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She needed him to tell her more. Everything. Down to the most insignificant detail. Quick on his intellectual feet, Westvane gave her just enough. Enough to paint a vague picture. Enough to keep her chasing her tail. Enough to keep her curious, wondering what would pop up next to blindside her, so… yeah. Absolutely. He’d earned the discomfort.

Palming the steering wheel, she pointed toward the passenger door, and mouthed, “Get in.”

Scowling, he approached the car, slowly, acting as though the ’Cuda was a venomous snake about to strike. She swallowed a snort. With a single fingertip, he reached out and popped the latch. The door swung open. He bent in half, eyeing her from beneath the sweep of the curving roofline.

“Westvane — get in.”

His gaze swept the interior. “How?”

“Never been in a car before?”

He shook his head. “Looks like a death trap.”

“Only if you don’t know to drive it. And since I do,” she said, letting the statement hang, “just for you, I’ll keep it under one-twenty.”

He threw her a horrified look. “Miles an hour?”

“I’m an excellent driver.” She wasn’t lying.She.Could.Drive. Better than most race-car professionals. One of her foster fathers taught her. A total gearhead, he hadn’t minded when she helped him in the garage — handing him tools, carting supplies, helping to re-build carburetors and transmissions. Visits to scrapyards all over the city to look for engine parts, though, had been her favorite activity with him. Time spent with him had made up the better part of three years. Until he got a divorce, and she lost her foster family. “And I like my car too much to kill you by crashing it. Get in.”

He frowned.

She reached over the center console and flipped the release handle. The locking mechanism clicked. The passenger seat slid back, giving him more leg room.

“If I die in this thing,” he grumbled, folding his large frame into the bucket seat, “I’m killing you.”

“Paranoid freak.”

He growled at her.

“Close the door,” she said, laughing at him. “We gotta go.”

The door slammed.

Truly turned the ignition key. Her baby roared, coming to life with a snarl.

“Nice,” Westvane said, hearing the engine he couldn’t see. The hood shimmied, moving as the Hemi rumbled beneath steel. “Sounds fantastic.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Throwing the ’Cuda into reverse, she hit the gas and streaked down the driveway backward. The second her tires hit asphalt, she cranked the wheel. The muscle car swung into a one-hundred-and-eighty turn on the street. The heavy frame rocked. The powerful engine growled. She shifted into first, then second and third in quick session, rocketing beneath tree branches arching over the avenue.

Westvane cursed.

She grinned. “Buckle up.”

He reached for his seatbelt.

One hand on the wheel, the other on the shifter, Truly put her foot down, maneuvering around slowpokes on one-ways, avoiding parked cars, pausing at stop signs without stopping completely. Traffic was light. On a couple of side streets kids were out, one group playing basketball, the other with a ball hockey game on the go. She slowed to let them move the nets, then kept going. A few more turns took her out of the neighborhood and onto the Schuylkill Expressway.

The on-ramp turned into an elevated highway.

She took advantage, changing lanes, weaving between cars, catapulting her ’Cuda into stupid speeds.

A death grip on the door, Westvane tore his attention from the road. “Where are we going?”

“Devil’s Pocket.”

“Montrose & Brim is there?”

“Yeah,” she said, downshifting before swinging around a mini-van. “It’s a bad neighborhood, so keep your eyes open.”