, he was walking sex, and he was the man I had fallen in love with. On the day we met I sold him a car. While we were on our test drive, he kidnapped a man, and then paid me nineteen thousand dollars to keep my mouth shut.

  Since that day, the truth was getting harder to believe and increasingly impossible to divulge. Lies, on the other hand, were commonplace and rolled from the tip of my tongue with ease.

  I wouldn’t change things if I could. The lies allowed us to continue living a life that was fast-paced, always entertaining, and rewarding in many ways. What he was doing may have been immoral in the eyes of many, but the few who clearly understood his means and methods would understand it as nothing but a necessity. In short, he did what he did for the betterment of mankind, and to cleanse the community of shit-hats like the one standing before me.

  Fully prepared to tell yet another lie, I glanced up and met the hardened gaze of the man who was determined to beat me into speaking. As I did, I noticed a green eye staring back at me from between the door and the doorframe that was positioned immediately behind him.

  My mouth twisted into a shitty little smirk. I liked it when Vince’s eyes looked green.

  A confused look washed over my captor. Maybe he thought I was having a moment of clarity, or that the truth was going to spill from my lips.

  “Oh, the Ghost?” I asked. “El Fantasma?”

  The door behind my abductor opened a few more inches.


  With his back to the door and unaware of who was behind him, stinky man grinned enough to expose his yellow teeth. “Yeah.” He slapped the leather strap against his open palm. “Where is he?”

  I tossed my head toward the only door in the room. “He’s right behind you.”

  It was the first time I’d told the truth all night.

  1

  Jessica

  I had two weaknesses that I would readily admit. My first was a good martini. If I drank more than one, however, my subconscious thoughts spewed from me like a geyser. My second was a confident man. In the presence of one, my knees went weak, and my ability to say no escaped me completely.

  I never mixed the two.

  Demanding, impetuous, and confident. Those would be the first three words I’d choose to describe Vince Devoe. Pleasing him was impossible and pissing him off was easy. His nickname was Mister Prick, and it wasn’t something that we came up with at the dealership. It was a name he’d earned in his day to day manner of living life. There were, however, a few qualities about him most people found noteworthy.

  He was an intriguing man. A mysterious air surrounded him, and all who met him described him as fascinating. Additionally, he was handsome. Ruggedly so, to be honest. Lastly, watching him move was like seeing a miracle unfold. Each time he walked into the dealership, my eyes were riveted to him. His manner of walking exuded confidence, commanding the attention of anyone who witnessed it.

  When he strutted through a crowd, men looked in the other direction.

  Women stared in awe, hoping to absorb a moment of his swagger before he noticed them ogling him.

  I had no idea how he earned his wealth, but I doubted it was legitimate. He’d purchased a few cars from the dealership I worked at, spending well over a hundred grand on each one. He negotiated the cheapest price possible, and always paid by pulling bound stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills from the leather satchel he carried with him.

  Yet.

  He didn’t have a job.

  At least not that anyone knew about.

  I gazed across my desk at him and thanked God we weren’t in a bar. Adding a martini to the equation would have proven disastrous, no doubt. Dressed in dark washed blue jeans and an untucked navy button-down shirt, he looked like a thirty-something Silicon Valley software executive. For a fleeting moment, I got lost admiring his handsome features.

  His eyes were hazel, often seeming brown while other times glistening the greenest of green. A strong jawline arrowed toward his chin, and hallmarked his facial features. His short mop of brown hair was unkempt. He was forever neat, but his hair was always a perfect mess. Short of one almost indiscernible tattoo on the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he had no others that I could see.

  As he wrung his hands together, I stared at the dime-sized tattoo. After deciding it was a flower, I met his hardened gaze. “I can go one hundred forty-two thousand.”

  Through slits, he shot a piercing glare in my direction. “One thirty-eight,” he said, his face expressing no emotion as he spoke. The pulse of the vein in the side of his neck gave hint to his determination.

  His black look was meant to be intimidating, and it was working. I broke his glare, stood, and stepped to the corner of my desk.

