“Hey,” a soft voice comes.
It’s Kate.
“I thought you already left,” I tell her.
“Nope,” she says. “Just on my way down to clock out now.”
“Ah,” I answer.
I’m freezing.
Why the hell am I freezing?
“So,” she says, “your friend tells me you’re into racing.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I guess you could say that.”
She leans toward me and whispers, “He says you two run an illegal racing club.”
Mick is a friend, but Mick is an idiot.
“He likes to talk big. I do race, and I do usually meet up with a lot of the same people, but I don’t own anything except my car, and as far as illegal—who’s to say? I don’t pay attention to politics.”
“Legal, illegal is just politics, huh?”
“No,” I answer. “What?”
What is my problem?
“Well,” she says, a moment before the ding of the elevator, “are you going down?”
Without an actual word, I follow her onto the elevator.
The doors close.
We’re standing next to each other, both facing the front.
The elevator’s slow, but the hospital’s only three stories high. If I’m going to stop acting like an idiot and make any kind of headway here, I’m going to have to move fast.
While I’m telling myself all of this, trying to really get that motivation going, Kate is reaching into her purse and pulling out a card. She hands it to me.
“If you’re ever free,” she says, “you should take me for a ride sometime.”
Words would be an excellent thing to use right now. I’m not even sure it would matter so much which words they were, just saying something would be an improvement.
She must notice that I’ve stopped blinking because her face is going red and she’s covering her mouth as she points and laughs at me.
Mick put her up to this. No wonder he was willing to go along with that bet. Sure, I strong-armed him into it, but that was just part of his plan. Mick may seem like an idiot—and he is, but...
Okay, I really don’t know how to finish that sentence.
“I’m sorry,” Kate says through her wheezing laughter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Well, don’t take pity on me,” I tell her.
“I meant I’d like to go for a ride in your big race car,” she says, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as her laughter overfills the space inside the elevator.
“Oh,” I say, cracking a smile, myself. “Oh, okay, so you’re not just playing some practical joke on me, you just misspoke.”
She furrows her brow, but her shoulders are still moving up and down.
The elevator doors open again and Kate walks out, turning her head on the way, saying, “Seriously, give me a call sometime.”
I smile and look down at the card. It has her first name—that’s encouraging. It’s impossible to know whether or not anything else on the card is accurate, but it is a good start.
This is definitely enough to win the bet with Mick, even if she did just try to give me the brush. I guess Mick didn’t have anything to do with it after all.
Sure, it may seem heartless winning a bet against some guy in the hospital, especially after he was so pompous about his chances. What makes it funny is that I never intended to hold him to the debt.
I just wanted there to be a scenario where he’d be completely aware that Kate’s not interested in him. Now that she’s given me her card and she’s already agreed to check in on Mick more often than she already has been, thus forcing the two to be in the same room, rubbing his face in the fact that she never actually liked him, it’s fair to say I’ve hit the jackpot.
Hey, the world’s a cold place.
Even better, I get to take a beautiful woman “for a ride.” Maybe she’s not quite as timid as I thought she was.
Chapter Three
Dinner and a Set of Earplugs
Kate
“Could you pass the peas?” I ask.
It’s the third time I’ve asked in the last five minutes.
“So then,” Mom says, “we get in there, and it’s like a bomb went off, okay? His spleen didn’t just rupture; it exploded.”
“Do we have to do this every time we sit down to dinner together?” I ask.
My dad looks at me. He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but turns back toward my mother, asking, “Were you able to remove the remnants?”
I get it. My parents are both doctors. This is just something I’m going to have to live with, but it would be wonderful if, just once, the three of us could sit at a dinner table and not talk about who had a more disgusting day at work.
“It took a while,” Mom says. “Surgery like that, you don’t want to miss anything.”
“Oh, I know,” Dad says in his never-ending attempt to convince Mom he’s just as much a doctor as she is. “You don’t want to leave anything floating around in there.” He’s not very good at it.
“Oh, and then, I was getting washed up after Mrs. Johnstone’s appendectomy, and I couldn’t find my wedding ring,” Mom says.
“Uh-oh,” Dad responds.
There’s a false alarm story like this every time we eat together. My only solace is that between all of our schedules, we really only eat dinner together once, sometimes twice a month.
What I want to do is get my own place.
Mom and Dad aren’t that bad, I guess. They treat me like I’m still a teenager, which is frustrating, but I don’t think their hearts are in the wrong place.
The problem is that I like going to college. Maybe I’d want to switch minors if it wouldn’t mean I’d lose my free parental financial aid, but even going through the motions to be a boring doctor like Mom and Dad is reason enough to play by the rules.
I could always go into research. I’ve never been huge on looking at, talking about, thinking of, or otherwise interacting with or acknowledging the inside functions of a person’s body, but if I don’t actually have to be in the room for it, I bet it wouldn’t be that big of a problem.
“So, I’m wheeling Mrs. Johnstone in to get an X-ray of her abdomen to see if I can spot the ring in there—she’s still out, by the way-” Mom continues.
