Free Shifting Gears: The Complete Series (Sports Bad Boy Romance) by Alycia Taylor Page B

asking, “How does it look?”
    It’s a picture of his
Chevelle, and it’s very, very purple.
    “You did that for me?”
    “Well, after the run last
week, it needed a new paint job, anyway. As often as I get new paint on that
thing, I figured it was time for a change. Do you like it?”
    He’s smiling and rubbing
his hands together, but I’m more than slightly unnerved. I know we’re kind of
an unofficial thing now and all that, but it feels a little early to start
changing car colors for each other.
    “How often do you change
it?” I ask.
    “About once every three
or four times I take it out,” he says. “Basically every time I end up with
someone on my tail I can’t shake without pulling some stupid crap.”
    Some of the pressure
fades, but it still feels like a big thing.
    “Did you want to get
something to eat first, or do you just want to head down and see if anyone’s
there yet?” he asks.
    “Shouldn’t we wait until
like right before? I can’t imagine it’s such a great idea to congregate
publicly unless it’s going to be a quick in and out sort of thing.”
    “Oh, the race won’t be
anywhere near the meet point,” he says. “That’s just where we meet up, and
everyone knows that if it’s not street legal and you’re not about to race it,
it needs to be on a truck. Nobody’s breaking any laws for another hour at
least.”
    “And we’re not racing
tonight?”
    “No,” he says. “I’m
probably going to pass on that for another week or two—after the HP has a
chance to cool down a little.”
    “Okay,” I tell him. “We
can pick something up if you want.”
    We walk back to the shop,
and I can’t help but notice that along with the shower, the clean clothes, and
the shave, Eli’s also decided to go with some cologne. He hasn’t overdone it by
any means, but there’s something in the scent of it that’s just a little off.
    It’s not until we get
back to the shop and near the Galaxie that I recognize the smell. It’s oil. His
hands are clean, so is the rest of him, but still, beneath the musk of his
cologne is the smell of motor oil.
    “Does that ever wash
off?” I ask him.
    Apparently, he’s gotten
similar questions often enough to have an answer ready to go. “Eventually,” he
says, “but it usually takes a couple of days away from this place and some of
that grainy soap to do it.”
    This is going to be a
constant if things keep going with Eli, I guess. The first couple of times we
got together, I didn’t really notice it, but if it’s going to take that long to
get the stink off of him, this could turn into a bit of a problem.
    This must be why they
call mechanics grease monkeys.
    I’m nervous to get into
the car with him, given that it’s an enclosed space, but in here, the cologne
does just enough of a job that it’s not really an issue.
    He fires up the engine,
and we pull out into the parking lot.
    “I’ve got to lock up real
quick,” he says. “It’ll just take a minute if you want to wait.”
    “Sure,” I answer as he
gets out of the car.
    As soon as he’s most of
the way back to the shop, I roll my window down. Only, the smell gets stronger
as I do. I’d really never noticed it before, but knowing what his cologne is
supposed to smell like must have made it jump out at me.
    Maybe I just have to get
him to stop wearing cologne.
    We get to the meet-up at
the old gas station on Stockholm Blvd, and I’m already a little overwhelmed.
    I was expecting five
cars, ten at the very most, but the parking lot is jammed with nearly every
nice car I’ve seen driving around town. People are out of their cars, looking
under hoods, chatting, arguing.
    “So, do people ever call
the cops when you’re trying to figure out where to go?” I ask.
    “Not really,” he says.
“They used to, but now we have a rule that if we meet up in front of an actual
store, everyone buys something before we go. Thirsty?”
    “Sure.” After that, Eli
was right. It’s just a lot