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I’d sacrifice anything.
I don’t care if I fuck my leg up beyond all recognition and never walk again, Mila isn’t going to lose this baby. Not if I can help it.
I realize that I might not be rational about all of this, but after the childhood I had, I must be given some slack. I’m not always rational.
I’m restless and even though the whiskey and muscle relaxers have taken the edge off, I still feel the pain. I rub at it, and climb to my feet, and limp out to the garage.
I scan the darkness, and in the last slot, my baby sits.
Danger, my ‘69 Charger.
I walk through the darkness and when I get to her, I pull her tarp off. She still gleams, midnight black, and I drop into her driver’s seat. She’s mint condition, and fuck, I love this car.
It brings back so many memories, of the life I had before, of meeting Mila, of times after that, when Mila and I would roar down the highway on hour-long drives. Her hand would be on my leg, and her hair would be blowing out the open window.
I smile at the memory.
I’ve been so blessed, so very fortunate.
I would’ve died years ago in this very car if it hadn’t been for Mila.
She’d called the ambulance that saved my life.
I sprawl in the seat, and sit half in, and half out of the car. It smells like old leather in here, and it’s so very familiar. As soon as my knee is healed, I’m going to drive this car.
Fuck being driven.
I listen to the radio for a bit, and then I’m startled by a voice.
“Mr. Tate?”
Jesus, is Natasha going to turn up everywhere I go?
“Hi, Natasha.”
She bends down so she can see me.
“Are you ok?”
“Yes. I was… reminiscing.”
“Maybe you should go to bed,” she suggests. “You’re going to be so tired tomorrow.”
I stare at her. “Did you boss my grandfather around, too?”
She’s sheepish now. “I took care of your grandfather, yes. He liked it that way.”
The way she says that strikes me oddly. “You didn’t… I mean, you and he weren’t…”
She visibly shrinks back. “Oh, my lord. No. I viewed him like a father. That’s all. I wanted to take care of him because he worked so hard and rarely took care of himself.”
“Calm down,” I tell her, and I can’t help but smile. The whiskey and muscle relaxers have made me zen. More so than I’ve been in awhile. “I didn’t mean any offense.”
She stiffens her shoulders. “Being with Mr. Alexander wouldn’t be an insult,” she tells me. “It would be an honor.”
“He was fifty years older than you,” I point out.
She shrugs.