Dad’s cracking up. “Did anyone see you?”
“I told Dr. Bloomberg that Mrs. Johnstone had-” Mom bursts into laughter.
I guess the worst part of my plan to move out is that I don’t have anything beyond, “I want to move out of here.” With school and work that doesn’t pay me, it’s not like I can just go check out apartments in my free time. Even if I had free time, to get an apartment, a person needs an income.
I don’t think an allowance counts.
Mom’s still trying to collect herself enough to tell Dad what she said to Dr. Bloomberg when the phone rings. I’m out of my seat as soon as I hear the sound.
It’s been a while since I saw Eli. I would have thought he would have called by now.
This would be a lot easier if I had my own cell phone, but again, no paying job and no time to find, much less work at, a paying job means I get to live without some of the nicer things.
Luckily, my parents couldn’t care less about the phone right now.
“Hello?” I say, answering.
“Hi, is this Kate?” a man’s voice asks.
I’m not quite sure if it’s Eli’s. I think it is, but it’s not like we’ve spent a lot of time together, either. Of course, the only people that ever call me are Mom and Dad. Paz would call if she wasn’t afraid of my mom picking up the line. Paz may be a malcontent, but she doesn’t cross my mother.
“Yeah, who’s this?” I ask.
“It’s Rans-” he stammers. “It’s Eli.”
Can I really date someone who goes by the name Ransom? I guess I’m not really dating anyone else.
“Hi, Eli,” I say.
Whew. That was tou
gh.
“Hey,” he says. “You told me to give you a call if I had some free time to take you for a ride in my car.”
It’s a statement, so I’m not sure if he’s got something else coming or if he’s waiting for me to answer.
“Yeah?” I eventually respond.
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve got anything going on or not, but I was thinking maybe we could do that tonight.”
He’s talking a little faster than before. Could it be possible he’s just as nervous right now as I am? Maybe it’s one of those spider things: they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.
I’m probably just reading too much into it.
“I can’t take the Chevelle out right now, but I did just get my Galaxie fixed,” he says.
I love car talk. It’s never made any sense to me at all, but guys just sound so confident when they’re going on about them.
“Okay,” I say. “When did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking maybe an hour or so? If you’re up for it, there’s something I think you might like to see, but it is kind of time-sensitive,” he says.
“What is it?”
“Have you ever watched the sun set from the top of a hill overlooking the undeveloped parts of the valley?”
“Spectacular, is it?” I ask. We’re going to have to work on Eli’s romantic talk. It seems to me that he missed an opportunity for a more enticing description.
“A few people go up there,” he says. “It’s pretty cool. I was thinking maybe we could pick up some dessert on the way. Sound good?”
He’s no Cyrano de Bergerac, but at least it sounds like he’s trying.
“All right,” I tell him. “Did you want to do dessert first or just go straight for the sunset?”
Oh, Kate. Oh, silly, stupid Kate.
I cover the phone. This is so not my game.
“What I meant, was did you want to go watch the sunset first or did you want to do dessert first?” I correct, but he’s quiet for a few more seconds before responding.
“If you want, we could pick up something on the way and eat when we get there,” he says.
“That sounds good, but would you mind if I meet you somewhere? There’s kind of a family thing going on at the house right now, and my parents can get a little uptight when they’re not expecting someone to drop by the house.”
“That’s fine,” he says.
We agree to meet at Soeur Torsadée. I’ve never been there, but Eli insists that he’s paying, so I go along with it.
I’ve never actually gotten takeout from a nice French restaurant. I didn’t know nice French restaurants even did takeout.
When I get back to the dining room, I avoid my parents’ eyes as I interrupt the hilarity of Mom finding her ring in her locker, “Where it always is.”
“Hey, I’ve got to run to the library for a little bit,” I tell them. “There’s some research I need to do for a paper.”
To them, as long as it’s about school, I pretty much have carte blanche. I get changed into something befitting the evening, a slinky red dress, and I’m on my way.
When I get to the restaurant, though, I’m more than a bit confused.
Given the name of the place, I was expecting something provincial, classy, possibly understated, maybe over the top. What I’m seeing instead are servers dressed up in the height of ’80s fashion down to the men’s blouses and universal big hair while Twisted Sister blares over the sound system.
It’s not so bad, but this is one of those times when a cell phone would be convenient.
A woman wearing torn jeans and a faux-leather jacket comes up to me, asking, “Just one tonight, girl?”
“I’m actually waiting for someone,” I tell her. “We were going to do takeout.”
“Rad,” the woman says and walks back behind the long counter.
Luckily, I’m not waiting too long.
“Hey there,” Eli says. He’s not in ’80s getup like the restaurant’s employees, but he’s dressed down a lot farther than I am. I guess the chic dress was a bad bet.
“Hey,” I respond. “What is this place?”
“Really?” he asks perplexingly. “I would have thought you’d be pretty familiar with the place by now.”
I narrow my eyes a little, peering at him. “Why would you think that?” I ask.
Nobody knows the depth of my love of ’80s hair metal. Nobody will ever know.
