Page 105 of Heresy

“Yes,” he says carefully, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “it’s a car. But it isn’t just any car.”

Unimpressed with the car, I stare at him without interrupting.

What does impress me is the look in his eyes as he runs his gaze over the shape of it, the way his fingertips softly caress the curves of its body like a lover’s touch.

And I need to snap myself out of that thought immediately. The last thing I want to imagine is what that touch would feel like.

“It’s a 1970 Chevy Chevelle. Or my Beauty, as I call her. I found her in bad shape a little over a year ago and spent several months restoring her to almost original, except for a few modifications I made.”

It’s interesting how even his voice softens to talk about nothing more than a car. One would think he was in an intimate relationship with it, one where soft whispers are exchanged over a shared pillow in a dark room alone.

And there my mind goes again.

Maybe he’s right about not reading as much.

Especially the dirty books.

I snap myself out of it. “Your point?”

As if broken from some train of thought that held him trapped, he looks over the car’s hood at me, his voice back to normal.

“My point is we’re going for a ride in this car.”

“Why?”

The corner of his mouth curls. “Just because.”

Rounding the hood, he walks past me to the passenger side door and opens it.

“Get in.”

I know better than to argue, so I roll my eyes instead and do as I’m told.

Sinking into a leather bucket seat, I flinch when he reaches in, his mouth curling more on a smile as he buckles me into a seatbelt that feels more like a harness. I don’t have time to ask about it before he shuts my door and quickly moves around the car to climb in to the driver’s side.

Slipping a key in the ignition, he starts the engine. It’s a roaring sound, much louder than mine, the rumble of it vibrating through my seat.

Shane has to raise his voice to be heard over it.

“How often do you have panic attacks like the one you had today?”

I have to raise my voice as well. “Why does it matter?”

“Just answer my question.”

It’s not a question I want to answer. My panic attacks have always been a source of embarrassment for me, but I’m curious where he’s going with this.

“Not often,” I admit. “Only when life feels out of control. Like a wall is rushing toward me from every side and I’m afraid of being crushed.”

Nodding his head, he steps on the gas just enough to lightly rev the engine. My heart beats faster just to hear it. This car has power. Too much.

“Do you know that a panic attack is caused by adrenaline being dumped in your system? That’s why your breathing picks up, and your heart rate climbs.”

I glance over at him. “Yes. I’ve read up on it. I’ve even seen doctors about it, but I don’t want to take the drugs they offer.”

Another nod. “It’s psychological, Brinley. Because an adrenaline rush can also be a good thing. Almost like a drug people constantly chase. It all comes down to how you look at something, and how you react.”

He’s not exactly correct. And of course, it’s all in the head. But panic usually comes from fear, while an adrenaline rush is more from exhilaration.

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