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I knew she wouldn’t get rid of me. Well, I hoped she wouldn’t.
“I think you’ve had a rougher night than me. If it’s all right, let me feed you?”
Her smirk grows. “Let me guess . . . pancakes?”
“Fuck yeah, Lil Bit.”
Pancakes and beer are a weird combination, but carbs and alcohol are probably exactly what she needs.
She sits down at the small table, leaving me to have at her kitchen. I can feel her eyes following me to the fridge and back to the counter. I know where the mixing bowls and skillet are, so I make myself at home. Within minutes, I’m setting a plate down in front of her.
After a few bites and with an eye roll, she gives in. “Fine, twist my arm already, Cowboy. I got arrested for excessive speed. Officer Miles probably would’ve let me off with a warning, but he was training a new rookie tonight so he had to go by the books.”
I swallow the last bite I took, giving myself a moment to process, because her confessing to me is a big trust. Even more than the fact that she called me, not Emily, her parents, or Reed. That was a necessity for some reason, but this? Her openly and willingly sharing is something I think Erica Cole doesn’t do easily or often, and I’m gonna wallow like a happy pig in slop that she chose to do it with me.
Even after getting the pancakes to my belly, all I manage to do is repeat what she said. “You got arrested for excessive speed?” Erica nods affirmatively. I remember Emily saying there’s a Cole family trait to have a lead foot. “Not a ticket, but arrested? Shit, woman, how much over were you going?” The question comes out reflexively, even though I’m trying damn hard not to pry.
“More than double.” She sounds casual as hell about it, the shrug in her tone even if her shoulder doesn’t move.
Breadcrumbs, breadcrumbs, all she’s giving me are breadcrumbs. But I want every one of them, following along her trail to see where it leads.
“So what, you hit a hundred and they went hardcore on you?”
She levels me with a withering look, but I don’t know what I said wrong. “Miles said he clocked me at one thirty-four. Though I disagree. Speedometer said one thirty-eight.”
My beer goes down the wrong pipe when I inhale sharply. I cough and sputter, swiping at the small spray that covers my lips. “Holy. Fuck. You were going a hundred and thirty-four miles an hour down an open road?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “No, Cowboy. Listen carefully. One. Thirty. Eight. If you knew what I had to do to that engine to get those four more miles per hour, you wouldn’t be discounting them so easily, but I wasn’t even topped out.”
I try to wrap my brain around that type of speed. I’m no granny out for Sunday drives when I hit the highway, but I’ve never driven that fast. Not even close. I can’t imagine that much power at the touch of a toe.
“Wait, what were you driving? Your truck won’t do that.”
Mischief blossoms in her eyes, her excitement palpable. “My rat rod. Eighty-four Ford Mustang.”
I get the feeling she just mic-dropped me. I have no idea why.
“What’s a rat rod?” I’m still trying to make some semblance of sense here.
Her face looks like I just asked her what that big ball of fire in the sky is. “Like a hot rod under the hood, but the outside isn’t all fancy like the cars we saw at the show. My rod’s navy and rust, loud as hell—should’ve gotten a ticket for that too.” She puts a finger to her lips, telling me to keep quiet about that. “But it’s all about what’s under the hood. She’s totally custom, gutted and rebuilt with my own two hands. She’s got a 426 Hemi that I’ve tweaked. I’d have stayed Ford loyal and put a 385 in there, but I couldn’t find one.”
I blink, and she rambles on. “She’s not the usual ratter, way too new for that. But I like it because it’s what my dad had when he married my mom. It was their honeymoon getaway car, beer cans rattling behind them and everything. Foxy reminds me of those pictures and their smiling faces.”
Even though I barely understand what she’s saying, I’m starting to get a picture here, something bigger and deeper than her fixing up Bessie’s transmission.
“You’re like one of those car guys on TV, aren’t you? Making something from nothing.”
She buffs her dirty nails on her coveralls, not even feigning modesty. “Something like that. Except those shows are staged, edited, and dramatized. I make good cars great and fast cars faster.”
It’s not even a humble brag. It sounds like it’s the God’s honest truth, straight from her lips. Maybe her most important truth, and she gave it to me, trusted me with it.
