I grinned, turning to Ghost. He sat perched on his trunk now, visibly tense, fingers gripping the metal edge as he strained to see what was happening.
“Look; temp tires,” he said, pointing at the workers unloading equipment. “Do you think those are for me?”
“All the other cars still have their tires,” I answered, feeling something warm settle inside me. “And you have the mark on your glass, too. We’re going to auction together.”
***
The transport took almost an entire day, and I behaved the whole time, Al. You would’ve been proud. I didn’t scare the workers when they rolled me onto the trailer. One of the apprentices — barely more than a kid — drove me up the ramp, too cock-sure, pressing down too hard on my accelerator; ignoring the chance to speed, I softened my steering slightly, making the movement smoother and easier for him. No driving into crowds today; not if I wanted to go to the auction.
Straps tightened around me, digging into my frame. The wind battered my paint as we drove, knocking loose thedust that had settled into every crevice while I waited on the lot. I endured it quietly, reminding myself that patience was part of being good.
But patience had never been what I was built for.
I was made for movement, for speed, for the rush of asphalt beneath my tires. Sitting still, bound in place, felt wrong on a fundamental level.
Every mile dragged by slower than the last. When we finally arrived, the auction yard was already mostly full. Rows of vehicles stretched across the lot, each one waiting, silent and tense. Some gleamed with fresh polish, others looked like they’d barely survived the journey.
The humans parked me among them, then they left, and I was back to waiting again.
At least I wasn’t alone; Ghost was right off the transport behind me, gingerly rolling to a stop beside me, looking just a little bit goofy perched on top of far-too-small temporary wheels.
His undersized wheels didn’t make him any less jaw-dropping; even before he’d stopped moving, people had noticed him and were moving close to look him over. That didn’t come as a surprise; A 1970 Dodge Challenger always drew attention without trying. With his wide stance and aggressive lines, he looked powerful even sitting still. Muscle carved out of steel. The humans approached quickly, their hands running along his paint, tugging at trim, lifting edges to check underneath. Fingers pressed into panels, testing, judging.
Ghost withdrew.
I felt it, even from where I sat. His shadow shrank deeper into the car, uncomfortable with their attention. They touched him like he already belonged to them.
No. I wasn’t letting anyone but Lai have him. Ghost was already spoken for! Without thinking, I blasted my horn, loud and sharp, cutting through the excited chatter.
Heads snapped toward me, but I didn’t care. I honkedagain, louder, refusing to stop until they backed away.
One man frowned and walked over, clearly irritated. He grabbed my handle, trying to open my door.
Locked.
“Who’s got the keys for the busted Mustang?” He called out as I kept honking like an angry alarm. Then, without warning, he slammed his fist into my hood.
Pain rippled through my frame, sharp and sudden. My horn cut off as I flinched, the fresh dent catching the light immediately.
“Someone get the keys so I can pop the hood and disconnect the battery. No one wants that noise going off all night. Must be faulty wiring.”
I froze, stunned by his audacity, my rage bubbling to the surface. Before I could react, though, the man suddenly stumbled back with a cry, landing hard on his ass, hollering and cursing as I stared in shock at Ghost.
The Challenger had jerked forward just enough to slam into the man; thousands of pounds of steel versus human arrogance had definitely gone in Ghost’s favor, and he crept back into his spot as though he had never moved at all. But I’d seen it, even if none of the humans had; they were too busy helping their fallen comrade to see the Challenger’s shadow drop a wink at me from his driver’s seat.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I knew in that moment that something had shifted between us. I had defended him, and he’d returned the favor, violently.
Lai better have money, because Ghost wasn’t going to be cheap, and I wasn’t going home without him.
Chapter Eighteen
Al
“Hey, Lai.”
I leaned toward Lai as we settled into our seats, the hard plastic chairs arranged in tight rows facing the raised platform where the auctioneer stood, warming up his voice. The air smelled faintly of oil, rust, and too many people packed into one place with one hungry purpose. I rolled the bidding paddle between my fingers, feeling the smooth edge of the laminated card. I was number 3. Lai had picked number 33 in response, like some weird show of dominance, but I didn’t care.
