“No, I didn’t,” he says dismissively. “In fact, the last time I did anything even resembling work on this car was the first day it got towed in here. I haven’t laid a finger on it since.”
Confusion rolls through me like a tidal wave, making me momentarily speechless. “Then how…?”
“Now that you mention it,” he adds, propping his fists on his hips. “Well, maybe you could do me a favor, actually.”
“A favor?” My laugh is full of disbelief. It’d have to be one hell of a favor.
He nods, leveling me with a look. “Give the kid a break, Miss. I don’t know what happened between you two. Probably, he did something stupid. Boys that age… we always do something stupid.” He squints down at the car, completely ignoring the way my face has paled. “But someone puts as much time and care into a car like this, the way he did? That’s not for nothing.”
I pull in a stinging breath. “Sebastian…?”
“Like I said,” Merle stuffs his rag into a pocket. “Give him a chance, would ya? He’s an idiot, but he’s a good kid. Worked on this girl for weeks. Seemed like every spare minute he had, he was in here under that hood. He could have fixed the mechanical parts and left it be, but…” He shakes his head, and I get the feeling this is an old disagreement between them.
“So we were right,” Vandy says, coming up beside me. “Sebastian did all this.”
Merle looks at her and shrugs. “From the spark plugs to the paint job. Contracted out some stuff he didn’t feel as confident about, but for the most part, you’re looking at his own labor here.”
Vandy jabs me with her elbow, wide eyes full of awe, but I’m still too stunned to speak, staring at the car in realization. I’d spent the last week convinced that the time and patience he’d spent with me was just a con—a way to wear me down and get between my legs. But this…
This doesn’t track.
Not only did he work on my car, but I know now that he prioritized it over Jasmine, who still has the self-inflicted dents and damage from the night of the race.
“Stubborn shit put a lot into this. Time, money, three of my tension wrenches, not to mention...” Merle gives me a meaningful look, but I don’t need him to fill in the blanks.
And love.
Merle’s right. Sebastian might enjoy restoring old cars, but no one does something like this—so painstakingly careful, thoughtful—for someone whose pants they’re just trying to get into.
Something like this can only be done out of love.
So much comes back in a rush. All the time he spent gaining the cats’ trust. The care he took for Abbadon and her kittens. The day he stopped the guys from spreading and sharing the video of Georgia. The way he used to touch me, like he was excited each time I got a little better. He bought me gifts, sure, but things he knew I needed. He was kind. Generous. I glance inside and see the new, upgraded seat belts, remembering something else he is.
Protective.
Sebastian is a lot of things, but most of all, he’s a protector.
Merle hands me the keys, complete with a shiny Mustang keychain, but I barely feel the weight of them in my hands. The awareness spreads through me like a gust of warmth. Sebastian Wilcox would only hurt me for one reason.
To protect me from something else.
It doesn’t take much convincing to get Mr. Lee’s special permission to spend all night in the lab. In fact, all it takes is the sight of me, bursting into the room and collecting the folder—the one with the negatives of Sebastian—for him to pretty much give me access to whatever I need.
He looks infuriatingly satisfied about it all.
It’s a long night that I spend more caffeinated than usual, but I only have one day to get everything ready. Although I’m fine with digital compositing, I’ve been aptly informed that a lot of the fine arts recruiters are big ole hipsters. My main piece is too important to risk it, and I do want to show my aptitude with digital skill sets, so I’m leaving that one for last.
The three really good ones from the car shows remain—Jasmine, the overpass, and a shot of twelve random-looking kids, all hanging out in front of the brick façade of the mall. In it, Vandy is talking to Reynolds. Emory and Ben are laughing about something. Afton and Elana are bickering with Carlton. Tyson and Caroline are huddled around her phone, looking pensive. Georgia and Aubrey are both looking up at a spray of distant fireworks that might not be in the shot, but I remember so vividly in my mind, I can still hear the sharp crack.
Sebastian, who holds a cigarette between finger and thumb, is staring straight ahead at the camera.
At me.
He’s not the focus of the shot. He’s off to the side, trapped between Elana and Carlton, the only one who looks still, as if he’s waiting.
There are almost too many to choose from for my last four slots. I spend a lot of time going back and forth. There’s a minor breakdown at three in the morning when my mask for a shot of Sebastian, reflection distorted by the ripples in his pool, completely falls apart.
Despite the nerves and pressure and overwhelming amount of self-doubt, I have to admit that it’s good to look at these pictures again. The sight of him from that night down in the dungeon, eyes soft and sure as he gazes up from my chest, is easily one of my best.
It’s going to be one of the worst to show, too.
By five, I’m finally back in my dorm, apologizing to Georgia when the glow of my laptop monitor briefly stirs her from slumber. I only have four hours before I need to start setting up my wall in the gym. Luckily, the last photo is the easiest, being digital. But it’s also the hardest to look at.
I’d taken the picture through the bonfire. Sebastian’s face is staring through it, back at the camera. It’s as if he’s been engulfed by the flames. The first time I saw it, I thought he looked like a demon, with those piercing, unnaturally bright eyes of his. Plus, the look on his face, something intensely private, like he’s been caught in a moment of weakness he doesn’t want to admit.
But when I open up the file, I find that he doesn’t look like a demon at all.
He looks like a god.
I’m harried and exhausted as I nervously supervise the couple of seniors hanging my photos. I don’t know them, but they don’t look too excited to be here at nine on a Saturday morning, so I try to make it easy for them.
The gym has been transformed for the showcase. There are two rows of slanted walls with a large aisle between them. They’ve been set up so that each display is as contained as possible. From my own designated wall, I can’t see anyone else’s photos. The special lights that have been installed shine a touch too brightly for my liking, so I make a mental note to bring something that tones that down.
Unlike some of the others, I don’t have a big fancy display going on. I have an order and placement. Beyond that, I want the work to speak for itself.
A few of the others are milling around—I see a couple people have draped sheer fabric over their cubbies, battling the brightness issue—but everyone seems too distracted to talk much. Still too nervous to really stand back and look at my own, I take a moment to go scope out everyone’s stuff.
Micha and Michaela are too young to have nabbed a spot in the showcase, but they’re still represented. Near the back is a single wall, filled with pieces from the club. There are some pieces that are probably really nice, but because I haven’t slept more than twenty minutes in two days, I barely process them.