Chapter 6
Chapter Six
John
The gates to my New York home slide open. There are no other houses around for a while—just trees, and the sound of gravel crunching under the tires as we drive up the gently curving path.
There’s a fountain in the center of the drive, soft arcs of water rising and falling over a wide stone bowl. The garage curves around it—low, modern, discreet. I always thought it felt like a museum. Now it feels like a showroom. She’s the only thing I want to put on display.
“Whoa,” she says, taking a small look at me. She clears her throat and nods toward the side of the house. “That looks like a pretty big garage. Got anything valuable in there?”
I crack a smile as I hit the button to open it.
“Couple things.”
The door slides up slowly with a low mechanical hum. The lights flick on one by one, gracing all of that metal and steel in a dim, golden glow.
She turns to me, eyes gleaming, then steps out of the car, gripping her milkshake, nibbling at the straw. Her legs swing out, smooth and bare. Every shift of her hips sends a jolt straight through me.
“Wow,” she says, stepping into the garage. “This is so cool. The girls back at the car wash would go wild if they saw this.”
She catches herself a second too late. Her cheeks flush, eyes flicking to mine.
“I mean—not like that,” she adds quickly. “Those old gross DVDs or whatever? I’ve never even heard of them.”
I always hated that shit.
She is the only girl I want to see go wild.
And only for me.
“These hardly ever see the light of day.”
She walks up to a silver 1969 Mustang Fastback. The lines of it are sharp and low, aggressive. It looks like it wants to lunge forward even while parked.
“How could you keep these beauties locked up like this?” she says. She trails her fingers along the hood of the car—except that she doesn’t. Her fingers hover, dangerously close. It’s hotter than anything, a tease. Does she even know she’s doing it? “These need to be shown off.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to them.” I lean against the massive steel frame of the garage door. “I like to keep the stuff I love locked up and safe.”
And then she glides her fingertips—again, so close to the hunk of metal and steel—along the hood of one of my favorites. Not gliding. Teasing. Hovering.
“You don’t like people touching your stuff, right?” she says, glancing over her shoulder.
I clear my throat.
“You can.”
She turns to face me fully.
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
“You’ll be careful.”
She presses her fingers to the hood of the black coupe closest to her. Just the pads of them. Barely any weight at all. But I feel it anyway. A sharp jolt. Like she touched me.
“Ohhh,” she says, eyes drifting toward the back wall. “What’s under the tarp?”
I walk over to stand next to her, crossing my arms.
That one’s not fuel-efficient. That one’s not practical. That one doesn’t even have air conditioning. But I saw her once at an auction years ago, and I couldn’t leave without her.
“That one’s not usually for company.”
She takes a step closer.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not company.”
I grab the tarp, feeling like I’m peeling something sacred open. Dust lifts into the air. The deep red paint gleams like blood beneath it, still perfect after all this time.
She lets out a breath. Soft. Involuntary. It hits me right in the spine.
“She’s beautiful,” she says.
I swallow. Nod.
Not as beautiful as you.
“I haven’t started her in years,” I murmur. “She might not even turn over.”
She turns, eyes bright.
“Let’s try to start her now.”
I glance toward the tool cabinet in the corner and grab the keyring from its hook.
By the time I make it back, she’s already on the driver’s side, pulling the door open like she’s done it a hundred times.
“Come on,” she says, eyes glinting. “Let’s see what she’s got.”
I slide in. The seat hugs my body like it remembers me. I slot the key in, give it a second, then turn it.
The engine coughs, then roars to life—low, rumbling, loud enough to rattle the walls.
And then I see her.
She’s walking toward the utility sink in the corner. I watch her twist the nozzle off a coiled-up hose, water sputtering before flowing clean. She swings it once, over her shoulder, then turns.
“What are you doing?” I ask, throat tight.
She cocks her head. “If I’m the only one allowed to touch it…” She lets the thought hang there. “Maybe I should be the one who washes it.”
“Sarah, I don’t know…”
My best friend’s daughter is standing before me, the sexiest and most perfect woman in the world, and I think I might already be way in over my head. Fuck. I am. And now that she’s in my house, on my turf, I don’t know if I can let her walk away.
I don’t want her going back to that dump on campus.
I can’t let her be around those frat boy assholes.
I want her here. With me. To be mine and mine alone.
And I am not playing.
Not anymore.
She reaches through the window.
“Watch this for me?” she says as she hands me her strawberry milkshake.
I grip the steering wheel and feel a darkness slash through me. It’s sharper, more precise than a slinking panther’s claw.
I settle down into my seat, the smell of motor oil and leather and her scent mixing together into a dangerous combination, tipping my chin down to give her the go-ahead.
I just hope she knows what the fuck she is doing.
Because if she gives me an inch, I’m not just taking a mile. I’m taking everything.