Priest (A Standalone Bad Boy Romance Love Story)

by Claire Adams

  “We think there’s a boy,” Dad says. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  I’m agog looking at my dad. How old do they think I am? I’m creeping up on twenty-one and they’re talking to me like I’m just starting to notice men.

  “I don’t see how that’s really any of your business,” I answer.

  Mom grits her teeth. Okay, maybe I am seeing a bit of a change in me.

  “We’re your parents,” Dad says. “You’re our daughter. We love you and we want what’s best for you, but we can’t do anything if you won’t tell us what’s going on with you.”

  “What is going on with me, Dad?” I ask. “I’ve been your perfect little girl my entire life, and you’re really going to go off on me for leaving work early one time?”

  Actually, it was twice that I left work early and I went out with Eli both times. I don’t think either of those facts will be of much help to me here, though.

  “Honey,” Dad says before hesitating.

  “Would it really be the end of the world if I started seeing someone?” I’m tempted to tell them simply out of spite for keeping me locked up, thinking I just wasn’t the “fun-loving type” for the last twenty years or so, but I think better of it.

  “So, you have started seeing someone,” Mom says. “Do you have any idea what it takes to become a doctor?”

  “I’d say I know that better than most,” I start.

  “Constant dedication,” Mom says. “Would you want someone digging around inside you if they were off with boys while they should have been studying?”

  “First off, I’m not interested in boys, I’m interested in men,” I counter. Both my parents’ faces go red, but I’m already in it, so I may as well keep going. “Second off, if I was seeing someone, I don’t think I’d tell you about it because I know how the two of you are. If it’s not about being a doctor, you’re not interested. You think you’re so much better than everyone else!”

  “Go to your room!” my dad growls, rising to his feet.

  “Honestly, how old do the two of you think I am?”

  “It doesn’t matter how young or old you are,” Dad says. “While you’re living under our roof, you’re going to be respectful and mind your mother and me. You’re grounded!”

  He doesn’t appreciate me laughing, but this is just absurd.

  “Whatever,” I say and walk out of the room.

  It’s been a while since I was sent upstairs to my room, but I’m not staying there. Tonight is way too important.

  Tonight, Eli’s taking me to my first race.

  I showered at the hospital before coming home, so all I really have to do now is get changed and get some makeup on and I’m ready to blow this place. By blow this place, of course, I mean sneak out for a few hours and then sneak back in, hoping neither of them decides to come upstairs to talk to me during the interim.

  This is what being a teenager must feel like to other people.

  I get changed, but when it’s time to start on the makeup, I get nervous. If my parents come in here right now, I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t have to explain to either of them why I would want to change out of my hospital clothes.

  If I start with the makeup, though, they’re going to know something’s out of place.

  “Screw it,” I say to myself and grab some foundation just as there’s a knock on my door.

  I set the small bottle on my vanity and walk to the door, but I don’t unlock it.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Dinner’s ready, sweetheart,” Dad answers.

  I scoff. “I’m not hungry,” I tell him.

  “You’ve got to eat something.” There’s a lilt in his voice that wasn’t there when he was sitting next to Mom. Of my two parents, Dad would be the good cop.

  “Maybe I’ll order some pizza and see if they’ll deliver it to my window,” I counter.

  He lets out an uneasy chuckle. “Well, they might have a little trouble getting it up to you on the second floor.”

  “We’ve got a ladder,” I tell him.

  If I’d known I’d come home and turn into Rapunzel, I would have set it up beneath my window before I entered the front door.

  “I don’t like arguing with you,” he says. “And you’re right: you are still my perfect little girl. Your mother and I just worry about you. That’s all. There are a lot of things your generation has to deal with that we never had growing up.”

  “Like cellphones? If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never had one of those, either. I’m pretty sure things haven’t changed that much in the last fifty years.”

  God, I feel so pathetic right now.

  “You’re not like other girls,” he says. “You’re smarter, more determined. You’re more capable. Does it really strike you as odd that we’d want to go out of our way to protect you?”

  I don’t answer. I’m at my window, looking out for some way to get to the grass without breaking anything.

  Even though we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now, Eli’s still never been to my house. I think the reasoning there is fairly obvious.

  “Kate, come on,” Dad says through the door. “Talk to me.”

  “I have nothing else to say. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day and I’d like to try to get some sleep.”

  There’s a pause.

  “All right. Come down if you need anything.”

  Right.

  Now, to figure out a safe way to the ground…

  * * *

  Believe it or not, with the right kind of thread count, you actually can tie bedsheets together and use them as a rope.

  I find Eli at his shop, under the front of his Galaxie.

  “Did you get the transmission replaced?” I ask.

  There’s a loud clang and an even louder expletive before Eli rolls out from under the car.

  “Hey,” he says. “Yeah, I got the transmission switched out, but it’s leaking oil.”

