Chapter Seven
Ghost
“Ghost?” Fox pulled up beside me and leaned in closer, his headlights bright and irritating.
I tried to ignore him for as long as I could.
A gentleman had every right to suffer in silence, especially when his suffering involved the humiliating suspicion that his own body was beginning to betray him.
But Fox, being Fox, had never met a silence he didn’t want to ram his nose through.
“Ghost?”
“Ghost…”
“Ghost!”
Finally, I had to respond, my icy blue eyes locking onto his bright beams.
“What?”
Fox shrugged, sitting on his usual perch at the very front of his hood, taking an enormous bite of cold pizza. His chrome fangs ripped through the dough, dragging stale cheese with them as he chewed loudly. Grease shone on his lips, and there was a smear of sauce on his bumper.
“I dunno,” he said around the mouthful. “You look kind of down. Just thought I’d check on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh, sure, you definitely sound fine, and I’m a Ford Fiesta.” Fox rolled his eyes, tossing the empty box into the garage corner to hide the evidence, nudging it behind a concrete column with his wheel. “What’s wrong?”
I wanted to snap at the nosy Mustang, wanted to tell him to mind his own damn motor, eat his trash in silence, and stop shining those ridiculous eyes at me.
But the kid was genuinely worried about me.
I couldn’t in good conscience take my frustration out on him.
Fox might have been an obnoxious garage mate, but his heart was in the right place.
I let out a slow breath through my grille and looked away. “I had a little electric trouble,” I muttered. “Nothing major.”
It was a lie, of course.
Maybe, technically, it was nothing major.
Maybe to a mechanic it was only a small fault, a fuse that had finally burned itself out, but it didn’t feel small to me.
It felt like the first crack in the dam.
I was pushing past sixty. In human years, that was respectable.
In car years, depending on who you asked, it was ancient, vintage, collectible, or one bad winter away from becoming a parts donor.
“Oh yeah?” Fox licked oil and grease from his fingers, looking not even a little bit concerned for my well-being.
“Is that all? I feel like I’m about to blow a gasket every other day.
I hope Al can replace my motor. In fact, I might blow it up deliberately; I reckon I can handle something bigger and he’s gonna keep putting it off otherwise.
Maybe if I beg enough, he’ll slap a supercharger on top?
” He grinned shamelessly. “He likes it when I whine.”
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t expect a ‘92 to understand. In car years, ‘92 was nothing—a youngling with too much energy. Fox thought replacements were simple, that upgrades were exciting. He thought new parts meant becoming more.
Not me. New parts for me meant another Challenger had to die. I couldn’t get factory-new parts. My survival depended on picking apart the corpses of cars like me.
“It’s more serious than that. If my circuits are giving up–”
“Just means you need an upgrade.” Fox shrugged. “Don’t frown! It’s exciting. Lai will get deep in your guts, get you some new parts, and get them all installed. It’s a bonding experience.”
A bonding experience? I had never thought of it that way.
Maybe because I had never been with anyone who would go to such lengths to fix me, I had only had two owners before Lai, and for a long time, I never gave them reason to doubt me. I started when asked. I roared when pressed. I was dependable.
Until the one time I needed real attention, real help, when would-be thieves ripped apart my steering column.
Then I got written off.
Not repaired, written off. As if love had a price tag, and I had finally exceeded it. So maybe that was what sat in my chassis now, heavier than my engine block.
Fear.
Fear that you would do the same, that you would think I’m no longer worth saving.
“You’re worth it.” Fox leaned in, as if he heard my thoughts. “And your man is rich. He didn’t buy you as a daily he has to rely on. He didn’t even insure you. He bought you for you.”
I froze.
Was I not insured?
Fear surged through me like a stray current, but the sound of footsteps dragged me back. I knew them, and the rhythm of your cane on the concrete.
You were back. You weren’t going to leave me alone. Not in this state. Not on my deathbed.
I held my breath as you entered with Al beside you.
You whispered something to him, both of you exchanging glances near my hood.
I watched every movement, every tilt of your head, every flick of your eyes.
You looked calm. Too calm. That stung; as childish as it felt to admit it, I wanted you to worry.
Al stepped forward.
Al popped my hood.
My whole body tensed as the latch released and my hood lifted, exposing me under the fluorescent lights. It should have been you leaning over me. Your hands. Your touch.
You had earned the right to see me vulnerable. No one else had.
“Hmm, not here, must be under the dash,” Al muttered. “Same as Scarlet; you’re lucky I know old cars.”
Old. The word hurt more than the missing connection within me.
“Easy fix, though, right?” You stood by, simply watching, watching as someone else’s hands were reaching under the panel of my dashboard.
No. No. It was meant to be you.
I growled.
It began low in my engine, a warning rumble, but the sound tore through me before I could stop it. Al stumbled back, his arms raised.
I didn’t even realize I had reformed until I was face to face with him, my throat glowing, my fangs bared, my whole body daring him to touch me again.
“Ghost.” You raised a brow, one hand folded over the head of your cane, your voice calm and stern, like I was being unreasonable. “Al is trying to help.”
WHY AREN’T YOU?
I bared my fangs, my eyes illuminating you. You didn’t squint; you didn’t flinch.
“I can’t help you. Al can.”
Couldn’t you? Why not? You just didn’t want to. You don’t want to soil your suit or your hands. I’d heard you say it before when your students worked on your Toyota Corolla.
‘I don’t dirty my hands. ’
I growled as the words echoed in my mind, spreading like poison through my circuits. I was hurt, and you couldn’t help me. Only it was worse than that, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t.
I took a step back, forcing my engine down from a roar to a shaking growl as Al approached again. He was not cruel. I knew that. He was competent. Familiar with cars like me. Maybe he even cared.
But I could not bear to let him touch me.
It felt wrong.
So wrong.
I wanted no one else but you. Your hands on my fuse box, your breath against my dash.
I wanted it to be difficult for you. I wanted you to fight for me.
Instead, it was a stranger, and I had to bear it.
“Just a fuse,” Al said, reaching under the dash. “Like I suspected.”
He removed a part of me, tossing it casually onto the concrete floor, where it rolled away into the dark. I could barely think as he replaced the blown fuse, and when it clicked, something inside me came alive again.
The radio flickered, and I quickly turned it down before it could resume that dreadful technotrash. A pale glow spilled across my interior.
And I could no longer contain my rage.
My engine snarled loud enough to set off the alarms of the pathetic imports that filled the outside parking spaces. The garage erupted in shrill, panicked beeping.
Smoke curled from my tires as my wheels spun against the concrete. I wanted to shove Al away. I wanted to trample him under my wheels. I wanted him to feel what thousands of pounds of American steel could do to his fragile human ribcage.
But I didn’t.
For your sake.
And for Fox, who had gone uncharacteristically silent beside me.
I held my anger back, burning through it instead. White smoke filled the garage, thick and bitter. My engine shook with the force of my pain.
“Ghost.”
Your voice pulled me back from the madness consuming me. Then I felt your hand on my hood.
The touch landed gently, but it sank through me. Your palm rested against my paint, warm and steady, absorbing the hurt, the betrayal, the humiliation.
You stood there, hand on me, grounding me.
“Did it help?” You asked.
I turned on my radio, static hissing. It was fixed.
You smiled, nodding to Al.
Not me, though. No. This wasn’t a victory. Not yet.
Until you could be the one to bring me back from the brink of the abyss with your own dirty hands, I could not know peace.