Page 19 of Dahlia Made A List

My fingers almost tightened into a fist, but I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets and rocked back on my boot heels.

Tossing me a happy grin over her shoulder, she followed Bear. Fearless, she squatted down to greet Orry, his heavy tail thumping out a hello on the tarmac. A second later, Bear latched onto her hand and steadied her as she climbed up into the cockpit of the little plane.

“You look like a natural up there, killer.”

The growl escaped that time, but they didn’t hear me. What the fuck. Scared to drive but climbing into the open cockpit of a tiny plane? I prowled forward to look up at Dahlia just as she agreed to flight lessons with Bear. “Adding flying lessons to your list?”

She plopped her chin on her folded arms over the edge of the cockpit and grinned down. “Not yet. Maybe. Gotta learn to drive the Batmobile before I contemplate leaving the ground.”

My shoulders loosened. I turned to Bear. “Anything goin’ on out on the back loop?”

Still grinning up at Dahlia, he answered. “Not a thing,” he said, finally turning to face me. “Though J.T. and Jasper will be taking off later today.”

Knowing my family’s comings and goings had not one thing to do with me. “Come on down, then, Dahlia. Let’s get goin’.”

“Coming!”

She stood and before I could step forward to steady her descent, Bear offered up his help. She grasped his hand, the other on the top wing, and stepped along the bottom wing. That ember flared when Bear wrapped his dirty paws around her waist to swing her down to the tarmac.

“Next time, Bear, I expect a ride!”

“You got it! On the house.”

I tugged on the brim of my Renegades hat. I didn’t have time for this bullshit. “Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, I’d explained the basics of shifting gears in a manual transmission, the concept of using the clutch, and traded places with Dahlia in the Firebird. She nodded along, interrupted with questions, but stayed on task. “You ready?”

“And if I stall, I won’t break it?”

I’d answered the same question twice already, but said again, “No. And I’ll tell you when to change gears. I won’t let the car get damaged.”

She winced. She must have taken my comment as some sort of threat instead of the reassurance I’d intended. I grunted. “Start her up.”

The performance engine purred, tugging a satisfied grin to my face. I couldn’t remember the last time I rode shotgun. “Move the stick into first. Ease up on the clutch and push down on the gas. They don’t need to be in sync, but when you feel that clutch bite, you want to give it gas.”

The car shuddered and Dahlia squeaked.

“Gas, Dahlia.”

The engine roared and we shot forward. Another squeak and the car stalled, rolling to a stop.

“Maybe I’m not ready for the Batmobile.”

I snorted. “This is a 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. Not a restoration, but a modified performance driver car.”

“Sounds impressive, Wyatt, but means diddly to me.”

“This model was a special edition in 1977, only year Pontiac made them. My granddad bought it for next to nothing while I was in high school for us to work on, but we figured out we liked going fast too much to do a true restoration.”

“I’ve noticed cars are kinda a big deal around here. Second only to the Renegades. Even Maia has talked about the races, and I’ve been to a bunch of the cruise-ins.”

“Yeah. Started when my Uncle J.T. and Rocky Hillbanger wanted to show off their classics, but it turned into a lot more.”

“Maia races her Miata, right? I’ve never gone to any of the races. Do you race this one?”

“A time or two. The Batmobile is trash in comparison.” And it didn’t take much to imagine Dahlia jumping and squealing on the sidelines of a race. Her excitement would spill over to everyone around her.

She giggled just then. “Isn’t the Batmobile loaded up with gadgets and tricks and faster than any other car?”

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