  Mouth open, I breathe in through my teeth. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re not really going to be able to take mine.”

  “Oh, it’s not a big thing,” he says. “I’ve got a patch on it that should hold at least until we get back. Are you ready?”

  “Have you showered?”

  I’m not sure if it’s the oil or the sweat, but he’s a bit ripe.

  “Not yet,” he says. “There’s a shower in the back of the office from when the old owner used to live here. I was expecting you to be a little longer.”

  I check my watch. It looks like I am a bit early.

  “Sorry about that,” I tell him. “I just had to get out of the house, you know?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I’ve been off for a while. I’ve just been trying to get this patched up while I was waiting for you. Do you mind waiting while I jump in the shower?”

  A more daring part of me than I’m used to nearly asks if I can join him, but my frontal lobe kicks in just in time to save me. “That’s fine,” I tell him. “Where should I wait?”

  “There’s a TV in the main office. If you want, you can set up in there. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  I follow him into the office proper, where he shows me to the waiting room before ducking into Maye’s office. She must be off tonight.

  It’s ten o’clock now, and we’re supposed to be at the meet-up spot in an hour.

  Apparently, the way it goes is something like this: everyone who’s racing or tagging along meets up at a gas station or a restaurant, there’s some argument over where to do the run, and, sometime before sunrise, everyone heads to the agreed-upon start point.

  Tonight is just drag races, according to Eli, but it sounds like they set up street courses every once in a while, too. I don’t know how that works just yet, but I doubt it’ll be too long before Eli tells me.

  I sit for a while watching reruns of a sitcom I never caught while it was on the air before Eli comes out of the back, dressed in a black, button shirt and dark pants. He shaved while he was in there, to
o, so his face is nice and inviting.

  “Someone looks snazzy,” I observe.

  He smirks at my word choice and says, “While we’ve got a few minutes, there’s something I want to show you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said your favorite color is violet, right?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Why?”

  “Well, I was hoping to show it to you in the daytime, but I took a picture after it was finished and I wanted to get your reaction.”

  “Okay?” I ask, just as clueless as before the explanation.

  “Here,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He’s messing with it for a minute and then he hands it to me, asking, “How does it look?”

  It’s a picture of his Chevelle, and it’s very, very purple.

  “You did that for me?”

  “Well, after the run last week, it needed a new paint job, anyway. As often as I get new paint on that thing, I figured it was time for a change. Do you like it?”

  He’s smiling and rubbing his hands together, but I’m more than slightly unnerved. I know we’re kind of an unofficial thing now and all that, but it feels a little early to start changing car colors for each other.

  “How often do you change it?” I ask.

  “About once every three or four times I take it out,” he says. “Basically every time I end up with someone on my tail I can’t shake without pulling some stupid crap.”

  Some of the pressure fades, but it still feels like a big thing.

  “Did you want to get something to eat first, or do you just want to head down and see if anyone’s there yet?” he asks.

  “Shouldn’t we wait until like right before? I can’t imagine it’s such a great idea to congregate publicly unless it’s going to be a quick in and out sort of thing.”

  “Oh, the race won’t be anywhere near the meet point,” he says. “That’s just where we meet up, and everyone knows that if it’s not street legal and you’re not about to race it, it needs to be on a truck. Nobody’s breaking any laws for another hour at least.”

  “And we’re not racing tonight?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m probably going to pass on that for another week or two—after the HP has a chance to cool down a little.”

  “Okay,” I tell him. “We can pick something up if you want.”

  We walk back to the shop, and I can’t help but notice that along with the shower, the clean clothes, and the shave, Eli’s also decided to go with some cologne. He hasn’t overdone it by any means, but there’s something in the scent of it that’s just a little off.

  It’s not until we get back to the shop and near the Galaxie that I recognize the smell. It’s oil. His hands are clean, so is the rest of him, but still, beneath the musk of his cologne is the smell of motor oil.

  “Does that ever wash off?” I ask him.

  Apparently, he’s gotten similar questions often enough to have an answer ready to go. “Eventually,” he says, “but it usually takes a couple of days away from this place and some of that grainy soap to do it.”

  This is going to be a constant if things keep going with Eli, I guess. The first couple of times we got together, I didn’t really notice it, but if it’s going to take that long to get the stink off of him, this could turn into a bit of a problem.

  This must be why they call mechanics grease monkeys.

  I’m nervous to get into the car with him, given that it’s an enclosed space, but in here, the cologne does just enough of a job that it’s not really an issue.

  He fires up the engine, and we pull out into the parking lot.

  “I’ve got to lock up real quick,” he says. “It’ll just take a minute if you want to wait.”

  “Sure,” I answer as he gets out of the car.

  As soon as he’s most of the way back to the shop, I roll my window down. Only, the smell gets stronger as I do. I’d really never noticed it before, but knowing what his cologne is supposed to smell like must have made it jump out at me.

