Darius smiled at her as he said, “I have all afternoon.”
He didn’t actually have much time at all to spare, but like hell if he was rushing this meeting. Not only because he wanted some time to get to know Nathalie better before he asked her out, but also because Zion was bouncing on his toes again, bursting with excitement. Darius understood that kind of passion, and appreciated it.
“I store six cars here,” Zion told them both. He had eight more classics in Lyrcius Valley, plus his personal vehicles.
Zion opened his notebook, flipping through, then held up a picture pasted to a page. “James Bond. Toyota 2000 GT. I love James Bond car collections.”
“Sorry, buddy, I don’t have that one here.” Darius kept that car at home because the Toyota 2000 GT was great on the rural roads of Lyrcius Valley, like driving through the Russian countryside of a Bond movie.
The boy’s features drooped. But not for long. “That’s okay, Darius. I love the Chevrolet Camaro, too.”
Smiling at Zion’s eagerness, Darius opened a metal box on the hangar wall and punched in the security code. When the red light flashed to green, he tapped another button for the roll-up door. Inside, two rows of overhead lights popped on one after another, stretching to the back of the hangar, spotlighting each classic car in turn.
“Wow.” Zion’s voice went soft with awe.
Nathalie merely smiled her appreciation, though not with Zion’s delight. She was clearly the indulgent older sister, here to make her brother happy, and Darius liked that about her. Liked it as much as he liked looking at her.
Zion tiptoed between the two rows of cars arranged at an angle, each ready to be driven out of the hangar at a moment’s notice. Rolling tool chests lined the metal walls, along with a couple of floor jacks for lifting the cars. Darius had a full-time mechanic, Lake, who kept the engines tuned and clean, and the bodies spotless. Lake worked both here at the airport and out at Darius Lyrcius Valley property.
“mercury cougar 1967,” Zion recited as if he’d memorized a list. “Wow.” His gaze was bright in the lights shining down on him as he held his notebook close to his chest, his mouth open slightly.
First on the left, the Mercury Cougar 1967 was sea blue in color. Darius had thought about topping the paint job with a black racing stripe, but Lake had rolled his eyes heavenward as if commiserating with the paint gods, then asked if Darius wanted to be like everyone else. Of course, Darius had never been like anyone else, and Lake had an excellent eye. The sea blue finish was like glass.
“It’s a very nice car,” Nathalie said in that polite voice that totally revved Darius’s engine. “And it
looks brand new.”
“It’s a kit car,” Darius explained. “I had all the parts shipped here, and assembled it from the frame up. It’s a replica of a ’67 mercury cougar.” The project had taken a year. He could have done it faster, but he’d enjoyed the work and hadn’t wanted to rush. There was pleasure not merely in the end result, but in watching something grow.
“You built this yourself?” She looked surprised to hear it. She ran a finger along the finish, as if finally perceiving the beauty that Darius saw.
“Cars are my thing.”
Very few people knew Darius’s story—that he’d been barely eight years old when his father had taught him how to hotwire his first stolen car, with illegal drag racing coming a handful of years later. It wasn’t until Darius had turned eighteen that he’d vowed to turn his life around. Now, though he still spent his free time playing with cars, he always did it on the right side of the law.
“What’s that one?” She pointed to the model opposite.
“Ford mustang 1969,” Zion said before Darius could supply the answer.
“He’s been studying you. Your classic car collection, I mean.”
Maybe she was afraid he’d think her brother was coming across like a stalker, but it was the farthest thing from Darius’s mind. On the contrary, he was flattered. Zion seemed so open, so hopeful, so happy. All the things Darius had never been in his youth. He couldn’t actually say he felt those emotions now either, despite how far he’d come from the derelict New York neighborhood of his childhood.
He also liked watching the bond between the two of them, the way Nathalie looked at Zion, the light but warm touches, her affection easy to read on her face. The bonds of blood could be meaningless—or worse, they could utterly destroy you if you let them—but Nathalie clearly loved her brother with everything she had.
Darius had the same kind of connection with the Baddrick Brothers Club. That’s what the seven of them—Hector, Argus, Ares, Perseus, Apollo, Achilles and Darius—called themselves. The Baddrick Brothers Group. Back in New York, they’d been seven kids brought together by misfortune and neglect. Their bond had been forged in need, not by blood. Most people believed blood relations automatically deserved devotion, but he knew better. Devotion had to be earned, and family and blood didn’t go hand in hand, not in his experience. Sally and George Beischel—Hector’ parents, who had taken them all in—were exceptions, just as Nathalie Adler and her brother were.
“Is that a kit car, too?” she asked, gesturing toward the Lotus.
“No. It’s the real thing.”
Zion moved down the line, Nathalie following, her arms crossed. Her high-heeled shoes tapped on the concrete with every step, her hair shifting across her shoulders, the light from above catching the changing hues of blond.
“Oh man, a 1977 Lotus Esprit” Zion turned to smile brilliantly at Darius. “McLaren.”
“Right.” Darius cocked a thumb at Nathalie. “Maybe you’d better tell your sister what that means.” He winked conspiratorially, while hoping Zion knew the answer. It wasn’t his intention to embarrass the boy.
Sure enough, he knew. “McLaren 600 LT” Zion’s voice echoed, overly loud in the hangar, from his excitement. With that, he sprinted down the center aisle, pointing as he went. “1968 Lamborghini Espada.” The gold tones of the car gleamed under the lights. “1962 Ferrari GTO.” And finally to the last one. “ 1957 Ferrari 335 S Spider .”
Nathalie beamed. “He got them all right.” She was clearly proud, and Darius experienced an ache under his ribcage that he hadn’t felt since his mother died when he was six.
They made him want in. In on their bond. In on the pride and adoration in Nathalie’s gaze.
Watching Nathalie and her brother together made him need things he hadn’t craved in thirty years. His father had bullied those cravings out of him.
Nathalie’s gaze was still on her brother, the light of some special emotion shining in her eyes, when he asked them both, “You want a ride?”