THE LOOK BETWEEN Jeremy and the salesperson puts a dent in my “I’m not going to kill anyone today” outlook. I growl under my breath and open the door, sliding into the driver’s seat and opening my purse. I pull out my driver’s license and hold it out, waiting.
Five seconds pass.
Ten.
Twenty.
I turn, looking up at JagPusher. “That’s what you need, right? For a test drive?”
“Ma’am, this car has only eight miles on it.” The man’s smile is gone, a terse exasperation in its place.
“And?”
“And it costs a hundred and four thousand dollars,” Jeremy whispers loudly from behind the man.
“It seems like, at that price point, you’d be a little more helpful,” I snap, facing forward again, the license still dangling from my hand.
I wait for a long, silent moment, then feel the jerk of plastic as he takes it. There is a pause, and I look over to see him examining the front. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were a distinguished resident of Mulholland Oaks Apartments. Please give the cockroaches my regards upon your return home.” He smiles acidly and spins, a flutter of suit and presumption, and strides toward the dealership, my license firmly in hand, as if he has evidence and is headed for the principal’s office.
I wrap my hands around the steering wheel, gripping the leather tightly, and imagine his neck between my palms, the whites of his eyes as I strangle the life from his chest. The heavy weight of his body as it slumps, dead, against me. I exhale a slow breath and enjoy the vision for one, final, moment before I push it aside.
I feel the car shift as the passenger door opens and Jeremy settles in. I open my eyes and glance his way.
“Nice car,” he remarks casually.
“Yep.”
“Am I a little off base or does—”
“You’re off base,” I interrupt him.
“Really? ’Cause the sticker says a hundred thousand dollars, which is a—”
“A hundred and four thousand,” I correct him. “Don’t presume to know my financial situation.”
That shuts him up and he sits, silent, for a moment, before fully turning to me. “You have a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yep.”
The return footfalls are double in number and I groan, opening the door and preparing for battle, stepping out and turning to face the oncoming pair, my unhelpful salesman and his older suited counterpart, a man whose irritated expression screams of a supervisory title.
“Ms. Madden,” JagPusher begins. “You have no car currently, or previously, registered in your name.”
I fold my arms, catching a glimpse of Jeremy in my peripheral vision. He sits, facing forward, a confused expression on his face, which is adorable enough for me to want to cover him in kisses. “Your point?”
“I don’t think we’re the dealership for you,” the manager says with dismissive authority.
I lean against the car, feeling her straighten underneath me, and grin, my arms still folded over my T-shirt. “You’ve got five minutes to sort out your dick-measuring contest, then I need a key to test drive this car. This one. Not another F-TYPE, or your shitty-ass XFs, or some used Lexus that you have on the back lot. If you don’t get me a key, I’ll call Jaguar corporate, preorder an identical V8 from the next closest dealership, and bitch enough about discrimination that I’ll have it delivered directly to my fabulous apartment at Mulholland Oaks and let your dealership cover the shipping along with any servicing for the next ten years, just to help cover my pain and suffering.” I raise an eyebrow at the men and wait long enough to see indecision in their eyes before sliding back into the driver’s seat and reacquainting myself with my new baby.
Jeremy and I are left alone for less than five minutes before JagPusher returns, passing me a single black key, and stepping back with a pained look. Two minutes later, Jeremy and I are screaming down Highway 244.
Screaming might be a strong term. Softly whistling might be more appropriate. Whatever you’d call hands at ten and two, my foot whisper-soft against the pedal, the car traveling twenty miles under the speed limit and still in second gear. I can practically hear the car scoff at me. But other than my road trip down Murder Lane and the Fireworks Date, I haven’t driven in three, almost four years. So forgive me for not giving this car the proper strap-on fucking it deserves.
“We’re getting passed by minivans.” Jeremy’s voice is quiet, a touch of humor in it that indicates he is smiling.
I don’t look over. Can’t. I’m too scared to take my eyes off the road. I push slightly harder on the accelerator and watch the speedometer creep up to thirty-seven miles per hour, then relax my foot and put on my blinker.
“Where’re we going?”
“Back to the dealership. I’m happy with it.”
“We’ve gone a mile, tops. You haven’t even left second gear.”
Truth is, she scares me a little. I can feel the coil of energy in her body, know, with her quick jump from my pedal, what she is capable of and I respect that—the bundle of madness barely suppressed. I will learn to unleash her. But the fact that I fear her is reason enough for me to buy her. We are connected. We are more similar than Jeremy or JagPusher will ever understand. We both carry a demon inside.