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“You don’t need the mattress and box spring,” he pointed out, and T.J. and Luna began hooting with laughter. T.J. got five bucks from her purse and slapped it in Luna’s hand.
“Told you,” Luna crowed.
Jaine narrowed her eyes at them. “You’ve been betting on my love life,” she accused.
“Yes, and I have to say, I’m disappointed in you,” T.J. said, trying for a severe tone. She was still laughing, so the attempt didn’t quite come off. “I thought you’d hold him off for at least another couple of weeks.”
“She couldn’t resist me,” Sam said smugly, pouring himself another glass of tea.
“I felt sorry for him,” Jaine corrected. “All that whining and begging. It was pitiful.”
His grin promised retribution. She felt a thrill of anticipation. She might have to make love with him, oh, three or four times to soothe his hurt feelings. What a sacrifice!
She loved the way he was so comfortable with her friends. He sat down at the table and helped them plan the wake, though his contribution was, “Beer and popcorn. What more do you need at a wake?” Which proved he had no understanding of women and food.
After T.J. and Luna left, they went out to move her dad’s car from her garage to his. As he helped her fold the tarp back and uncover the little silver bullet of a car, he said, “Do you have the keys with you?”
She fished them out of her jeans pocket and dangled them in front of his eyes. “Wanna drive?”
“Are you trying to suck up to me, to make up for that crack about whining and begging?”
“No, I planned on making that up to you later.”
He grinned and swiped the keys out of her hand. “Oh, man,” he sighed as he toed off his shoes and swung one long leg over the door, then the other, and slid down into the driver’s seat. The little car fit him like a glove. He ran his hands over the steering wheel. “How did you say your dad got it?”
“He bought it, back in 1964, but he had an ‘in.’ You know: ‘Built by Shelby, Powered by Ford.’ Dad was on the production team that developed the motor. He fell in love with the car. Mom was furious with him for spending so much money on a car when they had a baby—Shelley—and needed to buy a house with more space. Only a thousand of them were built. One thousand and eleven, to be exact. So now Dad has one of the original Cobras, and it’s worth more than they paid for their house.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the Viper sitting in her driveway. “Your dad isn’t the only one who spends a fortune on cars.”
“I’m a chip off the old block. Besides, I bought the Viper used, so it isn’t like I shelled out the full sixty-nine grand for it. I lived off Hamburger Helper and tuna casserole for three years to pay for it.”
He shuddered. “But it’s paid for, right?”
“Free and clear. I couldn’t have afforded the house if I still had to make those car payments. It’s Dad’s fault I bought it, anyway.”
“How’s that?”
She nodded at the Cobra. “What do you think he used to teach me to drive?”
Sam looked aghast. “He let a beginner drive it?”
“That’s how he taught us all how to drive. He said if we could handle the Cobra, we could handle anything. But Shelley and David didn’t really have the knack for it, they were more comfortable in Mom’s Lincoln. Some people like comfort over speed, I guess.” Her expression said she didn’t understand it, but accepted it anyway.
“Jesus.” He was actually pale at the thought of three untutored teenagers behind the wheel of this car.
“Dad hates my Viper,” she confided, then grinned. “Part of it is because it isn’t a Ford, but he really, really hates that the Viper has him beat at top-end speed. The Cobra has faster acceleration, but over any distance I can catch him.”
“You’ve been racing?” he bellowed, looking as if he would jump out of the car.
“Just to see what the horses could do,” she assured him. “And it wasn’t street racing. We went to a test track.”
He closed his eyes. “You and your dad are a lot alike, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone as filled with horror as if he had just discovered they were typhoid carriers.
“Yeah, you’ll like him.”
“I can’t wait.”
When Luna arrived at her apartment, she was startled to see Shamal King sitting on the floor beside the door. He stood up when he saw her, and she stopped in her tracks, irrational fear flooding her. Shamal was big and well-muscled. For a terrified instant she thought he—but that was impossible. The killer was a blond, a white man. She swallowed, weak from panic and relief, one following so closely on the heels of the other.
