Page 35 of Plunge

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Fletcher

AFTER ABIGAIL CAME out of PT, we still had an hour until Thistle’s mom was done with all her appointments. I convinced her to take us all out for sandwiches so she could give me all the details on picking up her car. And if I knew Thistle McMurray at all, I knew she’d make a damn checklist.

I can totally see how she ended up working with tax codes. That girl has always loved a list of rules more than anyone else I ever met. Maybe my assistant could spar with her about bullet points, but I doubt it.

We all place our orders and Abigail tries to pay, so then Thistle tries to pay for everyone and the cashier eventually looks like she’s going to kick us out, so I manage to slap my credit card on the counter. That gets a laugh out of everyone at least, and it’s kind of nice, sitting down for lunch with my brother’s wife…and my ex-girlfriend.

Abigail closes her eyes as she savors a mouthful of her milkshake. “God,” she says. “This is sinful. I had to watch everything I ate and drank when I was on bedrest.”

Thistle and I share an uncomfortable glance. Neither of us was around for that ordeal and, now that I’m spending so much time at home, I feel even more bad that I wasn’t here just to help diffuse the stress.

I wink at her and say, “Slurp it down, Abigail. You need your energy to march that baby of yours up and down the stairs this weekend.”

Abigail’s eyes go wide. “You’re leaving?”

I pop a fry in my mouth and shake my head. “Just for, like, six hours.” I nod my head at Thistle. “She’s gotta help her mom with all her appointments this weekend, so I’m going to get Thistle’s fancy race car from her garage in the city.”

Thistle chews on her lip and pulls out her phone. I am zero per cent surprised to see her open up a checklist app and start typing. Only Thistle would have a checklist-making app. Abigail takes another big gulp, eyes wide. “Thistle,” she says, “You have a race car?”

She nods, typing something and clicking the phone shut authoritatively. “I’ve always loved to go fast,” she says, and I don’t miss the intentional heat in her words. I’m not sure what the hell is happening, because I feel all the blood rush to my dick. This is the second time in as many months that someone has reminded me of that day we first kissed, but this time, instead of paralyzing me, the words make me want to pounce.

I’m like a werewolf at the full moon, feeling all the pent up emotion just throbbing beneath the surface. I’m not usually this insatiable.

Thistle breaks the trance when she says, “My assistant has been taking care of my apartment for me, but he can’t drive a stick shift and I wouldn’t trust him to move my car in the city anyway.”

“Hm,” Abigail says. “I guess I didn’t know you two were talking again.” She nods, but doesn’t seem to feel the weight of what Thistle is saying. I try to imagine some kid, barely out of college, navigating around tight urban parking garage corners in a million dollar car, and I shiver.

“Thistle,” I say, placing my hand on hers. The gesture is automatic, unconscious, and as soon as our skin connects, I feel a surge—memory, unsettled business, excitement about the car? “Let’s review the details so I can bring that baby here where she’s safe.”

Two days later, I’m hopping off the train with a spring in my step. I’ve been obsessing about the car in an attempt to stop thinking about Thistle naked and quivering beneath my touch. I can’t wait to see this damn car. Rare and perfect, created to do just one thing: fucking drive like the wind.

Thistle could have bought any car she wanted. Clearly she earns enough money to blow a wad of it on fast wheels. But she bought this car. The car. I want to ask her if she remembers me showing her the Gullwing.

I had just survived another long lecture from my parents. Not a lecture—an invitation to share my feelings. All my siblings were away at school and I had skipped the SAT exam. I was so sick and tired of my parents wanting me to “outline my path” and “identify a goal.”

I just wanted to go fucking fast. I wanted to run fast, and I wanted to drive fast. When I showed Thistle that car, first in a magazine and then in person when I begged her to skip school and come with me to a car show in Philly—when we saw the graphite grey paint and the perfect lines, the arched doors flying up like freedom on a breeze…

Man, I knew in that moment I wanted nothing other than to work with cars.

I check the text Thistle sent me with the address of her company. I’m meeting her assistant in the lobby to get the keys.

I walk inside not giving a shit that I’m wearing jeans in a world of Armani designer suits. All working on a Sunday, no less. I don’t know what these people are selling, but it’s clear somebody’s buying. I lean against the reception desk and ask for Larry, and then I lean against the wall until he shows up.

He skitters over to me with wide eyes and a confused look on his face. “You’re the man Thistle is trusting with the car I’m not supposed to even stand near?”

“You’re damn right, Larry.” I clap him on the back and hold out my hand. “Now fork over those keys.”

He leans back away from me and puts a hand on his chin, studying me. “You’re not going to be good for her,” he says. There’s an awkward silence where I try to decide if I should be insulted, and Larry grins. “I like it.” He tosses the keys into my hand and walks back toward the elevator. “Tell her I approve.”

“If you think she needs approval for anything, you’re a different guy than I expected,” I spar back at him.

Larry just laughs. “Oh damn,” he says. “I definitely approve.” He slides into the elevator and winks.

Phase one complete, I guess. I walk the few blocks uptown toward her building and before I can run through my whole spiel to the doorman, he smiles. “Ms. McMurray called ahead,” he says, looking me up and down. “She sent a picture, too, so I’d know it wasn’t just anyone trying to take out her car.”

He lets me into the parking garage through the stairwell and I don’t have to look far to find the Gullwing. Thistle’s got a parking spot on the street level, one of those brightly lit spaces where the floor is polished concrete and not covered in piss. It’s got its own gate that I unlock and roll up to reveal the sweet beauty inside.

I take a few laps around the car, appreciating all the chrome and black paint. My phone pings and I look down to see an impatient text from Thistle. Are you there? Is she ok?

I snap a selfie of myself pulling up the wing door to climb inside. I take a minute to just savor the red leather interior. This car has everything right. It knows where it’s going. It knows how it’s getting there.

I fire up the engine and feel the purr of it through my bones. I decide immediately that I’m going to take the long way back to Oak Creek, no matter how many annoyed texts I get from Thistle.

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