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Rather than see Erik, I wanted to steal the car and see how far I’d make it before a bunch of angry dragons caught me. As they were yellow dragons, I would likely survive the experience, but they’d make me pay for my insolence, probably through marrying me off to Erik.
The thought made me put serious thought into committing an act of grand theft auto. How long would it take for them to catch me? Would they be angry or proud over the bold display?
I knew how to drive ancient cars; most manufacturers made cars modeled after the old classics, and they were designed to be driven in the same fashion. The fancier ones used paddle shifters, but the most prestigious models included old style sticks and cared nothing for the pride of the operator should they fail to shift properly.
While a driver wouldn’t drop their transmission like some of the models from hundreds of years ago, the car would stall and punish poor driving skills.
Once upon a time, Erik and I had browsed through magazines featuring ancient cars, sighing over vehicles like the Bentley S1. We’d even talked about dedicating a parking spot of an indoor garage we hadn’t even owned yet for such a vehicle—if we could find one.
Time had not done any favors for cars like the Bentley. How had the vehicle survived for so long in such good condition?
“Do you want your bag?” Erik’s brother asked.
“I want the car, but I’ll take the bag since I can’t have the car,” I replied, and I sighed at the unfairness of it all. “Why is she sitting outside? She might be despoiled. Rust might happen. This is not how you treat a beautiful lady. She belongs in an indoor garage spot!”
Chester grabbed my backpack with my camera and other junk, locked his cruiser, and came over. “That car has more protections that the average bank. She’ll be fine.”
Well, at least Erik’s family understood the car’s value.
It didn’t make me want the vehicle any less. While I wasn’t a hardcore history buff, antique cars always managed to evoke something. That something often became a burning desire to own a piece of history. Modern cars, all about their sleek lines, performance, and status as environmentally friendly, lacked the charm of the antiques.
I questioned why someone had parked her outside rather than indoors, though—even with more protections on it than the average bank. Such a beautiful thing deserved a luxury indoor spot, moved enough to keep the tires from rotting, and loved every single day of the week.
I would not let go of the car being parked outside. The situation would eat away at me and drive me mad.
“See this car, Garnet?”
My kitten chirped at me, and after staring at the vehicle, she turned her gaze to me, her expression rather puzzled. She then issued one of her inquisitive mews.
I settled my kitten on my shoulder, petting her to reassure her everything was okay. “I love this car.”
Chester laughed at me. “It’s Erik’s.”
That evil, evil bastard. He’d gotten his filthy, dirty hands on a Bentley S1? “Since when?”
“I don’t know when he bought it, but he’s had it for a while. He’s been restoring her. The paint is not new, but the parts are all original, and it took a great deal of magic to make her run again. She’s his hobby. Apparently, he likes his women difficult, rare, and of the highest quality.”
“She really runs?” I blurted. Ignoring the rest of his commentary would test my patience—and result in a squabble with the man over his opinions. I could accept my status as difficult.
I could be difficult, especially when working on a case I wanted to crack. Rare and of the highest quality?
I foresaw a dispute over the things Erik had said when I wasn’t around to protest. In the meantime, I’d question the Bentley. How the hell could a car over two hundred years old still run? There was only one man who could answer my questions, and I was about to stage an ambush. Erik might one day forgive me for storming back into his life asking about his car, but it beat trying to handle the mess of emotions boiling within me.
I could handle interrogating him about his car.
The rest would test me.
After staring at the car, I turned to Chester, wondering if I could handle the next few hours of my life.
Erik’s brother chuckled. “If you’re not ready to go in, I can text my mother and explain the situation. I’m sure she’d be happy to help. Of course, our mother is a little strange at times. I recommend just following me into the house.”
I could only assume my face had betrayed me again. I needed to work on that. In fact, I needed to work on a lot of things. Coming out in the equivalent of a decorated leather bra while wearing tight leather pants hadn’t been the brightest of ideas. “You should have talked me out of the leather. Clearly, I got ahead of myself when deciding what to wear. I’m going to make a terrible impression.”
“You’re fine as you are. The belt with a skull on it is a great touch, though. It’s absolutely moody. It’s like a feminine warning sign indicating the fate of anyone who pushes you in ways you don’t welcome. Erik was not shy about telling us about your physical attributes.”
I stared down at my chest, unable to deny that the leather contraption, little more than a bra with some extra straps to enhance feminine appeal, did great things for my figure. “My physical attributes?”
“Your abilities at self-defense.” Chester coughed. “I phrased that poorly. Sorry.”