Chase Me
Authors: Elizabeth York
Copyright @ 2016 by Elizabeth York
First Print April 2016
Editing by L. Hampton at Editing For You
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The moral right of Elizabeth York as an author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locales, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.
A special dedication goes out to my betas, without you I think I would life in a paradise of self-doubt and depression. Thank you for showing me the way with each book on our journey.
If you are reading this, you have loaded a unedited version of this book. This means Amazon did not update as requested.
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This is the story if you continue reading, but the storyline has changed in fragments and edits have fixed my inability to spell, place commas, or remember tenses when I am binge typing
Sorry for this mix up,
Elizabeth York
“Hey Mike, what is in the shop today?” I asked as I walked in the garage. I often found myself visiting so I could sit in the classics, rev their engines, and feel the leather beneath my skin. I loved classic cars. They were my kryptonite that I somehow inherited from the man whose condom broke and made me.
“We got a ’66 Fastback over there that just came in,” he pointed over to a cherry red Ford Mustang getting ready to be worked on.
I walked over to it, running my fingers across the hood as I closed my eyes and envisioned myself behind the wheel. I opened my eyes to grab the handle, open the door, and climb inside. I quickly shut the door, gripped the wheel, and envisioned the car was mine. I could almost feel the wind in my hair as I opened her up on the track. I could imagine her vibration from the horses revving to life.
This car was a wet dream for a girl like me.
“You are usually a Chevy girl. Are you coming over to my side? The Ford side?” Mike asked as he wiped oil and grease from his hands onto his coveralls. I took in his beer belly that had gotten bigger as the silver in his hair shined brightly today.
I got out of the car and walked around the front of it and lifted the hood.
“I’m still a Chevy girl, but even girls like me walk the line when it comes to the 1966 Ford Mustang GT Fastback with the 289 V8 that produces 225 titillating horses. God, what I wouldn’t give to own this car or even get bent over the hood for a classic tryst.”
“I’m going to ignore every sexual innuendo you say about these cars. They are not toys that take AA batteries,” Mike laughed. “This one isn’t your dads, so no rendezvous. I can’t let you take it out for a joy ride.”
I pouted my bottom lip and then laid back on the hood and stared up at the metal rafters.
“Couldn’t you just see it? Taking it out to some deserted winery and parking to enjoy a picnic during the day and then when the sun goes down you lay on the hood and watch the stars make their entrance. Soaking it all in before you take her to the track and let her purr like every woman should late at night.”
Mike merely shook his head and walked over to work on a blue Bel-Air. I climbed off the hood and wiped down the Mustang with a chemise, and then ventured over to see what he was working on.
“Where did this one come from?”
“Guy who brought in the Fastback brought this one in too. He said his grandfather died and left him everything on the property. He found three cars in pristine condition in an old garage at the back of the lot. It’s a shame whoever stored them only took care of the interior and body of the two he brought in. The motor has been sadly neglected,” Mike replied as I leaned over and looked inside the dirty motor.
“This is a 1955?” I asked and Mike began to laugh because the Bel-Air was my favorite car. I had wanted one for a long time, but I refused to ask my seed-dad for one. My blood churned as the excitement rose that my dream car was in the garage. I couldn’t wait to steal it for a joyride. “This is a 1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air.”
“You always talk about this one. You think you know it so well can you figure out what is wrong with it?” Mike laid down a challenge and my entire body lit up.
“Ready for an education in classic cars from a girl?” I asked as rolled up the red sleeves on my sweater and leaned in. I started looking for commonly known problems in this model.
“Whenever you are ready. I think you just like to race older cars, and don’t respect the beauty. Besides I have been looking it over for three days, you will not find the problem in the next few minutes,” Mike spoke his peace and I was about to correct him.
“This is a 1955 Chevy Bel-Air, in gloss black with white interior that looks like it rolled off the factory floor. That tells me this car wasn’t driven much, which means any number of things could be wrong with it. Let’s start with the engine shall we?”
I took a deep breath and smiled as I saw what could be wrong. Mike quietly snickered as I started going through his boxes of parts and tools that were in no way organized.
“Now I’m going to fix the car and educate you, so listen close,” I started with waving vice grips as I talked. “This car has a 265-cubic-inch overhead valve V8 engine that was made to be smaller, lighter, and more powerful, but it was also similar to that of the V8 in the Oldsmobile which carried a problem. In this model, you have what they called a ‘y-block.’”
I found an old part I needed and grabbed the rest of my tools and a hair tie to keep my long blond hair out of my face. Then I walked over and leaned into the motor.
“You still haven’t told me what is wrong with it. You merely described the engine. Guess the Chevy girl doesn’t know everything about her dream cars,” Mike taunted me, but I merely put my finger over my lips and told him to hush.
“Mike, it saddens me to tell you this, but I know what is wrong,” I stated sarcastically as I set to work on the car. “Bring me the hanging light please,” I requested and Mike hooked it up so I could see better as the sun was going down and there was only so much light in a giant tin garage.
“What is wrong with it?” Mike asked and I pointed at the oil line. “No, I already checked that.”
“Tsk, you should listen to a woman who knows her cars. You see the y-block was tragically designed by your Ford company and severely flawed.”
“It was not flawed,” Mike started to debate who had the better cars when I grabbed him a metal chair so I could school him once more.
“Bet me,” I challenged. “You pay my half of the rent this month and I will fix the car.”
“You are so on,” Mike took my hand in his. He should have known everything about this model before bringing in a beautiful car like this. “But if you can’t get it running you work with me on the cars down here every day for a month. I am back-logged.”
“I’ll help you when my sperm-exploder isn’t around,” I agreed and then we shook hands.
“Deal,” we both said simultaneously.
I walked back over and began working on the car. I loved the feel of the metal and rubber sliding through my fingers. I was such a tomboy growing up. Still was. My mom went through so many men that I got a full education on classic cars from her boy toys and Mike.
“Mike, in this model with the block there is a deep yet tiny passage going from the crankcase to the cylinder heads. Finding it is as hard as a virgin finding a g-spot during his first time. It’s possible if you know where to look in advance.”
Mike burst out laughing at my comparison and shook his head as I ran my fingers along the tubing. I felt the pressure on the ending where it went into the motor, and knew all I had to do was get it lose and the oil would drain out enough for me to flush the line.
