Page 29 of A Real Goode Time

In less than half the time it would have taken me working alone, the job was done. I used a handful of rags to clean and polish the engine, making sure the headers and the chrome top of the Edelbrock air cleaner gleamed, made sure the wires were neatly leading where they had to go, checked over all the obvious things once more, and then stood back, nodding.

“There she is, looks good.” I grinned at Torie. “Keys are in it—you want to do the honors?”

She looked eager, giddy. “Hell yeah!” She slid behind the wheel, and a moment later that big old 440 turned over and caught with a throaty snarl, the fat exhaust pipes turning the snarl into thunder as she revved it up.

I saw the thrill on her face—the feeling you only get when a big motor sings like that. “Wanna go for a spin?”

Her eyes widened. “Um. I mean, yeah? But it’s a client’s car.”

I winked. “Gotta put it through some paces, make sure there’s no rattles or hiccups at higher RPM.”

“Sure you do,” she said, with a droll grin.

“I do! I always go for a test drive, listen to the motor, make sure everything is right.”

She shrugged. “I mean, I’d love to go for a spin. But you better drive.”

I slid into the passenger seat. “You have a license?”

“Yeah.”

“You know how to drive a stick?”

“Yeah—my dad taught me how to drive on the MG, which was a manual. Said knowing how to drive stick was a dying art and I should know.”

“It is a dying art, these days. There’s a joke that says having a manual transmission almost makes your car theftproof because most younger car thieves can’t drive a stick.” I gestured at the bay door, which I’d opened several hours ago to let in sunlight. “Nice and slow, Torie. Take her around the block and then we’ll switch.”

She eyed me. “You’re sure? I don’t want anything to happen. I’d feel awful.”

“Just be careful.” I grinned. “Now come on. Listen to that purr…this old beast is begging to be driven.”

She pushed the clutch in, snugged the shifter into first, glanced at me with a heady, eager grin that shot straight to my gut…and then slid us slowly out of the garage. A few turns took us out of the industrial complex and onto a side street, and then to the main road. It was a Saturday morning, and the industrial area was deserted. When we got to the main road, she pulled a slow right and I held out a hand for her to stop.

She braked, glanced at me. “Ready to take over?”

I shook my head. “You should know, first, that I have an understanding with the officer who patrols this area. He knows I do burnouts to test my work, and as long as I’m not driving recklessly or pulling burnouts during business hours, he doesn’t pay me any mind.”

She grinned, a wobbly one as she started to understand what I was getting at. “Rhys, I’m not—”

“Ever do a burnout in a muscle car?”

“No, and I—”

“I tuned her a little in the rebuild. She’s running three hundred and seventy-five horses and four hundred and ninety pound-feet of torque. A real bitch of a beast. She’ll put your hair back without even trying hard.” I grinned at her. “Give it a shot. Hold the clutch in and rev ’er up to redline. Once it hits redline, pop the clutch and hold on tight.”

She looked nervous. “What if I—”

“You won’t. It’s easy. We’re on a four-lane road, deserted, at ten on a Saturday morning. No one for miles, babe. You start to get twisted around a little, just pull off the accelerator and straighten her out.”

“You’re sure?”

“Everyone oughta know the thrill of popping the clutch on four hundred horses at redline. There’s nothing like it.” I buckled up, and she did the same. The engine was idling, and we were, naturally, in the far right lane. “Pull over so you’re in the middle of the road. Go when you’re ready.”

She nudged the Nova over to the center, pressed the clutch in, took a deep breath, and then slowly depressed the accelerator. As the engine revved higher and higher, the roar turned into a deafening howl, and then it was at redline. I saw her clench her jaw, eyes wide, and then she let the clutch out all at once—rubber screamed and white smoke billowed as the rear tires spun, and we skidded and bounced and almost floated sideways, and then the tires caught and an invisible hand slammed us back into the seats as we rocketed forward. She was screaming with nervous, excited energy, the thrill of wild acceleration drawing a peal of childlike laughter, wonder and glee lighting up her face. She hit sixty in under five seconds, easily, and then I felt her slack off the pedal and we slowed to street legal speeds.

She glanced at me, her eyes wild. “Holyshit.”

“Right?”