But my mouth answers before my brain catches up.
“Yeah. I’m the guy.”
And just like that, I trade rent money for trouble wrapped in black lace. Guess I’ve made worse deals.
She studies me, like she’s weighing how full of shit I am. I’d say half and half. But she’s not exactly transparent either.
“You fix her,” Lark says, “and maybe I’ll let you take her for a spin.”
Are we still talking about the car here?
Maybe.
That’s so vague only a fool would agree.
Still, my grin widens. Can’t help it.
“Maybe?” I echo. “Thought girls like you knew how the world works.”
Her eyes gleam. “And I thought boys like you didn’t need to be told twice.”
Touché.
She turns her back on me and strolls toward the Camaro, running her fingertips along the hood like she’s petting a living thing.
“She’s temperamental,” she says. “One wrong touch and she’ll make you regret it.”
“Funny,” I say, circling around to her side. “That’s what people say about me.”
Her mouth curves in that dangerous half-smile, and I realize I’m in trouble. I’m already picturing her in the passenger seat, legs up on the dash, my face between them, checking just how sweet this thorn really is.
“You start today,” she says. “Tools, parts, whatever you need. You work here, though. I want to keep an eye on my baby.”
“Not a problem,” I tell her.
Liar.
Fisher-Rey border isn’t exactly a friendly neighborhood for repeat visits, especially for me. My granny would say I’m begging for an early grave. She might be right.
Lark tosses me a set of keys. They land against my chest.
Huh, she really does have them.
“Don’t scratch her,” she says, already walking away. “And Talon?”
I look up.
“Try not to get attached.”
I should walk.
Go home.
Find a way to pay the rent. Forget the way her voice sounds when she says my name.
But I don’t.
My boots move on their own, carrying me to the Camaro. My fingers trail over her hood like I’m tracing someone’s spine.
