And there she is.
Black. Low. Mean. She looks like she could break hearts and laws in the same breath.
Hell, she’s gorgeous.
It’s the kind of car that makes your heart skip a beat because you know the second you turn the key, it’ll roar like it’s alive.
My grandmother would’ve risen from the grave just to nod approvingly and then drop dead again from the awe. She taught me cars better than I learned my own alphabet. I surpassed her by eleven.
I circle it once, quick. The rear bumper’s dented, the front left tire’s bald, and the paint’s got enough swirl marks to tell me the owner doesn’t know jack about keeping a car this pretty. Shameful… but salvageable.
And she runs. I know, because she was parked three spots down last time I passed through.
I set my toolbox down and grab the socket set—
—and someone speaks behind me.
“You lost, pretty boy?”
I freeze.
Definitely a woman. Which is alarming only because the universe almost never hands me luck this nicely wrapped. A car like thisanda girl?
I turn slowly, keeping my hand low on the wrench. My grandmother always said: You can tell everything you need to know about someone from their first three words.
This one just called me “pretty boy” with the vocal equivalent of a switchblade—flirt or mugging? Fifty-fifty. I can live with both.
She’s leaning against the collapsed garage frame like she owns the whole block, one boot propped up, arms tucked easy into a leather jacket that has absolutely seen hands, teeth, and god knows what else. Her hair’s dark and chopped uneven, the kind of cut you give yourself in a gas station bathroom with a pair ofstolen scissors. There’s a knife clipped to her belt and a smirk on her mouth that makes it clear she knows how to use both.
She’s definitely… pretty. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s the Camaro’s spirit or something.
“Depends who’s asking,” I say, sliding her my best grin.
She tilts her head, eyes running over me. I don’t see the color of them, but they’re sharp. She’s no princess in distress, that’s for damn sure. More like an alley cat.
“The name’s Lark,” she says, pushing off the frame. “And this beauty you’re ogling?” She nods toward the Camaro. “She’s mine.”
I arch a brow. That’s… something. Most people who saythis is my carreally meanthis is the car I hover near so people assume it’s mine. She doesn’t have the posture of a pretender though. Her hands are loose, stance casual, like she’s not trying to convince anybody.
Could still be stolen. She seems the type.
Alright, I’ll bite.
“You keeping her out in the rain like this is a crime,” I say, crouching down and tapping the sidewall. “And this?” One knuckle to the bald patch. “Feels like abuse.”
“You always insult people’s rides?”
“When they deserve it.”
She steps closer, boots splashing through puddles, smell of fuel and wind and something scorched drifting with her. Definitely not a poser’s perfume.
“What’s your name?”
My name could be anything for a girl like her. I’ve worn a dozen aliases when it served me. Fisher’s best man. Some made-up street legend. Hell, I could hand her any version of myself and she’d have no way to prove it wasn’t true.
But I don’t.
I don’t know why I don’t. Maybe because she’s watching so sharply, and it’s nice to look at? Wouldn’t want to turn it into a frown.