  Maybe I just have to get him to stop wearing cologne.

  We get to the meet-up at the old gas station on Stockholm Blvd, and I’m already a little overwhelmed.

  I was expecting five cars, ten at the very most, but the parking lot is jammed with nearly every nice car I’ve seen driving around town. People are out of their cars, looking under hoods, chatting, arguing.

  “So, do people ever call the cops when you’re trying to figure out where to go?” I ask.

  “Not really,” he says. “They used to, but now we have a rule that if we meet up in front of an actual store, everyone buys something before we go. Thirsty?”

  “Sure.” After that, Eli was right. It’s just a lot of waiting.

  Everybody seems to want to race, but nobody wants to agree on a place to do it.

  “Is there something I should be learning here?” I ask. “Like are they talking about which places are best to race or are they just trying to get out of it?”

  “It’s a little bit of both,” he says as we just walk around. “Everyone wants to look like the one, but not everybody can hack it. They bargain down to a car they think they can beat in a place they think they can beat it, and that’s when something will actually happen.”

  Eli tells me all kinds of things about the different cars as we go past, none of which I can remember or remotely understand, before finally it’s starting to look like there’s a growing consensus among the guys in the middle arguing.

  Then, a few more cars show up and nobody can agree on anything once again.

  This goes on for way too long.

  I’m considering having Eli take me home when he nods toward one end of the parking lot where people are starting to get in their cars.

  We make our way to Eli’s, gathering the location of the start line as we go, then follow behind everyone else.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he answers, “Rochester and Cedar Hill. We’ll probably get a couple of runs in there, and if you’re not sick of it, we can follow them to the next spot.”

  I nod and look out the window.

  Everyone in the pack is driving surprisingly courteously. I’ve been expecting revving engines and shrieking tires, but it’s sedate; however, there is a tension in the air. It’s like a surgery before the first cut.

  We’re about a block away from the intersection when Eli pulls over, parking diagonally against the curb, leaving about a foot of space between concrete and bumper.

  “We’re here,” he says. “We can stay here and watch so we can be close to the car in case they try to break it up, or we can go closer to the starting line and watch the burnouts and all that.”

  “Burnouts sound like fun,” I answer.

  “All right,” he says. “Do you want a play by play or do you just want to watch?”

  “Play by play.”

  Eli takes my hand, guiding me through the crowd of people moving toward the intersection.

  “Can I ask you something?” he asks as we duck between two people.

  “What’s that?” I return.

  “How did you get so interested in this? It doesn’t sound like you’ve really ever been into racing and now you want to get out there and do it yourself. Don’t get me wrong: I think it’s awesome. It’s just, you know, there are cheaper hobbies—safer hobbies, too.”

  “Would you rather I wasn’t so interested in it?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “I just don’t want you to think you have to pretend to like something if you don’t. I’d rather you tell me if something bothers you than just go on pretending you’re feeling great while you’re thinking about jumping in front of one of the cars.”

  We’re finally to the point in the crowd where we can’t get any closer without becoming a lot more familiar with these strangers than I would like to be. But, Eli’s not quite done yet, and he shoulders his way between two people, and then two more, until we get to the front.

&
nbsp; About twenty feet away from the starting line now, we’re standing on the edge of the curb. There are some people crowded in between the cars on the street, but we can see just fine from here.

  “All right,” he says. “After they get the cars in place, they’re going to put down a mix of methanol and traction compound to treat the road.”

  “Treat the road?”

  He nods. “It helps a lot off the line,” he says. “They’ll do a burnout along the groove after they’ve lit the compound and it’s gone out. Then, they’ll go back and set up on the rubber they left on the road. You get a much better launch. Is all this making sense so far?”

  “I think so,” I tell him. “It’ll probably help when I see it.”

  About then, two men go out into the street, in front of the two cars that are lined up to race, carrying what look like one liter water bottles. They spray the road with some kind of liquid I’m assuming isn’t water and two more people follow them, setting the trail aflame.

  They do this for about fifty or sixty feet and then run off to the sides. The cars on the line fire up their engines and roll forward.

  “Oh right,” he says. “They’re going to put down a good puddle’s worth of traction compound in front of the drive tires to start the burnout and get the tires heated up enough to lay down-”

  Eli’s voice is drowned out as the back wheels start to go and the smoke fills the air. I may not have the specifics down yet, but I think I get the general idea.

  At one point, one of the cars catches some traction and roars down the road a ways, leaving a dark set of lines on the ground where a decent portion of his tires used to be. Then the other one goes.

  They pull back to the beginning of their tracks, and I’m looking along the road, wondering why nobody else has tried coming down the street. It’s hard to tell from where I’m standing, but I think they’re blocking the intersections.

  A woman wearing more clothes than I would have expected, having seen some of the movies Eli teased me about back at Grog Hill, walks out into the street. She points to one car, then the other.