By the time I pulled into our block, I had already dropped the ride's volume to stealth. Silent enough to make even the nosiest neighbors think I was part of the wind. I rolled up to the curb and killed the engine.
I stepped out, shut the door, and tapped the hood.
"Behave."
I walked up the porch. I kicked off my sneakers, and headed straight for the living room.
May was on the couch. Feet up. One leg tossed over the other, robe half-open, tank top under it. She held the remote. Soap opera played on low. Some guy was kissing a woman while clearly staring at someone else. Drama written for bored divorcees.
She didn't turn when I stepped in.
"You are late."
"I was out."
"You always out," she said, flipping channels without looking.
"I was picking something up."
"What? Gonorrhea?"
I dropped onto the couch. "Worse. Responsibility."
She side-eyed me. "Did you get a girl pregnant?"
"No. Something better."
She paused. "Triplets?"
I grinned and tossed the keys at her lap. She caught them without breaking her stare at the TV.
"Whose car did you steal?"
"Mine."
She raised an eyebrow. Finally looked at me. "Yours?"
"Yup. Earned every penny."
May looked at the key fob. Then back at me. Then to the keys again like they were fake or cursed. "Didn't know online side hustles paid that well."
I rolled my eyes. "They do if you are good. And I am good. But it was not that expensive. Ten grand."
She gasped. "Ten? I hope you were not duped."
She got up and walked straight to the door like the car would vanish if she didn't see it herself. I followed. She yanked the door open and stood there, arms crossed under her robe, scanning the curb like she expected to see half of a car.
She took one look at the car parked against the curb and froze like she had walked into a surprise proposal. Blue Impala. It looked like something pulled from a mobster flashback with a few upgrades strapped on by a kid who liked to watch things explode.
"This thing looks like it rolled out of a crime scene," she muttered.
"It might have. But now it is mine."
May tapped the hood. Looked at the grill. Walked around back, then stopped at the driver-side mirror. She squinted at her reflection like the car might insult her back.
"This isn't ten grand," she said. "This is stolen drug dealer money."
I shrugged. "He gave it away after rehab."
She gave me a side-eye like she wanted to throw her slipper again. I stepped out of range.
She circled once more, slower this time. "It is clean."
"Told you. I am not dumb."
"That is debatable." She knocked the roof twice. "You get it checked?"
"Yes."
"Mechanic or porn addict with a wrench?"
"Same guy."
She gave me a tired look. "Let me guess. You plan to drive this to school?"
"Already picked out the parking spot."
May sighed. "You are gonna show up in this testosterone fossil?"
"Yeah."
"Are you trying to start a dick-measuring contest with rich kids?"
I grinned. "I already won."
She turned away from the car and headed back up the steps. "Just wait until I start charging you rent."
"I will pay in fuel."
"You will pay in pain if this breaks down in front of my house."
I followed her inside. The second the door shut, she pointed a finger at me without turning around.
"Insurance?"
"Already called."
"Registration?"
"Done."
She turned around. "You better not use this thing to sneak girls in."
"No promises."
She flicked the light switch. "If I catch a thong in the glovebox, I am torching it."
"Cool. I will just keep them in the trunk."
May sighed again. The kind of sigh that said she was too old for this, too tired to argue, and too invested to pretend she didn't care.
She grinned, walking to her room. "Let me try it. For safety of course."
I blinked once. "What the hell do you mean try it?"
"You bought a car. I am legally responsible for your ass. I get to see how it handles."
"You want to drive it?"
"Is that not what I just said?" she yelled back, already digging through the closet like the Impala had challenged her pride.
"Don't crash it," I muttered. "Or scratch it. Or breathe too hard near the paint."
"Relax, I drive better than you. Been doing it since before you had pubes."
I dropped onto the couch again, muttering something about legal loopholes. Few minutes later, she came out wearing jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and sunglasses like she was about to star in Supernatural. One that started with menopause and ended with a slapstick DUI.
Keys jingled in her hand. "Come on. You are riding shotgun. If this thing flips, I want someone to blame."
I sat next to her as she checked the mirrors. Her hands gripped the wheel, her foot hovered over the gas. She adjusted the rearview, tapped the side mirror, clicked her tongue twice, then finally looked at me. "Seatbelt."
