Adam trailed his hand down the smooth, shark-nosed curve of the Camaro’s hood. It was a burnt orange color, with boyish black racing stripes down the center.
Before he could stop himself, Adam’s mind supplied him with the usual fantasy that got him through a night of leaving smudgy fingerprints on the rims of cars he’d never be able to afford.
He pictured opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat, the swell of the steering wheel filling his palm, one hand caressing the gear shift.
He imagined owning this car, driving it, being the kind of boy who could and would own such a thing. Releasing the clutch to shift gears and hitting that sweet spot every time, cool and careless, hot-blooded and fearless.
He could almost feel the key in his hand. This kind of old car was always so loud, and he imagined driving with the window down, the wind combing its fingers through his hair, being pressed back into the bucket seat by sheer horsepower.
Adam blinked, and he was Adam again, dusty fingertips skimming the shimmering orange paint job. He dropped his hand to his side, where it hung limply.
“It’s a nice car,” he said, hating the way nice came out of his mouth, more ah than ice.
“Not really,” the boy said carelessly, and Adam looked up sharply, something tarry bubbling sluggishly in his gut. “And anyway, I didn’t ask if it was nice. I asked if you liked it.” The boy met his gaze steadily, and Adam realized with a start that the question, usually a sign of insecurity or condescension in other boys, had been a genuine one.
“I like it,” Adam said quietly. He thought perhaps he was expected to justify his answer, but he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound sycophantic in his country drawl.
The boy’s face split into a smile, and Adam found himself smiling back, helpless under the dazzling onslaught of absolute pleasure. He wondered, dazed, if the question had been a litmus test of sorts, and found himself profoundly thankful that he’d somehow stumbled into the correct answer.
Adam cleared his throat. “Why’d you pull over?”
A brooding expression fell over that perfect prep-school face, and Adam knew a sense of devastation at the loss of that smile.
“Something with the engine, I think. Maybe the brakes.”
“The brakes?” Adam was not quick enough to school the contempt from his tone. What a waste. He had no respect for boys who owned cars like this and had not the slightest idea how they worked. Even ones who looked like a young Adonis and made Adam want to scramble to please them.
The boy merely spread his hands to express his helplessness. “I was about to call a tow.”
Adam sighed. “Don’t bother. Boyd’s out of town. I’d be the one taking your call anyway. I’ll diagnose your engine-slash-brake problem, and see what I can do.”
Adam popped the hood, but the boy caught hold of Adam’s hand as he made to curl his fingers under the edge. “Wait.”
Adam ignored the way the boy’s touch tingled all the way down his arm to his shoulder. “I’ve handled nice cars before. I’m not gonna scratch it.”
The boy waved this off. “I don’t doubt your credentials.”
Of course. Everything about Adam screamed working class. I don’t doubt your credentials. “Then what?” Adam snapped.
“I want you to show me how to do it.”
Adam eyed the other boy. He seemed to be in earnest. For a moment, Adam allowed himself the insane fantasy of sliding into this boy the way he had imagined sliding into his car.
“Adam,” he said finally. “My name is Adam.”
The boy’s face once again lit up in a smile. “Gansey.”
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