Never Joyride A Billionaires New Supercar

I hadn’t even driven my new Glacier Blue Aston Martin GT, a half-million-dollar masterpiece, out of the Sterling Motor Group dealership lot when my phone buzzed. It was Chad Dillon, my sales consultant. He sounded clipped, a little rushed. He claimed the onboard diagnostics system needed an urgent, mandatory offline patch, an “emergency software update.” Could I please leave the key with him for thirty minutes? Half an hour later, I saw my car. It wasn’t parked in the service bay. It was plastered all over the Instagram story of some heavily filtered blonde sales associate named Brittany Wells. Chad, my grinning, overconfident salesman, had his arm draped around her, one hand on the steering wheel of my Glacier Blue GT. The caption read: “Fresh whip! Taking my babe for a spin.” I didn’t call, didn’t text, and didn’t leave a comment. I simply opened the Aston Martin’s companion app on my phone and, with a few taps, remotely locked the vehicle down. Engine ignition disabled. Doors bolted. The GPS showed them static, deep in the hills on the Sunset Canyon Loop, twenty miles outside of Palm Springs. Two hours later, the call came—not from the dealership, but from the Palm Springs Police Department. The tone, though slightly distorted by the phone line, carried the unmistakable, unyielding weight of official authority. “Mr. Alexander Derrick? Is that correct?” I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the dealership’s waiting lounge, watching the evening traffic stream past. I kept my voice steady. “It is.” “This is the Palm Springs PD Command Center. We’ve received an urgent 911 call. Two individuals are reporting that they are trapped inside a blue sports car, license plate number [Placeholder for Plate Number], on the Sunset Canyon Loop.”

01 I’d only just selected that plate number half an hour before. “The caller alleges the owner, you, deliberately initiated a remote lock, confining them inside. Sir, we have a report of Unlawful Confinement.” The voice on the line paused, then sharpened, cutting through the sterile silence of the lounge. “We are instructing you to immediately, and I mean immediately, disable the vehicle lock and proceed to the nearest precinct for questioning.” Unlawful Confinement. The charge hit my ears like a pair of icy handcuffs snapping shut. I didn’t immediately explain or erupt in indignant rage. I just felt a strange, absurd humor rise in my chest. I could almost see the officer on the other end: a bored cop envisioning me as a jealous ex-boyfriend, using a tech trick for a melodramatic act of revenge, or maybe just some spoiled, clueless tech bro who’d accidentally played with his expensive new toy too hard. My fingertips traced the cool metal frame of my Tom Ford glasses. My gaze remained level, calm as a lake in the shadow of a mountain. Was this the tax of being a victim in the modern world? To be questioned as the perpetrator simply because I possessed the means of the offense? It was certainly a novel experience. I took a deep breath, letting the low hum of the city filter out. My voice, when it crossed the wire, was clear, unhurried, and devoid of any tremble. “Officer.” Another pause from the other end. “I have a preliminary question.” “Go ahead.” “If a person steals your property while attempting to move it,” I began, my tone measured, as if debating a point of law, “and you, the owner, use entirely legal, pre-installed technology to track that property and prevent its further movement… is that still considered a crime?” The air of unshakeable authority from the police department seemed to crack just a little. “…What are you implying? You need to state your situation clearly, Mr. Derrick.” The officer’s voice softened, now tinged with confusion instead of command. I allowed a faint, satisfied half-smile to touch my lips. That was the response I needed. “The situation is perfectly clear,” I said. “First, the blue sports car—license plate [Placeholder for Plate Number]—is my legal property. I, Alexander Derrick, purchased it in full for cash at 3:15 PM today from the Sterling Motor Group. I can email the contract and wire transfer receipt right now.” “Second, the caller, if I am correct, is your dealership’s sales consultant, Chad Dillon. He obtained my key less than an hour ago under the false pretense that the vehicle needed an ‘emergency offline system update.’” “Third, his ‘update’ was, in fact, taking my brand new, unregistered vehicle, with his accomplice, Brittany Wells, on an unauthorized joyride and photo shoot to