“What did you have in mind, then?”
I wondered if there was some way I might benefit. I wasn’t bad, thanks to Nicolas. He had spent a lot of time over the past two years giving me lessons on slow days. I didn’t know how good Elyas was, but my chances of winning against him couldn’t be too bad.
We maintained eye contact while deciding what to play for, and then blurted our ideas at the same time.
“A kiss!”
“I get to drive the Mustang!”
We eyed each other suspiciously.
“Forget it!” we said in unison again.
A kiss—bleagh! I could read the hunger for the kiss all over his face. There was something seriously wrong with this guy! On the other hand, I was this close to having my hands on the wheel of the Mustang. Unless I lost, which was a possibility I had to reckon with. I considered how big the sacrifice would be if I lost, and decided it would be pretty big—way too big, actually.
But what if I won?
Driving a Mustang—my favorite type of Mustang even—for the first time in my life.
A kiss.
Driving the Mustang.
Maybe just a quick kiss.
Driving the Mustang.
He didn’t say anything about tongue, right?
It was difficult for me to decide, so I approached the issue strategically. My advantage was that Elyas was undoubtedly overconfident about his pool skills, as he was about everything. If he was even remotely a decent player, he would think he was spectacular. His disadvantage was he had no idea how good I was.
I could tell from his face that he was going through a similar strategy session, but a smile suddenly flickered across his face.
“Well, Emely? Are you up to it?”
I hadn’t planned on letting Elyas egg me on, but that smirk of his left me no choice. I nodded.
“Get ready for the kiss of your life, then,” he said, taking my hand.
“We’ll see,” I said, squeezing back. Did I have a screw loose? I wasn’t sure, but I kept that uncertainty to myself.
CHAPTER 8
LOST!
Oh my god! My whole body was shaking. There wasn’t actually any reason to be concerned, but I still felt as though I’d been drenched in ice water.
It was about to happen.
And, yes, I wanted it.
Elyas closed his eyes. He looked like he was as afraid as I was. I came closer, inch by inch, and the closer I got, the faster I breathed.
I heard Elyas sigh but ignored him. I wanted to enjoy this moment all by myself.
One last deep breath, and then it would be done.
You can do it, Emely, I told myself.
With a scratchy sound, I inserted the key into the ignition and twisted. When the loud engine revved, the vibrations coursed through my entire body, driving me nearly crazy with joy.
“Oh my God!” I squeaked. I tilted my head back with my eyelids closed. I had won! I, Emely Winter, had freaking won a game of pool against Elyas Schwarz! Even now, as I sat in the driver’s seat of the Mustang, feeling the rumbling of the engine beneath me, I still couldn’t believe it.
“I actually won!” I blurted out. He wasn’t exactly taking his loss heroically.
“Yeah, I know. I was there. There is absolutely no need to mention it every thirty seconds.”
I smiled. There was no way he could lessen my elation. How could he? I was about to drive this amazing car, and I hadn’t had to kiss him! This was definitely one of my best days in a long time, and nothing could ruin it.
During our game I’d had several panic attacks and had at times really regretted getting mixed up in something so reckless. Because Elyas had played a damned good game. It had been one big nerve-wracking, tension-inducing game for both of us.
Toward the end, we each had only one colored ball left. The pressure was high when I aimed my cue, and—typical me—my luck instantly evaporated, as the ball barely missed the pocket.
With everything set up perfectly for Elyas’s last two shots, I mentally prepared for my downfall. A single colored ball and the eight ball were all that separated me from the kiss. The only thing that could save me now was a miracle.
And a miracle actually materialized. Elyas suddenly got nervous and seemed way less confident than he had before. I’d figured out early on in the game that he was nowhere near as calm as his facade suggested, but he still managed to maintain a certain level of cool. There really wasn’t much of it left by the time he took his final shot.
Events unfolded as though in slow motion: Elyas hit the cue ball, and it rolled across the table, missing his target. It banked off the cushion on the side rail and headed straight for the eight ball, which went right into the pocket.
With that, Elyas was out.
It took me a second to digest that I had won. Then I was swooped up in authentic rapture, which lasted all the way to the driver’s door of Elyas’s Mustang—and which had only intensified now that I had turned on the ignition. It was a totally different feeling sitting behind the wheel, and loads better than sitting in the passenger seat. I could feel the pedals under my feet as my hands stroked the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I leaned back and took a deep breath.
While I could barely contain my elation, Elyas was basically having a nervous breakdown. He wished for nothing more fervently than to call the whole thing off. His attitude made it all the more surprising that he had entered into the wager at all. Presumably, he had not considered the possibility that I might win and he might lose. Too bad.
I sat up, took another deep breath, and was about to step on the clutch when Elyas yelped. “What are you doing?”
“Driving?” I said with a furrowed brow.
“Y-you have no idea how it works!” he stammered, his face growing paler by the second.
I sighed. “Put it in gear, press on the gas, drive?”
“Of course . . . but . . . but you don’t know how the car will respond. This Mustang has three hundred horsepower, which is two hundred ninety-nine more than the beater you’ve been driving!” Fear trembled in his voice. I’d never, ever seen him so nervous, and only now did I realize what I’d been missing.
