Katie McGarry - Crash Into You

Eric shakes his head. “FYI—James Dean died over sixty years ago.” He pauses as realization snakes onto his face. “You aren’t saying no.”

“I’m looking for a onetime race, Eric. That is, if we can come to an understanding.”

The sweet purring of an engine grabs not only my attention, but that of every hot-blooded, car-worshipping male in the lot. Jesus—that’s a 2005 Mustang GT. And unlike the other muscle cars parked on the strip, not a piece of her looks like it’s seen the inside of a body shop.

A flood of male bodies surround the beautiful pony. I drop back and let the wolves have first crack. A car like this is here for one reason—to race—and any new piece of machinery has to pass Eric’s inspection. Someone is going to have to approve the engine and I have no doubt I’ll be the one caressing that soft underbelly.

The driver shuts down the engine, opens the door and a halo of sunshine slides out of the car and into the light of the only working streetlamp. Fuck me. God does exist and he sent an angel in a white Mustang to prove it.

Angels are small—at least this one is. She stands barely a foot taller than the top of her car. Her long golden hair curls at the ends and she has a slender frame. Her leather-gloved hand grips the top of her door and she uses that door as a shield between herself and the street rats.

“Nice car.” Like a vulture, Eric slowly circles her.

“Thanks.” She glances at two guys exiting a Corvette. Those college boys belong here even less than she does. All three of them are easy prey.

Eric knows how to play people. He told me once he was voted most likely to succeed in high school. If bleeding people dry of their money and manipulating them into deals that only benefit him is a measure of success, then Eric met his high school buddies’ expectations.

The angel tucks her hair behind her ear. “Is this where I can drag race?”

I wince internally at her words. Asking for anything on the streets is a cardinal sin. Asking nicely is basically serving your soul to the devil. God didn’t send this angel to save me. He sent her as a sacrifice.

Several people laugh, and her eyes flicker over the crowd to pinpoint danger. I watch the two guys cowering near the Corvette. Come on, boys. Now’s the time to step up and protect your girl.

Eric’s eyes wander the length of her body. I agree, she’s something to look at in the black fabric coat tailored to her curves, but everything about her screams high-priced and high-maintenance. Only the conceited girls at school wear clothes that nice. Eric gestures to the Corvette with his chin. “Are those your boys?”

Answer yes, angel. Tell him those rich boys are cocky serial killers with jealousy issues and will happily take down anyone who messes with their girl.

She clears her throat. “No. They told me about the race.”

Dammit. A muscle in my jaw jerks. It’s like the girl wants to be taken advantage of. If this were any other night, I’d shove my way through the crowd, toss the girl back in her car and tell her to go home. But this isn’t a normal night, and I need money. I can’t do it. I can’t get involved. My neck tightens, and I pop it to the side to release the pressure.

A sly smile spreads across Eric’s face. “Good. Then we’ll work out a deal. Open the hood and we’ll get started. Isaiah, I need a little help.”

Because no one messes with me, the crowd parts without my having to say a word. The angel’s eyes widen and travel over my arms. What is she concerned about? That it’s forty degrees and I’m not wearing a coat? Or is she unnerved by the tattoos?

It doesn’t matter. In less than ten minutes, this girl will be out of my life.

I raise the hood and a rush of adrenaline hits me when I see the pure power and beauty before me. My eyes snap to hers. “Do you have any idea what you’ve got in this?”

Of course she doesn’t. She’s some stupid rich girl who got her Daddy’s leftovers for Christmas. She bites her lower lip before answering, “Four point six-liter V-8.”

“The girl knows her shit,” says Eric with a hint of respect. Too bad her knowledge of engines won’t save her from him.

I place my hands on the frame of the car and bend over to get a closer view. “It’s the goddamned original engine.” Untouched as if it just rolled off the line. The engine’s aluminum has a shine that only comes with reverence. Someone has taken care of this beauty.

The girl abandons her safe shield of the door and flitters to my side, waving me away. “I’d really rather that you not touch it.”

Yeah, because I’m trash that knows nothing about cars and my one stroke will destroy the engine. “Scared Daddy will know you lifted his car if he finds fingerprints?”

She takes a possessive step, wedges herself between me and the car and looks me square in the eye. Her chin lifts in a kittenish cute-pissed way. “No one but me touches that engine.”

A chorus of “Ohs” and “Damns” rises from the crowd. One of my eyebrows slowly pushes toward my hairline. She called me out. If she were a guy, my fist would have already made impact, but girls deserve respect. She holds my stare for a record-breaking five seconds before losing her short burst of courage and lowering her head.

“Please don’t touch my car,” she says softly. “Okay?”

Her eyes dart to mine for assurance, and I incline my head a centimeter. If this was my car, I wouldn’t want anyone else touching it, either. “Go home,” I mutter so only she can hear.

Lines wrinkle her perfect forehead, and Eric claps a hand on my back. “What’s the verdict?”

The angel and I glance at each other. Come on, don’t make me get involved more than I already am.

“Isaiah?” prompts Eric.

Damn. “The car has speed,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. Eric can make plenty off the unsuspecting owner, but he cashes in on side bets. “But it’s the original engine. No modifications. No nitro.”

“How much?” Eric asks her.

“How much what?” Holding her elbows, she folds into herself, as if becoming smaller will help the situation. Go home, angel. Take your beautiful pony and park her back in a safe garage in an upscale neighborhood where you both belong.

Eric chuckles deeply and his fingers flick the air. The movement reminds me of the way the legs of a spider gracefully work as it spins a web. “How much money are you putting down to race your car?”

“Can’t I just race someone?”

“Excuse me.” The driver of the Corvette approaches us at a strange, hesitant yet eager pace. As if his feet are afraid to move, but the top half of his body gravitates toward us. “Did you mention that she needs to make a bet?”

The angel closes her eyes as she visibly relaxes and mumbles, “Finally.”

“Yes,” says Eric, mimicking the asshole’s more formal tone. “Are you willing to place that bet on her behalf?”

“Are you the person that holds the bets?” he asks.

Eric eyeballs Corvette Guy. “Yes.”

The guy becomes eager as he reaches for his back pocket. No. Not happening. I’ve seen that front hundreds of times on guys at races—the attitude that says he gets a hard-on from betting. This girl will lose the slip to her car by the end of the night if he gets involved.

Fuck. Just fuck. “Do you have money?” I glare at the angel.

“Yes,” says asshole Corvette owner.

“Not you, dickhead.” I size him up and stare him down to keep him from opening his mouth again, then snap my gaze to her. “You. Do you have money?”

Her golden eyebrows furrow together. Worry isn’t an expression angels should wear. “I have twenty dollars.”