the Sunset Canyon Loop.” I narrated the facts as if reading a dry deposition. As I spoke, I pulled up the high-resolution screenshot I’d already taken of Brittany’s Instagram story. The photo was a parade of poor judgment: Chad, in a cheap knock-off designer shirt, smugly steering with one hand, the other around Brittany, who was pouting for the camera. The background was the desolate, rocky outline of the Sunset Canyon highway at dusk. The caption: “Fresh whip! Taking my babe for a spin.” The geotag was brutally specific: Sunset Canyon Loop, Mile Marker 11. “I have already forwarded this time-stamped, geotagged evidence, along with my proof of ownership, to your department’s designated investigation email address,” I informed him. I then opened the companion app again. The crimson dot of my Aston Martin was motionless on the digital map. I clicked the share function. “Furthermore, to fully cooperate with your investigation, I have temporarily granted your department real-time access to the vehicle’s GPS data and the cloud-stored footage from the dashcam and interior security camera.” My voice dropped, taking on a cool edge. “You can now see everything happening inside. Let me be clear. This car is my full-cash, legally-acquired property. It contains unopened personal items. My remote lock is a rational and legal act of loss prevention, taken to secure my assets against unauthorized and frankly criminal misuse. I see no issue with this course of action.” A long, heavy silence followed. I could hear muffled, confused voices on the other end—a low, chaotic murmur. “…He can do that?” “…The evidence trail is airtight.” “…That salesman has some nerve.” I waited. I didn’t need to push. I was the master of the long game. Meanwhile, I activated the app’s interior camera feed—a premium security feature I’d paid extra for. The small window showed a dim, claustrophobic scene, illuminated only by the faint glow of the dash. Chad Dillon’s formerly cocky face was a mask of panic and raw desperation. He was frantically pulling at the door handle. The car was dead; the mechanical locks were useless. He started smashing at the double-layer acoustic glass—with his elbow, his fist, even the heel of his shoe—the thick glass absorbing the impacts with dull, sickening thuds. Each impact was a direct, sickening blow to my chest. This was my new car. The one I’d waited six months for. The one where I hadn’t even pulled the protective plastic film off the seats yet. The girl, Brittany, was hysterical. Her carefully applied makeup was ruined, black streaks running down her cheeks like war paint. She was slumped against the passenger seat, chest heaving, clearly hyperventilating from fear and the enclosed space. Watching their pathetic display, the furious heat in my chest didn’t flare; instead, it subsided, transforming into a deep, chilling reservoir of resolve. Finally, the police officer’s voice returned, the tone utterly transformed. “Mr. Derrick, we have a preliminary understanding of the situation.” “Thank you for your cooperation.” “We require you to report immediately to the Westside Precinct to file a detailed statement. As for the individuals in the vehicle…” He chose his words with care. “We will dispatch a unit immediately to the scene for their ‘extraction’ and to have them ‘transported’ for questioning.” Extraction. Transported. The change in terminology was everything. My victim status was now officially recognized. My suspicion had been cleared. “I’ll be there momentarily.” I hung up. My finger lingered on the screenshot of Chad and Brittany’s smiling, arrogant faces. The curve of my own mouth tightened into something cold and dangerous. The game had just begun. The Westside Precinct was bathed in the harsh, white light of fluorescent bulbs, a place that smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial-strength sanitizer. I arrived moments before Chad and Brittany were brought in by the patrol car. They were draped in thick, beige police-issue blankets, clutching Styrofoam cups of lukewarm water, playing the role of the traumatized victims. The moment they saw me walk through the door, their eyes flashed with raw hostility. Not guilt, but pure, unadulterated venom. I, the man whose property they had stolen, was, in their minds, the villain. I met their gazes without flinching, my Tom Ford lenses shielding any hint of emotion. The officer who’d taken my call—a Sergeant Miller—gestured toward an empty chair. “Mr. Derrick, please take a seat.” Before I could settle, Brittany’s high-pitched, frantic wail sliced through the station’s quiet hum. “Officer! That’s him!