Page 13 of Car Wash
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.
