Page 4 of Money Shot

“Tell you what. Push your bike into my garage and we can lock it up all safe and happy and then we’ll go get gas in my car. Will that work?” I asked.

“Safe and happy,” he said with a laugh.

“Just wait until I get the car out before you try and shove your bike in,” I said.

Still facing me, he nodded his head in apparent appreciation.

Proud of my pearly whites, I smiled a tooth-revealing smile and nodded my head in return. The expression on his face reminded me that my teeth probably weren’t white, but wine soaked. The half-bottle of Madeira I had guzzled while reviewing the book undoubtedly had my teeth looking like I’d just finished eating a raw steak.

“I appreciate it,” he said as he turned away. “I’ll owe you one.”

I turned toward the house and did my best to wipe my teeth clean with my index finger as he walked away. After carefully backing my car out into the driveway, I got out in enough time to watch him push the Harley into the garage. He situated it perfectly against the inside wall of the garage, studied it for a moment, and turned to face the car. As he walked toward me, I made note of the fact he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but I doubted many of his type did, even if they were married.

“This is your car?” he asked as he walked around it with his hand on his chin and his eyes glued to the flawless black paint.

“Only one I got, yep,” I said proudly.

“1966 or ’67?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It’s a 1965. Year my dad was born. He left it to me when he died.”

“Well, it’s a damned fine looking Continental, that’s for sure. And I’m sorry about your pop,” he said as he opened the door.

He carefully got into the car, fastened the seat belt, and looked around the interior as I got inside and situated myself. His expressed appreciation of the car and his careful manner of opening the door and getting inside led me to believe he wasn’t only a big tough biker. At least a small part of him was kind and considerate, and it was apparent.

“I’m Sienna,” I said as I turned the key and started the car.

He coughed a laugh and grinned as he turned his head in my direction. “Call me Vince. And I’m guessing this fucker ain’t stock?”

The rumble from the exhaust made sneaking around in the car almost impossible. My father had built it as a show car, and planned on using it as a trophy of sorts, only driving it on special occasions. He had a 521 cubic inch 600 horsepower motor built by a local professional shop, and I helped him install it right before he died.

His instructions to me upon his passing were clear.

Drive the car, Sienna. Drive it and enjoy it. And if you ever decide to sell it, don’t sell it because you want something different; sell it because you don’t love it anymore. And only sell it to someone who does.

He had the car as long as I was alive, and actually had purchased it a few years before I was born. His entire life had been spent making the car perfect, and perfect was how I intended to keep it.

“521 cubic inches of earth shaking Big Block Ford, six hundred horsepower to be exact,” I bragged as I backed out of the driveway.

“No shit?” he said with a grin. “You know your cars, huh?”

“I’m an only child, and a daddy’s girl. The only time I spent with him was in the garage,” I said. “So, I know a little about cars, and a lot about thiscar.”

He nodded his head as he glanced around the interior of the car admiringly.

“So where were you going?” I asked as I shifted the car into drive. “You know, when you ran out of gas.”

“Nowhere, just riding. I go out on Sunday nights and just ride, it clears my mind before starting a new week. Had a poker run yesterday, and as that fucker started spittin’ and sputterin’, I remembered I forgot to fill it up after. I can get two hundred miles on a full tank, and not a mile more. Runnin’ out is the price I pay for not keeping track of my miles, I guess,” he said.

“Well, the station up on Douglas will loan us a gas can. Just remember, two hundred miles,” I said with a grin.

He stared at me for a moment, narrowed his upper lip, and revealed his teeth. As I gazed back at him rather confused, he narrowed his eyes and pointed to his teeth with his index finger.

“You’ve got a big piece of meat or something in your front teeth. Sorry, but it’s driving me nuts,” he said as he tapped the tip of his finger against his tooth.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and curled my lip upward. The side of one of my two front teeth was as red as a ruby. I had obviously wiped the other tooth clean with my finger on the front porch, but missed whatever wine-soaked matter was stuck between my other teeth.

“Shit, sorry,” I said as I alternated glances between the road and the mirror.