Page 12 of Car Wash
The gatesto 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.”