I clicked it into place. She adjusted her own, cranked the engine, and the Impala rumbled awake like a sleeping beast that hated mornings. Her eyebrow twitched.
"This thing sounds angry."
"She is old."
She shifted into drive, rolled forward, turned onto the street, and started driving.
The first turn made the tires squeal. She muttered, "Feels heavier than it looks."
"It is a muscle car, not a bicycle."
We passed the corner shop, the one with the broken neon sign that always spelled "OPE" instead of "OPEN." The guy sweeping the front dropped his broom when we zipped past. His coffee followed. May grinned.
"Alright. I get it."
I leaned back, arms folded. "Say it."
She accelerated a little. The car roared, smooth and low. "It drives nice."
"Say it properly."
"Peter, you bought a decent car. There. Happy?"
"No. Add 'you are a mechanical genius.'"
"I would rather crash."
We rolled through two intersections, caught a green, turned again. A white Civic tried to cut us off, but May tapped the brake, let them pass, then floored it to overtake them before the next light. The Civic driver looked over, saw her behind the wheel, and did a double take like he expected to see a mobster instead.
May adjusted her sunglasses, lifted her chin. "This thing intimidates men. I like that."
We cruised through the main strip. She passed three stores, ignored four pedestrians, then parked in front of the dry cleaners like we had planned this detour.
"You picking something up?"
She cut the engine. "No. Just wanted to see how it turns in tight spots."
I checked the rearview. The angle was perfect. She had parallel parked in one smooth move.
"Alright," I said. "Now you are showing off."
She leaned back, unbuckled, and smiled without looking. "Learned to drive stick on a truck that had no brakes. Everything after that is ballet."
I raised both hands. "Respect."
She shoved the keys at me. "Your turn."
"You just started enjoying it."
"I proved my point. Now drive me home."
We switched. I slid behind the wheel. She climbed into the passenger seat, adjusted her seatbelt like she was preparing for a crash, then folded her arms.
"Don't embarrass me."
"Me? Never."
I started the engine. It rumbled again. We pulled away. I turned onto the main road. May reached for the radio.
"Please don't touch that."
"I want to hear something while we cruise."
I turned the volume down. "It isn't a cruise. It is a test drive. Serious business."
"Your business has subwoofers."
"Necessary."
She clicked through stations. Landed on one with old rock. She nodded along.
"Now it feels like a car."
I took a left, May rolled her window down halfway, and the wind messed up her hair. At the third light, May leaned over and flicked my ear. "Drive-thru. I want fries."
I turned toward the nearest fast-food strip, the one with grease fumes so thick they should be taxed as air pollution. She picked the burger place. Classic. I pulled up.
"Welcome to Dingo's, what can I get you?"
May leaned over me like she was the captain of this operation. "Two chicken burgers, one spicy. Large fries. Two sodas. Extra ketchup."
I added, "And Onion Rings. Always the onion rings. Never no to Onion Rings."
"Pull forward," the voice snapped.
I did.
The cashier was some underfed burnout with acne and a headset bigger than his job. He blinked at the car like he was trying to decide whether to flirt with it or ask for ID.
He took the cash. Handed us the bag like he wanted to throw it.
Next stop, taco joint. May said she wanted crunch. I parked close enough for the girl behind the glass to see her own reflection in the hood. Her name tag said "Lori," her eyes said "kill me," and her fake nails were clicking like Morse code for "I quit."
"Two crunchy," May ordered. "No beans. Add guac."
Lori blinked. Nodded. Gave us a tray like she was handing over contraband. May bit into one before we even pulled out.
I winced. "You did that on purpose. Right? Right? Don't drop sauce in my car."
May took another bite. Sauce dripped down the side of her taco, rolled off her finger, landed on the passenger seat. She looked at it. Then looked at me.
"Oops."
I slammed my head on the wheel. "That is black leather. Not a napkin. Not your ex's couch. Real leather. And that was guac. That stains like green regret."
She grabbed a napkin, dabbed it once, then tossed it on the floor like she had done enough. "Should not have given me food if you cared about the upholstery."
"You are lucky I have not installed ejector seats."
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You can read up to Chapter 101...
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