Chapter Five
Ghost
A car like me could never have imagined the terrifying fragility of being human. I had shown you speed. Wind. Tarmac. The heavy pull of the road beneath us.
In return, you’d let me feel something I had never felt before.
Flesh.
Softness.
You pressed your palms against me, pushing weakly, gasping for breath. I pulled back at once. For a moment, I only stared down at you.
I wrapped my whole being around you before I could stop myself.
My shadows curled along your sides, the seat held you more firmly, and I tightened my seatbelt across your chest. It was not enough.
A strip of fabric and a promise from the manufacturer were pitiful things compared to how badly I wanted to keep you safe.
Humans were too soft.
Your skin. Your insides. Your bones. Your breathing. Your damned ego. Soft.
No matter how tough you presented yourself to the world, no matter how cold your stare or how sharp your tongue, I knew the truth now. I had felt it.
But I could help you with that. I could show you how to have skin like mine. Steel.
I cradled you in my arms before pulling back, my hand over yours, guiding you to my wheel.
“Lai,” I said, and you grabbed me, your fingers tightening over my leather. “You gotta drive.”
Your eyes narrowed, though your breathing was still uneven. “I…”
I leaned close and kissed the side of your neck, because I had learned very quickly that your dignity had trouble holding firm against that particular tactic. With my other hand, I pushed my seat up, drawing you closer to my wheel.
“You can,” I whispered against your skin. “Ease the clutch. That’s it. Gentle now. Don’t fight it.”
You huffed, but you listened.
Good boy.
“Ease it,” I said. “Yes. Just like that. Feel the accelerator catching? There. I know you want it. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
You sat up straighter, still half-undressed, still breathing hard, your body pressed close to my wheel. You weren’t hopeless, not the way you made yourself out to be. You knew how to drive. What you didn’t know was how to share the road.
I would teach you.
I turned on the radio, and slow rock rolled through the cabin. That was how a night like this ought to sound. A little guitar. A little grit. Something with a soul and a spine.
For one beautiful moment, I thought we understood each other. You were exactly where I wanted you to be.
Then you reached over and switched back to your tape, the techno beat attacking my speakers.
DTS!
DTS DTS!
Absolutely not.
I allowed the melody–if a man were feeling generous enough to call that electrical assault a melody–for all of two seconds before switching back to the radio.
You did not take the hint.
The bass returned, vibrating through my cabin with all the grace of a toolbox tumbling down a staircase.
I switched it back to rock.
You pushed the button again.
I switched it back.
You pushed it back.
I stared at you.
You stared at the road like you had not just declared war inside my own cabin. I switched it again, and the next time you pushed the button, the radio went silent.
“Hey.” You frowned, taking your eyes off the road. “That was a dick move.”
A truck’s headlights appeared around the bend ahead of us. You were still looking at me. I had no choice but to take over, or we would both be flattened by a semi. I jerked the wheel back into line, my shadow covering your hands.
“Eyes on the road,” I snapped.
“You turned it off.”
“I did not.”
“You very clearly did.”
I ignored the accusation, forcing your head to face the road again, my hands gluing yours to the wheel. “It wasn’t me.”
Something was wrong, and I was terrified to admit it. I tried to turn on the radio again and again, but there was nothing: no signal, no power, nothing. Now there was only damning silence.
“Is that something we should worry about?” You glanced at me as I tried my best and failed to hide my growing panic.
Deep inside, I knew every part of me had been touched by time. My wires were corroded, the casing nibbled on by rodents. My seals were weak; the rubber dried with age. My metal was infected with rust, slowly spreading like cancer through my frame.
I met your eyes in my rearview mirror, my fear obvious in mine, even to me.
“Hey, Ghost.” You reached over, placing your hand on my shoulder. “Look at me. You are still driving; the engine is still going. It’s probably nothing serious.”
I shook my head. You didn’t understand. How could you? You were human. For humans, “nothing serious” meant an appointment. A doctor. A dentist. A bandage. Rest. Medicine. Your bodies betrayed you constantly, yes, but they also tried to forgive you. Skin closed. Bones knitted. Blood clotted.
Cars did not heal. Small problems only meant bigger problems were on the way. A strange noise became a repair. A repair became a warning. A warning became a list. A list became a bill. A bill became a conversation about whether it was worth it.
My pride could not bear it.
“We’ll look into it when we get home.” Your hand traveled down my arm, squeezing my hand. I looked at your hand over mine.
You couldn’t even fix yourself.
The thought came cruel and uninvited, but it was true. Your injury was not something that could be polished away, something that could be replaced with a better part. What hope did I have?
The shame rose fast and hot.
Too much.
I could not bear the way you looked at me then, that pitying look that mirrored the expression Fox had made at me earlier.
I sank deep into my frame, withdrawing from the shape beside you, from the hand in yours, as I folded myself back into metal and leather and engine noise, leaving you alone in the driver’s seat with the dead radio between us.
I could still feel you there. Your hand tightened on the wheel.
You said my name once, softly.
“Ghost?”
I did not answer.
I could not.
The road stretched ahead, dark and endless, and for the first time that night, I did not feel like a king riding it.
I felt old.