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“Little Red,” I repeat. It makes me think of what he called me the first time we talked: Big Red. The moment I decided to hate him. And I wonder how it is that I’m here now. How has this happened? Me wanting him more than my next breath. Me needing him more than I’ve ever needed anyone.
Perhaps he feels my tension, because he eyes me carefully. “It’s a term of affection, you know,” he says in a low voice. “Anyway, I didn’t name her.”
“Her?”
“All cars are ladies, Jones.” He winks.
It should be cheesy, winking like that, but it’s not. It makes me want to kiss his cheek. He’s not only sexy, he’s fucking adorable. And he’s completely ignorant of my moony expression because he’s back to stroking his car.
“She’s a 1971 Chevy Camaro Z28.” His expression dims a little, becoming almost bittersweet. “She was my dad’s. He got her at a junkyard and restored her from the frame out.”
His pride rings clear, and he gives the car another pat. “It drove my mom nuts when he spent his weekends tinkering with Little Red, but she knew how much he loved it so...” He shrugs.
“Did you ever work on it?”
“Mostly it’s only tune-ups and belt changes now, but, yeah, I know how to fix a car, if that’s what you’re asking.” A little mischief brews in his dark eyes. “Want to go for a ride?”
“Now?”
“No. Three hours from now,” he deadpans. “I figure you can get in your pj’s, maybe sleep for a while, then we’ll go out.”
“Smart-ass.”
He’s already opening the passenger door. “Come on, Jones, ride with me.”
I hesitate.
“It’ll be nice and warm with the heat on,” he adds.
The Camaro’s dark interior gleams in the yellow glow of the parking lot light.
Drew is waiting. He wants to kiss me. He wants everything.
I take a little breath. “Okay, but this thing had better go fast.”
“She’ll set your hair straight.” He gives one of my curls a playful tug before closing the door behind me.
Inside, the car smells of old leather and a bit of Drew’s shaving cream. It’s that subtle scent of Drew that makes me sink into my seat and inhale deeply. Then he’s getting into the car. His grin is like a kid’s when he turns the key and the car rumbles to life with a growl.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he says to her, “purr for me.”
“Would you like a little time alone?” I ask, but I love the way he appreciates his car.
His dimple deepens. “This is a shared experience, Jones. Get with the program. Now buckle up.”
I do as ordered, and happily sit back as he pulls out of the lot. He goes slow through the campus, turning on the heat and fiddling with the radio. Soon I’m warm enough to pull off my coat, and Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” fills the silence.
“You weren’t kidding about the classic rock,” I say, taking a look around the dash. “I’m surprised there isn’t an 8-track in here.”
“I’m surprised you know what an 8-track is.”
“Likewise.”
He laughs. “Dad put in a new stereo the year before he—”
He stops talking and turns out onto the main road. The car springs forward with a throaty little rumble.
“It’s a beautiful car,” I say to fill the pained silence. I hate that he hurts, that he misses his parents. “I’m glad you have it.”