“I have a bit of a confession to make,” he says.
Here it comes. The guy’s probably a stalker who keeps a pet bunny in his house as a pet—only it’s not a pet bunny, it’s a raccoon, and it definitely hasn’t had its shots. I bet he’s named the raccoon Gerald, and for some reason, he’s going to expect me to know why he would name a bunny that’s actually a raccoon Gerald, and if I can’t guess the answer, he’s going to let the raccoon loose, it’s going to attack me, and I’m going to die of rabies.
“I was visiting with Mick in the hospital a few days ago and your friend was the nurse covering Mick’s room,” he says. “If it helps at all, I didn’t ask her to give me dirt on you; she mentioned you were a vegetarian. I thought you might like something to snack on while we’re at Grog Hill.”
I’m not sure which meaty dessert I might have been duped into eating, but it’s a nice gesture.
“We’re Not Gonna Take It” comes over the stereo and loud cheers erupt. Eli looks toward the center of the restaurant, and I’m just trying to hide my goosebumps. We should probably go sooner than later.
I’m not really all that hungry, but I do order some baklava, mostly because I’m surprised they have it. Eli gets some vegan chocolate truffles and we’re on our way.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
I briefly consider taking my own car, that way I can always leave early if it’s looking like things aren’t going too well. I like that. At the same time, I did want to see what it was like to ride passenger with a real life street racer behind the wheel, and I did kind of tell Eli as much.
“Just don’t get me arrested. That’s bad first date etiquette.” My voice is wavering a bit.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Shall we?”
I nod and we walk out of the restaurant to the parking lot behind.
“So, which one’s yours?” I ask, looking over the dozen or so cars parked in the back.
I’m no expert, but I can usually tell which cars are supposed to be fast. There’s a little red sports car, though it looks a bit small for Eli. There’s a new Corvette—I know those ones—but it’s got a flowery necklace hanging from the mirror.
“That one,” he says, pointing toward the far end of the lot.
“Which one?” He can’t be pointing at the old, rusted-out aircraft carrier with four wheels like it appears he is. “Oh, that black one with the sunroof?” I ask. “What is that, a Honda something?”
“No, it’s the Galaxie right at the end of the lot.”
“Oh,” I say, painting on a smile. “That should be…fun.”
“I know it doesn’t look like much,” he says. “Okay, it’s not much, really, but what it lacks in visual appeal, reliability, functionality, safety, comfort, fuel economy, and decent steering, it more than makes up for it with the experience of the ride.”
“Yeah,” I say. For no reason I’m aware of, I add, “Totally.”
“You’re kind of wishing it had been a French restaurant and that the car was a Ferrari aren’t you?”
The statement is a bit surprising for its self-deprecation, but as we start walking, I see that smile only growing.
“Would that have been so hard?” I ask.
He chuckles. “You’d be surprised at how many incredible things look unappealing before you get to know it,” he says.
“I sense a metaphor,” I tell him.
“What? Oh, you think I’m talking about myself? No, I’m incredibly appealing before, during, and after you get to know me. I was talking about the car. It’s got spunk
.”
And there’s the cockiness I’ve come to know and wonder if I could handle on a long-term basis.
For now, my dwindling sense of spontaneity keeps me moving forward.
Inside, the car’s got that same smell that all cars over thirty years old have. It’s the scent of a mustier time. The vinyl seats are cracked, but “Ransom” here was nice enough to set down a towel. My legs still get pinched, but at least I’m not as worried about blood being drawn just by sitting.
When I get home, I’m going to write the words, “Never go out with anyone you meet in the hospital,” a few hundred times.
He turns the ignition without the use of a key, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve just become an accessory to grand theft auto. As soon as the engine fires up—and it takes a minute—I start to understand what he was trying to tell me.
It’s one of those sounds older people would describe as something you don’t hear anymore. The engine is loud but deep, and the rumble would be a pretty decent massage if the seats weren’t split.
He pulls out of the parking lot, slowly. I anticipate some show of power as we’re pulling out, but Eli just eases it out when he’s got plenty of room and we start going.
“It’s kind of loud!” I yell over the growing noise of the engine.
“What?” he shouts back, and I’m not sure if he’s messing with me or not.
“Where’s Grog Hill, anyway?” I ask. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a spot I know just outside town!” he bellows just above the roar of the car.
I’ve been so busy trying to read his lips I hadn’t noticed that we’re now doing seventy-five on the forty-mile-per-hour road out of town.
We come to a gentle curve, but Eli slows down for it like it’s a right angle. Going only twenty around the bend, the top of the car pitches violently toward the outside of the curve and for a second, I honestly think we’re about to roll.
Did I mention the car has no seatbelts?
I get the sensation I’m lying down on one of those carnival rides that spin you against a wall, but Eli’s expression couldn’t be more serene.
We come through the curve and the car rocks side-to-side. He’s got his foot back on the gas, and I’m squealing in fear and surprise.
Shifting Gears: The Complete Series (Sports Bad Boy Romance) Page 3