“Calm down, Elyas. I’ll be careful, all right?”
He didn’t say anything, so I stepped on the clutch and put the car into first gear. Elyas buried his face in his hands. “Please, God, let her driving be better than her jogging,” he prayed.
I tried to curb my excitement before carefully pushing on the gas and slowly easing up on the clutch. The car started moving forward, and it was just . . . wow. Unbelievable. Much better than I had ever dreamed.
I drove the first few yards gingerly; I wanted to get used to the car. Elyas was right—the gas pedal was super-touchy, so I pressed down cautiously. You didn’t have to press much to get a sense of the horsepower. I played with it for a while, testing things carefully, and after a few hundred yards I was able to predict how the car would respond.
“All right, you’ve had your fun. Let me drive now,” Elyas ordered, still tense.
“Forget it,” I laughed. “We just got started.”
“Hello? How long would the kiss have lasted, then?”
He had a point, but kisses and cars were apples and oranges. Basically, it was Elyas’s own fault for agreeing to the bet. Now he had to live with it.
“You think you’re irresistible, right?” I said. “So I’m pretty sure the kiss would have lasted at least three hours.” I smiled.
“Watch the road!” he hissed.
The longer I drove, the more confident I felt and the more aware I grew of the power the Mustang had. Gradually my initial nervousness evolved into sheer fascination. This car wasn’t just some utilitarian means of transportation. No, this was sex on wheels.
We zoomed through Berlin, thundering through the nigh
t, and I tried to take in everything about the experience as intensely as I could. I didn’t know if I’d ever get to enjoy this pleasure again.
Whenever we stopped at a light, I couldn’t resist revving the motor—three hundred horsepower! This earned me the attention of other drivers, who all seemed surprised to find a woman behind the wheel.
In addition to my own Fahrvergnügen, there was the fun of hearing Elyas’s heart fall to his feet each time I squealed the tires as I turned. Though I was reluctant to admit it, he seemed nicer during this car ride than he ever had before. He hardly said a word, and he seemed anxious and insecure.
I never forgot, not even for a second, what a jerk he was, but at this moment that was all different: he had taken off his mask of perfection and seemed almost—I could barely allow myself to think it—human. I had to give him credit for not backing out of our bet, even though it was extremely hard for him, and I wondered if it would have been different if he had won. Normally people can count on me to keep my word, but would I have been able to kiss him? Obviously, I would have lived up to the letter of the bet, if not the spirit, and at least tried to kiss him, but I probably would have reflexively squeezed my lips shut so tightly that it would have taken two weeks to restore full circulation to them.
I could have driven forever. By the end, Elyas had even let go of the sides of his seat for three seconds—just to scratch his nose, but still. His nerves had been strained more than enough. He had lived up to his word, and since we were even, I didn’t want to rub it in his face. After a forty-minute tour, I reluctantly parked the Mustang in front of campus, and heard Elyas exhale in relief.
“God, that was unbelievable,” I said, still in a rush.
“You can say that again,” he said.
I considered saying driving the car was better than sex, but I decided it was better to refrain from saying “sex” in Elyas’s presence. So I leaned back, noticing I had parked where I had first seen the Mustang. I took a long, deep breath. A familiar, special scent filled my nose. It didn’t remind me of a car, actually. It smelled tart, sweet, fresh . . . with notes of other scents I couldn’t describe. It was so subtle that I could have spent the whole day sniffing without getting tired of it. It wasn’t an everyday smell, either—not at all. Yet it seemed so familiar to me, so peaceful. It reminded me of a feeling I couldn’t place. Then I realized that what I was smelling didn’t originate from the car. It came from Elyas. If it wouldn’t have made me look stupid, I’d have asked him what cologne or aftershave it was. My future boyfriend, whoever he might be, would be getting a bottle of it on his birthday—whether he wanted it or not.
My adrenaline rush ebbed more and more, as gentle waves of relaxation flooded my limbs. Elyas seemed to be gradually recovering, too.
“You know what a good winner would do now?” he said, smirking, interrupting the silence.
“No way am I kissing you,” I said. “I guess that makes me a bad winner, huh? But I have a strong suspicion you wouldn’t survive the kiss in your current, emotionally tattered condition.”
“Since when are you so interested in my condition?”
“I’m interested because I wouldn’t want to have to leave your corpse behind in the car and have the police making inquiries and all that.”
“I’d be prepared to take the risk.”
“No chance, Elyas. Your health is far too important to me.”
He exhaled heavily and opened the door to get out. The key is still in the ignition, I thought. I needed only to turn it and peel out . . .
But the criminal plans surging through my mind were so half-baked that by the time I determined the next step Elyas had already opened my door and held out his hand for me.
Geez, how old did he think I was? Eighty? I softly grumbled as I unbuckled, silently bid the car farewell, and exited without taking his hand. He sighed at my refusal, but didn’t seem surprised.
If he really wanted to help, he should arrange for an elevator to be built in his and Alex’s annoyingly tall building!
