My Girlfriend Bites (Young Adult Paranormal Werewolf Romance)

Chapter 4

Aiden

The rain stings me like a horde of angry bees as I slog across the bus loading zone. I do the short-cut across the baseball field and reach the concrete jungle…this huge block of retail stores and shopping centers with tons of heavy traffic. I have to cross in the middle of all this junk to get home. My shirt and jeans are soaked and glued to my skin. My bones feel like popsicles.

When I reach the main intersection of the jungle, I push the cross-walk button. I have to fight liquid misery for two minutes before the stupid traffic light changes. Finally I get the flashing green man and start to jog across three rows of stopped cars. The car in the middle lane slows me to a crawl.

It’s huge, black, and nasty looking…but in, like, a sick way. That’s Bree’s car.

I glance at the windshield. The metal wipers swoosh back and forth in perfect rhythm. The rain makes it hard to see through the glass, but I know it’s her car. Four round headlights shine against the grayness, with a long metal grill that separates the headlights into groups of two. The flashing-red hand now warns me to get my ass to the other side. I clear the crosswalk and continue along the sidewalk, making my way along Mingo Road.

There’s a huge puddle nearby. This Lexus rolls towards it. The lady driver talks on the phone while oblivious to what she’s about to do. Her tires plow through the puddle, launching a big wave that strikes me in the face. I’m so wet now I shouldn’t care, but that lady should be paying attention to us poor pedestrians who don’t have our license yet. Girls suck at driving anyway.

A distant horn sounds. I ignore it. With all the traffic and the rain, I bet a few drivers are laying on their horns because they’re stressing. Guess I’m lucky I crossed the street when I did.

The horn blares again. Weird. Doesn’t sound like a normal high-pitched car horn. You know, like one from a Honda or one of those little South-Korean cars. It’s much deeper. Old-sounding.

My curiosity peaks the third time it goes off. My gaze crosses the busy six-lane street and finds the black two-door waiting in a strip-mall parking lot, its round lights burning. The wipers swoosh back and forth.

I stop.

Bree’s honking at me? Why? Did I piss her off at the crosswalk?

The driver-side window drops to reveal Bree’s long hair. She waves me over.

She’s giving me a ride? Amazing.

The inside of Bree’s car smells like leather. It’s roomy too. I tug hard and pull the large, heavy door shut, then put my wet backpack on the floor between my feet. The swishing noise made by the wipers continues, but now I hear and feel a low rumble that vibrates my seat. Bree’s hand twists a large steering wheel with three spokes coming out from the center. The large center console stretches across the entire dashboard like a giant Band-Aid. The inside of this car is as huge as the outside.

I grab for my seatbelt and feel only air. I look and don’t see one attached to the side of the door. Searching lower, I see the metal tab near the bottom of my seat. I sling that belt across my lap and click it together.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say.

Bree only nods and turns her attention outside. The motor growls when she touches the gas, but Bree drives the muscle car back on to the wet, rainy street like a cautious grandma. I look around. The inside has silver-trimmed black leather, a silver dash with this old-school FM/AM radio, and a round tab labeled LIGHTER. Is that for a cigarette? They had those in cars? A red badge above the radio identifies this car as an Oldsmobile, which I’ve never heard of. It’s in good condition for an old car. How did Bree get a car like this? Is it her dad’s?