“I’m gonna need to borrow some money,” I warned him.
Lai closed his eyes immediately, taking a slow, measured breath through his nose. I was sure he already knew I’d ask; just days ago, I’d been lamenting the twelve grand I’d paid for Fox, and now we were sitting in a collector-heavy auction, where the kind of cash I could barely even dream of holding would change hands like it was nothing. There were no scared salesmen here, no shaky dealers trying to offload inventory before the end of the quarter. No one tointimidate, no one to sweet-talk. Just collectors with deep pockets, and flippers who smelled profit in every piece of aging steel. They were already warming up, leaning forward in their seats, scanning the lot sheets, whispering numbers under their breath like gamblers at a high-stakes table.
Here, Fox wasn’t going to be seen as just a tired Fox Body taking up valuable space. Here, he was a classic.
That still felt wrong to me; a 90s car being called a classic felt absurd. The 90s had been, what, ten years ago? Maybe fifteen? My perception of time had clearly gone off the rails somewhere.
Way off.
Because the very first lot– a 1990 Mazda Miata– climbed past fifteen thousand before the hammer dropped, its status as a classic massively influencing the price.
My brows shot up so fast I felt it in my forehead. I turned toward Lai, and he wore the same expression, eyes wide, lips parting slightly as if he’d just been personally offended by the number. How could a cheap Japanese car from the 90s be worth so damn much?
Next, an ’80s Chevrolet Corvette rolled across the block.
Thirty-five thousand.
Lai’s brows somehow climbed even higher, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. If this was the baseline, then Fox was going to hurt. And the Challenger…
I pushed that thought aside.
I noticed Lai’s leg start bouncing, the heel of his shoe tapping against the concrete floor in rhythm with the auctioneer’s rapid-fire cadence. It was subtle at first, but I knew him well enough to see the irritation creeping in.
“Sold!”
Another car.
“Sold!”
Another.
“SOLD!”
The pace picked up. Car after car went for numbers that would have made me laugh just a year ago. Now, they made me sweat.
Then, finally, Fox’s lot came up.
“Lot fourteen!” The auctioneer called, voice sharp and energetic. “A Nineteen-Ninety-Two Ford Mustang GT in black. Stock V8 five-speed manual, ladies and gents, two-twenty-five horsepower under its hood, excellent condition!”
Oh, please don’t say that.
I scanned the room and immediately noticed a few men leaning forward, interest sparked. One flipped through his notes. Another adjusted his glasses. A third lifted his paddle slightly, ready.
The auctioneer was merciless. “This is a steal today with bidding starting at ten thousand! Do I have ten? I see ten…”
It climbed to fifteen almost instantly.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
The pace slowed slightly, bids becoming more cautious. I raised my paddle. “Twenty.” I winced as I offered it; that was Lai’s entire budget, and the number wasn’t quite done climbing yet.
The auctioneer pointed at me, nodding. “Twenty thousand.”
For a brief moment, silence.
Then a voice behind us. “Twenty-one.”
Lai scoffed, raising his paddle. “Twenty-one, five.”
