Page 108 of Serial Killer Games

I crank into reverse and run through my mental inventory of his cars. One has the Italian flag incorporated into its crest, I think?

“Is that the green one with the racing stripe?”

“It’s blue wool…”

“Dry cleaners.”

“And the espresso machine—”

“You have to twist it all the way.”

“And the sauna repair company—”

“They’re not coming back because you left a sex doll in there last time.”

“I don’t havesexwith them,” Grant says primly.

There’s a pregnant pause while Grant takes a deep breath, and I ram the rear end of the Dickmobile onto the sidewalk and into an elm sapling encased in a protective plastic tube.

“I’ve been a bad friend.”

“You’re not even a friend. You’re a bag of dicks, Grant.” I’m swiveling madly, ripping the wheel around with one hand, trying to twelve-point turn my way out of this parking job while holding the phone in my other. The back right wheel goes over the curb again and again.

“I know,” he says sadly. “I know.”

“Do you? The bag of dicks has sentience and self-awareness? This is really fascinating.” I’m coasting down the street now with one hand on the wheel. The Bluetooth connects suddenly and Grant’s voice fills the car.

“When are you coming home?”

“I’ve got a new place.”

His breath catches. I toss my phone on the passenger seat and hang a right.

“I respect that,” he says sorrowfully. And it’s…surprising. “I didn’t really deserve your friendship. I see that now. But I want…Can I make a gesture of amends?”

His new therapist must be good.

“I want to…I should have been paying you. For your help. Can I…Well, I want to know what would make your efforts feel acknowledged.”

The car’s been warming up and it fucking stinks. I roll a window down, and I think of Dodi’s hair blowing ragged in the night wind on the way to Las Vegas. I remember her smashed-up car. She belongs in something fast and expensive and…fast.

“I want one of your cars.”

His breath catches. “The Lambo?”

I think of the smashed rear, the pine sap, and the rabbit juice. The giant dick on the trunk. “No.” I clear my throat. “I know this one’s sentimental to you. You can give me a different one.” I remember the car I drove Dodi to the airport in. She’d stopped in her tracks and hissed, “Fuckingkidding me,” under her breath. I think that meant she liked it. “The red one with the black leather interior.”

His breath comes out in a whoosh. Relief.

“The Hellcat. I’ll leave the deed on the kitchen counter here. Are we still friends, Jake?”

Were we ever?

“Of course. Grant?”

“Yes?”

“Legal question: if someone was hired for a job, and then she was supposed to be laid off, but she wasn’t, and the company forgot about her and kept paying her for years because of a clerical error—”

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