Chapter 6 Cybil #2
I fumble to pull my phone back out and open my camera app, trying to snap a photo. The glare of the lights makes the image
fuzzy. Ramirez and the vulture slide into a black Mercedes. Ben shifts and I can’t get a clean shot of the license plate.
I scramble forward, ducking behind a potted tree to try again, but before I can snap a photo, the Mercedes peels away. Ben
lingers for a moment—and then a woman in a black dress approaches him. They talk. Or . . . it looks like they’re talking. It’s weirdly stiff. Not flirtatious—but not casual either. A black SUV pulls up and Ben takes the keys
from the valet.
The woman melts back into the gala. And I’m left wondering who she is—and why she’s making my stomach twist. And why didn’t I get a photo of her?
I hate how distracted I am because of him.
Ben’s already getting into the SUV. Before I can overthink it, I hustle after him—but the torn hem of my dress catches under my heel and I nearly face-plant.
It’s like my wardrobe has a personal vendetta against me tonight.
Regaining my balance, and a smidge of dignity, I glance up in time to see Ben’s brake lights flash red—and then he’s gone.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” A thin man with a pencil mustache steps around me, pointing to a blue Prius with an “I Brake for Speed
Bumps” bumper sticker. “That’s my Uber.”
“Sorry,” I mumble as I step back, but when the door opens, a flash of inspiration hits. Or at least that’s what I’m going
to call it as I watch the man fold himself into the back seat of the Uber.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I climb in after him.
“Hey! What are you doing?” he squawks.
“Howdy, folks. My, what a handsome pair you are,” the Prius driver chirps. She’s a white-haired woman with thick glasses and
enough tie-dyed bear stickers on her dashboard to qualify for Grateful Dead sainthood. “Fun night?”
Fun? I snort. “If running into the guy who excels in being a major pain in my side counts as fun, then yes. Totally fun.”
I open my clutch and pull out all the cash I have. “I’ll pay you”—I count it fast—“one hundred and twelve dollars to follow
that black SUV.”
“No,” the man beside me whines, shoving his phone in my face. The Uber app glows accusingly. “I’ve already paid forty-six
dollars for Debbie to take me to my apartment. Get out of my Uber.”
“Y’all are gonna have to speak up,” Debbie says, cupping her ear. “I gave up my hearing for Jerry Garcia.” Her car smells
faintly of peppermint and cats, and there’s a collage of tabbies dangling from her rearview mirror. “If you two wanna get
cuddly back there, I won’t hear a thing,” she adds brightly.
“Ew,” I blurt. The guy next to me gives me a look like I’d be lucky. I roll my eyes. Though, if he doesn’t have a finger dental
drill from the 1870s, he’s a step up from the last guy. Barely.
I point at Ben’s SUV, desperate. “Listen, my brother’s in that car and he’s about to propose to the wrong girl. She hates
cats, doesn’t recycle, and drives a Hummer.” I shove the money forward. “Please. I have to stop him.”
“This is ridiculous,” the man groans. “Get another Uber.”
“Hold on, honey,” Debbie says.
Yes. I brace myself against the seat, expecting a fast and furious chase. Instead, Debbie flips on her blinker and eases out of the parking lot at roughly the speed of a tortoise on Benadryl.
What is happening? My heart’s racing faster than Debbie’s Prius. Heck, Jerry Garcia’s probably rotting faster in his grave.
The guy next to me snorts and crosses his arms, settling in for what is clearly not his best night. That makes two of us.
“Um, Debbie.” I lean forward. The light’s green and we’re three cars back. “Can you catch up?”
“I’ve got you,” Debbie promises and hums along to the radio as she casually accelerates.
Ben’s SUV is already pulling ahead, changing lanes.
“Can you drive any faster?” I plead.
“Of course,” she beams. “But these electric cars only get good mileage if I stay just under the speed limit.”
My foot is practically pressing through the floor mat, as if sheer willpower could make this Prius fly. “Debbie,” I beg, “I’ll
give you another hundred dollars if you catch up to that SUV.”
There goes my grocery money for the week. I’m going to be living off ramen and a prayer—but I have to know what Ben is doing here. Why he lied.
“Please, Debbie,” I add, desperate. “Can you go any faster?”
Her eyes flash at me in the rearview mirror and she gives me a sympathetic nod. “I can try.”
The guy beside me is tapping away on his phone. “Maybe you should’ve Uber-hopped into a Corvette.”
“Maybe you should’ve asked your mommy to pick you up.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he huffs. “Mom never misses The Late Show.”
How is this my life?
I scoot forward, gripping the front passenger seat as Debbie’s Prius picks up a whole seven miles per hour. Ahead, Ben’s SUV
is at a yellow light. This is our chance to catch him—but at the last second, Ben veers right.
“Right lane, Debbie! Right lane!” I yelp.
Debbie flinches, and I instantly feel guilty, but we can’t lose him. She inches toward the turn, painfully slow, and I’m clenching
my jaw so hard I’m one stress fracture away from a dental bill I definitely can’t afford.
By the time we round the corner, Ben’s car is gone.
“Where to next, honey?” Debbie asks, doing a little dance of excitement in her seat. “I feel like one of them NASCAR fellas.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her she’d be lapped by a riding lawn mower. “Looks like he’s up at that Starbucks,” I say instead.
“You can drop me off there.”
Debbie beams, pulling into the parking lot. “Save him from himself, dear.”
Save him? The only thing Ben needs saving from is his own juvenile antics—and I didn’t sign up for that circus. “Yes, ma’am.”
The guy in the back seat leans forward. “This isn’t going to affect my Uber rating, is it?”
I roll my eyes and climb out of the Prius. Debbie gives a proud little rev of the engine before zooming away at the breakneck
speed of five miles per hour.
Making my way to the outdoor seating, I sag onto a chair, the adrenaline crashing hard. This night has gone from bad to worse.
I failed to record the meeting. I have nothing but names. And I’m stuck eating ramen for a week. Which I can live with—I’m
not afraid of the sodium. But Bennett Bradley popping back into my life? That was a whole other level of heartburn I wanted
to avoid.