Page 8 of Challenge Me

I guided your hand toward the ignition, expecting resistance, and was pleasantly surprised when you let me lead you, your breath growing shallower as my fingers slipped over your hand, confirming once and for all that I had been right about you. I knew what you needed.

You needed me. You needed power.

I could give it to you.

We turned the key together, and my engine roared in response, my entire frame trembling with a wave of ecstasy. The sound filled the garage, deep, violent, and alive, rolling through the concrete floor and up through your body. I drank greedily, the slightly stale fuel spreading to my engine, pistons firing, building up power; after sitting for weeks, my engine block was cold and deafening, eager to snap loose and feel the heat of movement at last.

And all you had to do was ask me to unleash it.

You hesitated once again, but this time only for a moment; your foot pressed lightly against my accelerator, listening to my revs climb with each cautious tap. You inhaled deeply, leaning against my wheel, feeling me out in a way I could endure with some patience, though not for too long.

I listened to your heartbeat against the curve of my wheel; it was steady but slow, too slow for my liking. I was almost offended by how unbothered you were by me. I’d expected fear, excitement, something loud enough to match the roar moving through my frame. Instead, you sat there breathing with infuriating discipline, your face controlled, your posture precise, as though the simple act of remaining calm had become a game you refused to lose.

It was frustrating, maddening, but I understood.

You weren’t scared of me. You were afraid of losing control. A car like me needed a whole lot of trust, and you were reluctant to give it over.

So I had to earn it.

“Al said I needed to relax,” you muttered, finally easing your rigid posture enough to lean back against my chest. The contact startled me more than it should have, but I embraced you immediately, my leather drinking in your warmth.

“He’s not wrong,” I answered, my fingers caressing your arm. “You’re stiffer than my suspension.”

You laughed, and even your laughter sounded restrained, careful. You were never like that with Al. Around him, your laughter flowed easily, bright as music. With me, it still felt formal, rehearsed.

I took that as a challenge, a wall to break down with all the patience and persistence of classic American muscle.

What I didn’t realize was that you had more than one challenge in store for me that night.

You had prepared for the drive, producing a cassette tape from your pocket. I was immediately intrigued; music mattered to me. Back when I’d first rolled off the assembly line and prowled suburban streets at midnight, it had been called rock. Now they call it classic rock.

They call me classic now, too, which did unpleasant things to my ego. But nothing made me feel older than the sound that exploded through my speakers the moment the tape clicked into place. A violent electronic pulse rattled through my frame, every synthetic beat vibrating offensively through my speakers, so loud it drowned out my cold–start engine.

DTS!

DTS DTS!

I was horrified. A Dodge Challenger was not built to be driven to–

DTS!

DTS DTS!

What even were these noises? Where were the instruments? The guitar solos? The soul? Where was the long, dirty opening riff that told a man in a leather jacket that he was about to make several poor decisions and enjoy every one of them?

This was not music. This was a medical emergency! Who could relax to this screeching, relentless assault?

You, apparently.

I stared in a mix of horror and awe as you finally took a deep enough breath to shed the rigid persona you were wearing. No longer the strung-out and stiff academic, you let me have a glimpse of the real you, hidden under responsibility and etiquette and all that exhausting self-control.

Unfortunately, the real you had simply appalling taste in music.

I was a patient car, but some things could not be forgiven. I flicked a switch from the cassette player to the radio. Classic Rock.

Your eyes widened. “I beg your finest pardon?” You demanded, agog at my audacity.

“You cannot act all prim and proper about my music,” I said, deeply offended. “Not after making me listen to whatever crime against sound that was.”