Page 1 of Car Wash
Chapter One
Sarah
“Eyes up here, ladies!”Lacy, our sorority chapter president says, climbing onto a stack of old milk crates.
There are hollers and cheers around me as the excitement sets in.
It’s the sorority’s tenth annual charity carwash, and the sun’s already turning the parking lot into a griddle. It’s a hot August day, and we’ve got all of the buckets and hoses ready to go. The forecast says mid-nineties by lunch, and I’m already sweating.
“Listen up!” Lacy yells through a megaphone someone probably borrowed from the drama department. “A few things we need to go over. First of all, nothing indecent. This is not a titty bar. That means no dollar bills tucked into anything, no touching, no groping, no grabbing, none of it. You don’t get onto the hood of any cars and smoosh your boobs against the windshield.”
“So we can smoosh our boobs against the other windows?” my roommate Allison murmurs beside me.
I stifle a laugh and shake my head as Lacy rolls her eyes. “As a blanket statement, don’t do anything you wouldn’t do in front of your grandmother.”
A few groans ripple through the crowd.
“I mean it,” Lacy adds, scanning the group like a hawk. “We’re here to raise money to spruce up our house, not for bail.”
That gets a cheer. Our sorority house is cluttered, creaking, and in need of some major TLC. It’s an aesthetic disaster zone, a Pinterest board nightmare of mismatched drapes and competing posters in the hallway. One says, "Take a ride on the wild side," while the other says, "Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times.” I mean, which is it? Pick a lane.
“And with that,” Allison says, nudging me as she puts a bucket of water into my hands, “we’re one step closer to that reading nook you can’t stop talking about.”
Before I can reply, the soft rumble of an engine slices through the air behind us.
Lacy gasps and practically leaps off the milk crates, shoving the megaphone into someone’s arms.
“Looks like our first customer is here!”
I turn around to see a car turning into the parking lot.
“Whoa,” Allison says, sliding her sunglasses down her nose and peering over the top of them.
“Oh fuck,” one of the other girls whispers.
Somewhere in the background, as if the world has a sense of humor, “Back In Black” starts playing.
The car rolls into the lot in slow motion, the paint job basted in the hot morning sun, the driver hidden behind tinted windows until he kills the engine and pushes open the door.
Boot first, hitting the pavement like he has a grudge against it. Then a hand, strong and wide, fingers wrapping around the hot metal frame.
Then he stands.
And everything in me just…freezes.
John. My dad’s best friend.
I knew there was a possibility he’d show up today, but not like this.
Not stepping out of a car like this — all-black, low to the ground, with a matte finish that drinks in the light instead of reflecting it. It’s all clean lines that are muscular and smooth, sleek in a way that feels almost secretive. The whole thing seems primed to pounce, like a panther — dangerous, controlled.
And certainly not with broad shoulders filling out a crisp button-down, the sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that feels unfair.
Not with eyes that send heat straight between my legs.
I feel like someone cracked an egg on my chest and let it drip all the way down.
I grip the sponge in my hand tighter, pretending not to notice the flutter in my stomach or the way my thighs suddenly press together. I can feel every single bead of sweat trickle down the side of my neck, but it’s not from the sun anymore.
