The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue (Guide #1)(58)

Topher slammed on the brakes and the station wagon came to a screeching halt.

“What the hell was that about?” Topher asked.

Cash was pressing his hands and face against the window in the back as if he had just seen a long-lost family member on the side of the road. The other passengers looked, too, but all they saw was a junkyard with a bunch of banged-up old cars.

“Are you guys seeing what I’m seeing?” the actor asked.

“A staph infection waiting to happen?” Mo asked.

“Look at that car in the corner!” Cash pointed out. “It looks just like a Porsche 550 Spyder!”

He was referring to a small convertible sports car. The vehicle was so banged up it looked like it had been recovered from the bottom of the ocean. It was missing its headlights, none of its tires matched, and it had either a coat of faded brown paint or a layer of rust.

“How can you even tell it’s a Porsche?” Joey asked.

“Any actor would spot that—it’s a Hollywood icon,” he explained, but they didn’t understand. “A 550 Spyder is the kind of car James Dean famously drove around town. He called it his Little Bastard! I’ve got to get out and see if I’m right.”

Before the others had a chance to object, the actor swiftly hopped over the backseat, crawled over Joey, and stepped out of the car.

“Didn’t he just say he wasn’t going to make us stop again?” Topher said.

“I think we all knew that wasn’t going to last long,” Sam said.

Cash crossed the highway and walked along the junkyard’s fence. A massive bullmastiff and a small pug came out of nowhere and barked ferociously at him. It got the owner’s attention and he came to the front to see what all the noise was about.

“Doc! Marty! Heel!” the owner said, and approached Cash. “Can I help you?”

“Hi! My friends and I were driving down the highway and I couldn’t help but notice your Porsche. That doesn’t happen to be a 550 Spyder, does it?”

“It was a 550 Spyder.” The owner laughed. “Just like I was a quarterback once.”

Once his hunch had been validated, Cash gazed at the car like King Arthur observing the Holy Grail.

“Does the engine still run?” he asked.

“Everything but reverse and uphill,” the owner said. “Are you interested in buying this piece of junk? Because I’ve got much better options in the—”

“I’ll give you a thousand bucks if you let me take it for a test-drive.”

The next thing the others knew, the junkyard owner led Cash through the fence and up close to the car of his dreams. The actor petted the hood of the Porsche like it was an animal and whispered sweet nothings into its side-view mirror.

“He’s not actually going to drive that thing, is he?” Topher asked.

“Is he even okay to drive?” Sam pointed out.

Cash slid into the driver’s seat and gripped the steering wheel like a ship captain clutching the helm on his maiden voyage. A cloud of dust erupted from the back of the Porsche as its engine roared to life for the first time in a very long while. It was a shaky start and the engine didn’t seem like it would last long, but Cash willed it to work. He drove the Porsche out of the junkyard and pulled up alongside the station wagon.

“I’m going to take this thing out for a quick spin,” he announced. “You guys stay here—I’m using you as collateral.”

“Cash, we’re all really anxious to get to Amarillo and take a shower,” Topher said.

“I’ll only be a couple minutes. Sorry, but I have to do this or I’ll regret it forever. It’s on my bucket list.”

The actor hit the accelerator and zoomed down highway 83, leaving a trail of smog behind him like a snail. The others could hear him cheering all the way down the road until he disappeared in the distance. Twenty minutes later, Cash returned with an enormous smile stretched across his rosy, wind-beaten cheeks.

“You guys gotta try this!” he said. “There’s only room for one passenger but you can take turns. Somebody hop in!”

“We’re not getting in that thing,” Joey said.

“It looks like it’s one speed bump away from imploding,” Sam said.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Cash said. “Cars were built to last in the old days. You gotta hear the engine when it gets going—it purrs like a kitten.”

Mo raised an eyebrow. “A kitten with bronchitis, maybe.”

“Come hear it for yourself, Mo!” Cash egged her on. “I promise when the wind hits your hair you’ll feel just like a Bond girl!”

Mo had the strongest reservations out of all her friends—but Cash knew the exact button to push. Her hesitation crumbled at the thought of feeling like a Hollywood starlet.

“Weeeeeeeell, I suppose just a mile or two wouldn’t hurt,” she said, to her friends’ amazement. “Don’t look at me like that—you all smoked pot last night!”

Mo sat in the passenger seat beside Cash and they rocketed down the highway. The Porsche rattled more and more as it gained speed. The open air hit Mo’s face and her dark hair flickered behind her ears like a flag in a tropical storm. The ride felt like a roller coaster compared to the station wagon they’d grown accustomed to.