We stood facing each other. “I’ll admit,” he said with a smile, “for a woman, you drove really well.”
I think he meant that as the greatest compliment I might ever expect from him. “And for a man,” I started, raising my eyebrows, “you were rather pitiful sitting next me in such panic the whole time.”
He raised one corner of his mouth before shrugging. “Whatever,” he said. “This was the first time I’ve ever let anyone else sit behind the wheel, so you’ll have to pardon my panic.”
Whether he would have believed me or not, I understood his panic. In his shoes, I wouldn’t have felt any differently.
“I’m not as unfeeling as you think,” he continued.
Well, obviously not when it came to four-wheeled, metal objects.
“Well . . . ,” I mumbled.
“So can I get a kiss?” he asked.
“No.”
“On the cheek at least?”
“No.”
“What if I give you one on the cheek?”
“No.”
He sighed. “Can I at least put my hand on your belly and see if little Elyas is kicking?”
I could only laugh. “Bastard,” I said. “You, not the baby. And no.”
“That was a pretty dirty trick, you know,” he added.
“Oh, I’m sure you found a perfectly adequate replacement,” I said. The club had been swimming with cover-model types that night.
“No,” he said. “Honestly, I didn’t feel like starting from scratch after that.”
Oh, you poor thing.
“Too bad, so sad,” I said. “You survived, it looks like.”
“After a fashion,” he said, smiling as his turquoise-green eyes stared into mine.
I looked away. “I need to get going. It’s late,” I muttered.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” he said, running his hand along the roofline of his car.
“Thanks for letting me drive the Mustang.”
“It wouldn’t be accurate if I said, ‘You’re welcome,’” he replied, and a brief moment of silence took root between us.
“OK, then,” I finally said. “Good night.”
“Good night, ma belle.”
I furrowed my brow. Did he just call me “ma belle”? Geez, what pills was this guy taking? Definitely something illegal or prescription-only, and hallucinogenic.
I shook my head, turned my back to him, and made my way onto campus. After I’d crossed half the grassy field, I heard the beautiful rumbling of the engine. What had he been waiting for?
I turned around. After a couple of seconds I continued on my way. He had probably stopped to pee in the bushes before driving off . . . Idiot . . .
It was 1:30 a.m. when I reached my room, and Eva was already asleep. I took off my shoes, and since I was way too worked up to go to sleep yet, I grabbed my laptop and sat on my bed. Finally!
Dear Emely,
Sorry it took me a whole day to get back to you. You won’t believe it, but I stopped in a bookstore yesterday and picked up some Edgar Allan Poe. Since I had no clue which of his books to pick, I bought an anthology in five volumes.
What can I say? I started reading first thing this morning, and I couldn’t stop reading until just now tonight.
It was just the way you said—you don’t feel like you’re reading; you feel like you’re part of it.
How can someone describe feelings, people, and environments so beautifully and visually? The language alone is incredible, although the content surpasses everything.
I got so lost in the stories. I need to take a long while to think about them before reading more.
I’m very grateful for the tip, and I think I have a strong sense now of why you’re so passionate about him. What I’m dying to know now, though, is which of his stories are your
favorites.
I liked everything I’ve read so far—especially “Ligeia.”
Even if you think I’m being stupid, I have to say I kept thinking of you as I read it. I wondered what kind of person you are if you love such beautiful stories that are also so gloomy at the same time.
I’m starting to suspect you may be more fascinating than I had imagined.
I promise to write something longer to you tomorrow. But right now I have to get going because I’m headed to a friend’s house.
Have a good night!
Yours, and hoping to see you soon,
Luca
His words had hypnotized me. So often, you expend time and energy explaining things, yet end up feeling that the other person just doesn’t get it. This was different. This was one of those rare instances when, even if just for a moment, I felt light as a feather and understood, deep in my soul.
Dear Luca,
I can’t tell you how touched I am that you went to the trouble of going to a bookstore and buying all those volumes. I don’t know why, but you seem to be authentically interested in my inner life, which is quite unusual for a guy. I don’t know what to say at the moment. (Plus, I’m seriously wondering whether you may be a woman who is trying to pull one over on me . . . Well, only half seriously.)
I couldn’t believe you singled out “Ligeia,” of all of Poe’s stories. That’s my absolute favorite one. If you find yourself fascinated by it, I have to say I feel exactly the same way—nothing else comes close. I have the same experience reading it, even for the twentieth time.
I’m still speechless that you liked it, too. You’re starting to freak me out, buddy.
I’m not going to tell you any of my other favorite Poe short stories yet. Instead, I’m excited to hear which one captures your imagination next. Let’s see what else we may have in common.
At the end of your e-mail, you wrote, “Have a good night!” And you know what? Good doesn’t quite describe it. It was actually incredible.
A long-held dream of mine came true. I can hardly believe it even now, but I got to drive a 1967 Mustang Shelby GT!
You don’t happen to have one, do you? Well, let’s not push things. In any case, the many things we already seem to have in common seem to be plenty for now. For all I care, you can drive a BMW or any other rust bucket.
Cherry Red Summer (Emely and Elyas Book 1) Page 13