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, tears streaming down her face. “He deliberately tricked us into going out there and then locked us in! He… he had malicious intent!” She gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. “We almost died in there! We were hyperventilating! We were running out of air!” The sheer audacity of turning a theft and joyride into a case of sexual predation and attempted homicide stunned me. 02 To accuse the victim of being the aggressor. It wasn’t just a lie; it was a character assassination. I didn’t dignify the outburst with anger. My expression remained impassive. I watched her performance like one might watch a particularly bad high school play. Chad immediately chimed in, his voice hoarse from shouting and panic. “Exactly, Officer! We were just borrowing the car! You know, friends hanging out, having some fun! Kids being kids!” He attempted to frame his crime as a simple, harmless “borrow.” Then, he wheeled on me, eyes blazing. “And because of his recklessness, Brittany is severely traumatized! Her heart is pounding! I’m telling you, Alex, this isn’t over! We will press charges for reckless endangerment and deliberate emotional distress!” Their coordinated attack was seamless. They banked on the age-old courtroom trick: whoever cries the loudest and throws the dirtiest mud first often wins the jury. I ignored their hysterics. From my leather briefcase, I methodically began to take out a stack of documents. I placed the printed, signed purchase contract on the metal table. I placed the wire transfer confirmation for the full $485,000 on top of it. I placed the enlarged, high-resolution printout of Brittany’s Instagram screenshot, with the time stamp and geotag visible, next. One sheet. Two sheets. Three sheets. My movements were slow, deliberate, each quiet rustle of paper sounding like a slap in the tense silence. Their frantic shouting began to falter. Finally, I took my phone, tapped the screen, and played an audio recording. “Hey, Alex, so here’s the thing. The car’s backend is showing an urgent offline system update is required. It’s a mandatory patch. It’ll only take half an hour. Could you leave the key, and I’ll handle it in the bay?” Chad’s oily, familiar voice echoed clearly in the precinct. “It’s quick, just grab a coffee in the lounge, and it’ll be done before you know it.” The recording ended. The silence that followed was absolute. Chad’s face drained from red to white, then to a sickening shade of gray. He gaped, struggling for air, a trapped, terrified animal. Brittany stopped sobbing, her eyes wide with incomprehension and dawning horror as she looked from Chad to me. At that moment, the door burst open. In strode a man in a too-tight suit, a comb-over barely concealing a receding hairline, and a stomach straining against his belt—Hank Peterson, the dealership’s General Manager. He locked onto me immediately. A forced, practiced smile, like wrinkled cellophane, plastered itself onto his face. He rushed over, grabbing my hand in a sweaty, aggressive handshake. “Mr. Derrick! My God, Mr. Derrick! I am so, so sorry! This is a terrible misunderstanding! Absolute carelessness on the part of some young, foolish employees! I apologize for the trouble!” He shook my hand vigorously, as if we were long-lost fraternity brothers. I calmly, smoothly, extracted my hand. Hank didn’t miss a beat. He turned to Sergeant Miller, his tone instantly shifting to dismissive corporate charm. “Officer, thank you for your service. This is an internal matter, really, a simple misunderstanding between the dealership and a valued customer. We’ll take care of it ourselves and won’t waste any more of your valuable public resources.” He was trying to immediately classify the crime as a “minor internal incident.” He pulled me aside, lowering his voice into a confidential, oily whisper. “Alex, look, here’s what we’ll do. The kids were idiots, they’re already suspended. To make this right, I’m personally authorizing two years of our top-tier, all-inclusive service package—that’s a five-thousand-dollar value! Plus, a set of genuine Aston Martin custom floor mats! They’re German leather! Thousands of dollars!” He leaned in closer, reeking of cheap cologne and desperation. “Let’s just let this go, okay? The car is fine, no harm done. Blowing this up helps no one—not you, not us. We’re offering a great resolution. Deal?” I looked at his face—a landscape of feigned solicitude and practiced opportunism. I listened to his condescending