Getaway Car [HS]

Chapter Twenty-Six

The parking garage is deserted at this time of night.

Being the pest he is, Harry didn't specify which level of the parking garage to meet him at, so she's been scaling the staircase for the better part of five minutes, peeking her head inside each level to listen for any signs of life. By the time she finds the roof level of the car park, her entire body is strained from it, and she has to take a second to breathe before she walks through the door.

There's a chill in the air. It's something to be expected with it being the second week of November, but she forgot to throw a hoodie on over her long sleeve shirt, and the skirt she wears doesn't do much to protect her from the breeze either.

Her arms cross over her chest as she walks out into the mostly empty top floor of the garage and scans the area in search of her hitman. A few street lamps placed on the perimeter of the parking lot illuminate her path, but she's left mostly in the dark. It takes her an embarrassing amount of time to spot the shadowy figure leaning against the farthest wall of the parking level.

The closer she gets, the better her view of him becomes.

Harry stands with one elbow resting back on the top of the concrete wall to stabilize himself while the other hand is raised to bring a joint to his lips.

It's almost burned down to the end, and she realizes that the smell no longer annoys her as she comes to a stop and leans against the wall beside him. If anything, she enjoys the way it clings to his clothes. The shirt of his she inadvertently stole the day she stayed over at his apartment smells of a mixture of weed, his cologne, and his own personal scent. She would never admit it to him, but she wears it to sleep every night. Once the door to his room is shut and he's gotten all he needs from inside before he retires to the couch for the night, she slips it on over her pajama tank and allows the familiar scent of him to sing her to sleep.

There's no mask covering his face as there always is when they meet up for a hit. The gloves are never missing from his ensemble of clothing, of course, but the lack of a mask causes her brows to furrow.

"Why don't you have your mask on?"

With that, he puts out the lit end of the joint and tosses it over the edge of the roof.

"Cause, we aren't working tonight," he says, then cuts her one of his commanding stares. The type that tells her to follow along without him having to open his mouth to say the words.

And, of course, she is right behind him without question, eager as ever to follow in his footsteps until he leads her off the edge of a cliff. The wind blows around the hem of her skirt and threatens to expose her to the empty rooftop, so she spends the better part of the walk awkwardly petting the fabric down against her thighs.

"What are we doing, then?" she asks.

The question is promptly answered when they come to a stop in front of a parked car. Not just any parked car, either. Sitting in front of her, in all of its legend and glory, is his original 427 Shelby Cobra. It's still the most beautiful car she's ever seen. Painted with its original coloring, it robs her of her breath to see it sitting so close, knowing that it isn't a client at the Auto Shop's but rather Harry's car.

Breaking the silence, she says, "I will literally give you a lifetime supply of blow jobs if you let me drive that."

He cocks a brow at her.

"Is that all upfront or, like, once per week, 'cause I feel like that'd be kind of hard on your jaw?"

She doesn't even dignify that with a response. Instead, she crosses her arms over her chest and turns to him, staring with the same commanding expression he throws her way when he wants her to do something. Although, when she does it, she has all the intimidation of a disgruntled puppy. They remain this way for what feels like a while before he finally bends to the will of her silent demands.