Challenge Me (Brake Me #2)

Chapter One

Ghost

I was not so sure the bumper sticker now clinging to my paint was helping my image. It was insultingly neon pink.

I stared at it.

*~*Hot girls hit curbs*~*

Surely, I thought, there had been some mistake. I stared at you as you admired your handiwork, your eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, while the shame of your vandalism clung to my body in cheerful pink bubble letters.

You reached for another sticker. I could not see what it said from that angle, but I assumed it was something equally humiliating. Something with sparkles, or a heart, or a phrase involving the word “slay,” which I understood only as something one did to enemies, not as a lifestyle.

“No.” The word left me before I could dress it up with manners, and my hands seized yours, holding them at arm’s length.

I didn’t care that this was out of line.

You were my new owner after all, and I understood the imbalance of power.

You had bought me. You had paid for me. You had every legal right to do with me what you wanted.

But I knew my worth, and a man–car, spirit, machine, whatever damn thing I was–had to have standards.

“No?” You echoed, as if the concept of rejection was something new to you. Your brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering at the corners of your mouth, but I was not going to be charmed out of my position, not on this.

I shook my head. “No stickers. No wrap.”

Your eyes widened. You looked genuinely hurt, which almost made me feel bad. Almost.

Then I remembered there was a neon confession of curb-related incompetence stuck to my ass, and my sympathy dried up like rain on hot asphalt.

I relaxed my grip on your wrist, withdrawing my shadow back into my frame with all the dignity I could gather, and opened my door for you with a controlled click. “If you worry about curbs, we can go for another driving lesson.”

You froze, hands hovering mid-reach for the golden handle of your cane.

And, there it was. That hesitation, that tension in your body, the faint change in your expression, the way your gaze slipped away from mine. I was waiting for the rejection. I was used to it now, even if I hated it.

We hadn’t left the garage since that first day together. You always came to visit me, but that made the rejection worse, not better. You came, you talked, you touched my door, my hood, my wheel, but you never took me out.

Sometimes you arrived with papers tucked beneath your arm and leaned against my fender while you talked to Al, and we’d watch as he and Fox drove away into the night before you’d bid me a stiff farewell and vanish back upstairs, leaving me to my doubts and fears.

Had I upset you on our singular first drive together?

I tried to remember every minute of it, replaying it over and over, looking for where I’d fumbled, but I couldn’t see it; I’d simply taken charge, taken control, and you had liked it, I was sure of it.

I remembered that first drive too clearly to doubt myself.

So I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t take me up on the offer now, leaving my door hanging open and the driver’s seat empty.

“Not today.” You forced a smile, glancing away. “I have classes, but maybe the weekend?”

◆◆◆

The weekend. I nursed your answer for days, resentfully watching as each one ticked over like miles on the odometer.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.

You came to see me every night, updating me on idle gossip.

Students. Lessons. Reports. Meetings. The approaching end of the world.

All very important to you, I was sure, but none of it excused the fact that I was sitting in the garage with brand-new wheels and nowhere to take you.

John–my owner before you–would never have left me waiting like you were.

But John wasn’t here, and all I had left now was you.

I could wait. Patience was something I was good at. Old cars knew patience.

But patience is a noble thing only when envy is not there to sour it, and Fox– the little 1992 Fox Body Mustang with whom I’d become wary friends at the impound lot–was there every day, parked beside me.

Chatting. Stretching out in his own strange way, all shadow and yellow eyes and smug little Fox Body confidence.

I listened as he told me about his adventures, about the places he visited with Al, about the meaningless errands they went on together. He talked about late-night drives and fast food, about stupid conversations at red lights, about Al’s bad singing, about corners taken too quickly.

Then I watched Al himself come down every night, keys in hand, and an eager smile on his lips as he climbed into Fox.

Every night, without fail, Fox was chosen.

I hated how much I noticed it. There was no hesitation, no shameful little excuses. Al arrived. Fox unlocked. They left. It was that simple.

The weekend came and went.

I sat beside Fox, polished and waiting and silent, while he and Al’s routine played out day after day, each one more painful to witness than the last, until Fox noticed my silence.

“Hey, Ghost.”

I looked down at him from where I was sitting on my hood. I had to force myself not to lash out at the sound of my name on his lips, the pitying tone, the worry in it. The last thing I needed was sympathy from a Ford.

Fox was stretched over his own hood, completely at ease, his Game Boy chirping repetitive music that was grating enough to chip paint. “You okay?” He asked, leaning in closer to me.

I frowned at that. I am a Dodge Challenger. We are not easily broken. Not by time, not by bad roads, not by rust, and certainly not by something as minor as waiting for one stubborn man to stop avoiding the thing he clearly wanted.

Fox, by sheer virtue of being a Mustang, was relentless and impatient.

Ignoring my silence, he prodded, poked. He asked if it was the sticker on my rear that was bothering me.

Asked if my engine was making a funny noise.

He pretended not to be worried while staring at me with his high beams. I tried ignoring him, but it didn’t work.

Fox seemed to interpret silence as an invitation to continue.

“Ghost?”

“I’m fine,” I hissed.

Fox blinked slowly. “You said that like somebody who is absolutely not fine.”

I felt guilt on top of my irritation. “I said I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s avoiding me!” I finally snapped, folding my arms and looking away, pretending the confession had cost me nothing. “There. Are you satisfied?”

I fully expected Fox to laugh, to tease. Instead, he shifted closer and reached out to touch my hand. The gesture was awkward, but not unkind.

“Lai’s probably just, you know…”

I did not know. Was there some obvious fact I was oblivious to? The thought irritated me. “He’s what?”

Fox shrugged, stretching out over his hood to reach my fingers with his. “He’s probably intimidated by you.”

I’m glad my engine wasn’t running right then, because the shock of what Fox was suggesting would have caused a rather humiliating stall. I shifted closer to the edge of my long hood, leaning toward Fox. Demanding answers. “Explain.”

Fox chuckled, taking his hand back and picking up his Game Boy again, mercifully flicking off the sound. “I mean, look at her.”

I followed his finger to the dark corner of the garage, knowing what I’d see without having to look.

Lai’s first car–his only car before me, as I understood–was an old Toyota Corolla.

Once a victim of neglect, she was rather pleased with herself now; she had a new wide-body kit freshly installed and painted, her heavy seats removed and replaced with race seats, and expensive tools arranged around her like offerings at an altar.

Students came to work on her every day. You made it an “extra credit” activity.

Whatever that meant. I suspected it meant free labor disguised as education.

“What about her?” I muttered.

“Look at her!” Fox laughed. “She’s a tiny wee thing, only taking up one parking space. Now look at you.”

I stared at the lines around me. Two on either side, one underneath. But it wasn’t my fault that this park was stenciled to fit bikes at best! Maybe those Japanese imports were too timid to take up space.

I sat back with a frown, and realization hit me like an eighteen-wheeler truck.

You were like me.

You and I were not meant to tuck ourselves neatly between painted lines and apologize for the extra room we needed. We were not built for quiet corners. We were not made to be practical, convenient, sensible little things.

You were not avoiding me because I was too different.

You were avoiding me because I was too familiar.

I leaned back against my windscreen, frowning as the thought settled deep in my frame.

Fox glanced up from his game. “You’re doing the dramatic silence thing again.”

I ignored him.

You and I, Lai, were two parts of the same whole.

I just had to figure out how to prove to you that I could complete you.