  I exhaled a dramatic sigh. “One forty-one, and that’s it. If you can’t find comfort in that price, I guess you’ll have to pick a different car. Maybe the 550i X-Drive?”

  “I’d prefer walking to driving one of those underpowered bastards.” He raked his fingers through his hair as he stood. “You ever heard the phrase ‘meet me in the middle?’”

  He was taller than I remembered, and easily the sexiest man I had ever met. I shook off the natural desire to be sucked into the bubble of machismo that surrounded him, and reminded myself that above all things he was a customer, a client, and, potentially, my month’s rent check.

  I forced a smile. “I have.”

  “Why didn’t you come back with one forty?” He arched an eyebrow. “That’s the middle. It’s where we’re both supposed to find the comfort you spoke of.”

  “There isn’t as much markup on these cars as you’d think,” I said in a flat tone, hoping I sounded convincing.

  He returned a blank stare.

  I hadn’t sold a car all month. I needed him to buy the M5 at a reasonable price, or an eviction notice would be tacked to my door. “Your one forty price is roughly a grand less than cost,” I lied. “You’ve got to come up to one forty-one, or I’ll be looking for a new job.”

  “You haven’t looked at your computer or talked to the sales manager.” His gaze dropped to my feet and then slowly rose the length of my frame, pausing for an inordinate amount of time upon reaching my breasts. “How do you know what cost is?”

  I wondered if my blouse was too revealing. Despite feeling a little uneasy, I remained straight-faced, or at least tried to. “It’s my job to know what cost is.”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Do you like fucking people, Jess?” He met my gaze with smiling eyes. “It’s Jess, right?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears.

  His eyebrows raised as he stood in wait of my response.

  “It’s uhhm. Actually, it’s Jessica,” I stammered. “Do I like fucking people? Is that what you just asked me?”

  He gave a slight nod.

  “What does that…what does that have to do with--”

  He coughed a dry laugh. “Personally, I enjoy being fucked.” His eyes returned to the ‘v’ of my blouse, paused, and then met mine. “But not when I’m buying a car. Are you fucking me, Jess?”

  If anyone in the room was being fucked, it was me. He was fucking me with his eyes, fucking me on my commission, and fucking with my mind.

  “There’s one person in this room that’s getting a good deal,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And it isn’t me. A thousand bucks profit on a hundred and forty-one-thousand-dollar investment is less than three quarters of one percent. That’s not a very good return on our money. I doubt that’s a venture you’d make with your money, Mr. Devoe. So, if there’s a fucking going on, it’s you fucking the owner of this dealership.”

  He grinned ever so slightly. “I hate odd numbers.”

  “I hate the thought of looking for a job. Get the 550i. It’s eighty-four grand.” I cocked my hip and looked him over quickly. “How’s that for an even number?”

  His focus dropped to my ass. After a moment, he met my gaze. “It’s not fast enough. Let’s take the M5 for a drive.”

  I was twenty-nine, single, and now rocking a ninety-four-day sexual dry spell. The thought of being confined in a car with him made me nervous. Excitedly so. I felt my temperature rise ten degrees, and wondered if my face had gone noticeably flush. I swallowed a wad of anxiousness that became tangled in my throat and reached toward my desk.

  I tossed the key fob in his direction. “Take it for a spin.”

  Without shifting his eyes away from me, he snatched the keys from the air. “You’re coming with.”

  “I uhhm. I’ve got a few things I need to take care of,” I murmured. “Go ahead.”

  He grabbed his leather messenger bag and turned toward the door. “I like the way you smell, Jess. You’re coming with.”

  I blushed. I was sure of it. “Jessica. It’s Jessica.” A mental sigh escaped me. “Go ahead,” I cooed. “I’ll be right there.”

  If I was going to have sit through the torturous affair of riding in the car with him, at least I wanted to ogle him first.

  As he walked away, that’s exactly what I did.

  2

  Vince

  I backed the 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 be
tween 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.