offer, a pittance meant to buy my silence. I smiled then. The warmth did not reach my eyes. I addressed Hank, but my voice was clear enough for everyone to hear, especially the officers documenting the case. “Mr. Peterson.” “Do you know why I waited six months for this specific car?” “Do you know the premium I paid for that exclusive Glacier Blue finish?” “Do you know that car was not just transportation; it was a trophy—a personal symbol of years of brutal work and sacrifice?” I paused, locking eyes with him. “And now?” “Now, that car means only one thing to me.” “An insult.” The insult of being deceived. The insult of having my property treated with such reckless disrespect. The profound insult of being offered the equivalent of table scraps for my silence. Hank’s corporate smile froze, melting like low-grade butter. He hadn’t expected this level of pushback from a “regular customer.” My refusal to accept his small-time bribery instantly shifted his expression to wounded, simmering rage. I ignored his anger and addressed my demands clearly to the room, ensuring the police record was perfect. “Mr. Peterson, I must correct you.” “This is not a ‘misunderstanding,’ and it is certainly not a ‘minor internal incident.’” “It is Grand Theft Auto, and it is Systematic Fraud.” The words Theft and Fraud hit Hank like a gut punch. His face was now a tight, angry red. I continued, my voice measured and unwavering. “Therefore, I will not be accepting any form of private settlement.” “I am formally presenting my demands to the Sterling Motor Group.” I held up one finger. “First, the compromised vehicle is unacceptable. I require either a full, immediate refund, or a replacement—a brand new, equivalent specification, zero-mileage vehicle, air-freighted directly from the factory line.” I held up a second finger. “Second, the employees responsible for the theft and the subsequent slander in this precinct—Chad Dillon and Brittany Wells—must be immediately and publicly terminated.” I held up a third finger. “Third, the Sterling Motor Group must purchase a full-page advertisement in the LA Times and publish a corresponding, unedited public apology on its corporate website, addressed specifically to me, Alexander Derrick.” My demands were absolute. The precinct was utterly silent. Chad and Brittany’s faces were ghostly white. They had finally grasped that their little “spin” had consequences far beyond a verbal warning. Hank, now a furious shade of eggplant, stared at me for a few long seconds, then let out a cold, venomous laugh. “Ha. A full-page ad. You’ve got nerve, kid.” The professional “Mr. Derrick” was gone, replaced by the condescending “kid.” His posture shifted from conciliatory to confrontational. “The car is registered to you; it’s off the lot. A replacement? That’s not happening. An apology? Who do you think you are?” He turned to the officer. “Officer, you see? He’s being completely unreasonable, demanding the world. This is purely a civil matter, and we’re willing to compensate. He’s refusing. I suggest you close the case.” Sergeant Miller pushed his glasses up, maintaining his neutrality. “Mr. Peterson, we are still investigating the criminal nature of Mr. Dillon’s actions. However, Mr. Derrick’s civil claims fall under mediation. We advise you to proceed with that.” Hank realized the police wouldn’t back his bullying. All his fury turned back to me. 03 He took a menacing step closer, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure malice. “Alex, listen to me. I’m giving you one last piece of advice. In this business, you leave a little room for error. The Sterling Motor Group has deep pockets, and we have people. The owner is Mr. Sinclair—the biggest name in California real estate development.” “You make us an enemy over a set of floor mats, and I guarantee you won’t be able to turn a corner in this city without running into a problem. Think carefully.” It was an open, ugly threat. The arrogance of the corporate bully was on full, brazen display. He assumed that I, a successful but ultimately singular young man, would fold under the pressure of local political and financial muscle. He assumed wrong. I looked directly into his venomous eyes and spoke one slow, even word. “Really?” “Then today, I guess I’ll have to see just how unbearable you really are.” I didn’t wait for his response. I calmly reached into my suit pocket, took out my phone, unlocked it, opened my call recorder app, and pressed the bright red “Record” button. I placed the phone gently on the table, screen up, pointed directly at Hank Peterson.