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.
“You’re amazing.” I lean over the table and kiss those lips. She tastes like syrup and secrets, ones she’s sharing with me.
Her blink is slow and suspicious. “You’re not gonna tell me I’m being reckless and stupid? That I have no business doing something so dangerous? That I should leave the racing to the big boys?”
That those questions are on the tip of her tongue tells me she’s heard them all before. This is a test, sure as shit.
I take another bite, letting her stew for a moment. “Reckless and stupid? That’s my idea of a fun Saturday night.” My grin grows and she smacks my shoulder.
“Asshole.” But she’s smiling, and I know that whatever she expected from me, that wasn’t it. “And it’s Tuesday.”
“Yeah, Saturdays are for reckless and stupid. Tuesdays are for crazy and illegal. And watch out for Thursdays . . .” I pause dramatically, and Erica’s smile tells me she’s on board with me. “That’s for secrets and sneaking around.”
“What about Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday?” Laughter is dancing in her eyes.
I break first, my laughter rough and rusty. “Shit, I don’t know. I’m making this stuff up as I go.”
She gets up, coming around the table to kiss me. “You surprise me, Brody Michael Tannen.”
I could say the same thing to her, but while it feels like a compliment to me, I think she’d take it as an insult. As much as she’s shared tonight, and as wild and outrageous as it sounds, I feel like she thinks it’s no big deal. Just another day, another engine, another hundred and thirty-eight mile an hour drive through the city.
So I keep my big, fat mouth shut tight as she grabs our plates and takes them to the sink.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower and wash the jail off me. Can you stay?”
“Yeah, I can stay.” I see her smile, though she turns quickly to hide it from me. It’s cute, and that’s not a word I’d ever use to describe Erica. It feels like another layer of hard-edged fierceness cracked away. I don’t know that she’s soft and sweet underneath all that armor, but I damn sure want to find out.
As soon as she’s gone to the bathroom, I text Mark.
Me: Late in the morning. Brutal’s handling goats.
Mark: This is Katelyn. Are you at Rix’s?
Me: <middle finger emoji>
Mark: I’ll let him know not to expect you. I like her. Do you like her?
I turn my phone to silent and do some Googling on rat rods. I’ve never heard the term before. I mean, NASCAR? Of course. Hot rods? Yeah. Drag racing? Yep. But if this is Erica’s hobby and I don’t want to look like a total dumbass, a little research seems in order. It’s not a thing, I tell myself. Just being friendly, that’s all.
I don’t believe me, either.
The bathroom door opens and Erica walks out, naked and soft-skinned. My eyes trace her body, loving the peaks of her brown nipples, the map of freckles I’m still memorizing, and the puffy pink lips peeking out between her thighs. She opens a drawer and puts on a pair of bikini panties.
That’s when I realize I’m about to get kicked out.
“I’m sorry, but I’m really tired. I’m probably gonna fall asleep before my head hits the pillow, Brody.” She yawns as she says it, and I can see the wear and tear tonight took on her. There are slight smudges under her eyes and a sense of weariness in the set of her shoulders.
“You’re in luck. It’s after midnight, so officially Wednesday, and I just decided that’s snuggles and cuddles day.” I smirk at my brilliance, and after a too-long pause where my heart doesn’t beat and I don’t breathe, she smiles back. It’s small, but I’m counting it.
“That shit usually work?”
I shrug noncommittally, even though my brow says ‘every damn time’.