"It'll blow the doors off anything around here."

"Bull."

I looked at him. Tried to keep from glaring at him. "Name one."

"Boxy Jennings's 1969 Barracuda."

"Still won't beat what's under this hood."

"You've raced her? On the track or on the road?"

"Both. Don't argue with me on this point, Trey, because you cannot win. Some p.i.s.sant forty-year-old muscle car can't hold a candle to the performance of this baby."

"What's the fastest you've ever gotten it up to?"

I angled across the hood and flashed him a bit of cleavage. Smiled seductively as I twirled my keys. Yeah, I was feeling wild. c.o.c.ky. Cruel. "Wanna hop in and see what she'll do?" Come on, I'm danglin' the rope, cowboy. Grab for it with both hands.

His blue eyes lit up bright as the neon Bud Light sign. "h.e.l.l yeah."

"A couple of conditions first."

"Name 'em."

"No telling me how to drive. No grabbing the steering wheel at any point. And we stop only when I say we stop."

"That it?"

"No. If you mess your pants, you're cleaning it up."

"You're serious? Like I'll be so scared I'll . . ." He drawled, "I ain't skeered a' nuthin'."

At any other time that might've charmed me. "Remember you said that."

"Anything else?"

"Before you ask, no, you don't get to drive it. Ever."

"Shoot. That ain't no fun."

"You drop ninety grand on a car, Trey, and come talk to me about who you'll let drive it. I guarantee the list will be short. Very short." I stumbled in a sinkhole and caught myself on the driver's-side door.

"Ah. Maybe this ain't such a good idea. How much you been drinking?"

"Why?"

"'Cause you seem a little . . . I don't know. On edge. You all right?"

No. I'm not all right. Half my family is dead. My military career is over. My sister is pregnant with some bozo's sp.a.w.n. My friends and neighbors wish I never would've returned home. To top it off, I'm lonely as h.e.l.l even though I'm hardly ever alone.

My life had been going to s.h.i.t for months, and it didn't look to end anytime soon.

"Mercy?"

"What?"

"If you wanna go back in and have a beer or something, I'd understand. We could-"

"You gonna talk all G.o.dd.a.m.n night, or are you gonna get in the G.o.dd.a.m.n car, Cowboy Trey?"

"Getting in the car." After he'd buckled up, he said, "Never seen orange leather before. Sweet. You have it customized?"

"No. The interior is original and part of the reason I bought it." I let my fingers drift over the dashboard. "I love this color. Like being Cinderella inside a pumpkin."

"How'd you afford something like this?"

"What else do I have to spend my money on? I'm overseas living in barracks most of the year and my wages are tax free."

"Do you keep it at the ranch when you're gone?"

"Nah, I store it in Denver. When I hit the wide-open s.p.a.ces of Wyoming I open her up and blow the cobwebs out."

The engine made a throaty growl as I started her up. I switched off the radio. Drove slowly out of the Clementine's weed patch and putted to the end of the gravel road.

"Thought you were gonna show me how fast this can go."

"I will. Soon as we get on the pavement."

Trey's lips curled into a sneer. "What? It's picky on driving conditions?"

"No. I'm picky. I hate rock chips."

"That's why a car like this ain't practical."

I turned onto the blacktop and said, "f.u.c.k practical," as I hit the gas.

The speedometer went from 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds.

Trey whooped. "All right! Do it again."

I slowed down. Stopped. Punched the pedal again. 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds. Dodge engineering was nothing if not precise.

I kept the speedometer at a steady 65 mph. Be nice to have the windows rolled down, but at high speeds the velocity of the wind made conversation impossible. Not that Trey and I were yukking it up.

My lone set of headlights swept the black pavement. No other cars. No streetlights. No yard lights. Shimmering silver clouds covered the stars and moon.

When I was surrounded by pure black, the compromised vision in my right eye was less noticeable. Luckily enough, tonight everything seemed to be in perfect focus.

A long, flat stretch loomed ahead. Time to give the girl her legs.

I shot Trey a sideways glance. He was relaxed, gazing straight ahead, drumming his fingers on his knee. I increased the pressure on the gas pedal.

When we'd reached 85 mph, Trey took notice. "How fast we going now?"

"Ninety."

"Huh. Don't feel that fast."

Just wait.

The needle crept up to 100.

The dotted white lines bisecting the road started to blur into one long ribbon.

One hundred and ten.

"You're right. This thing hauls."

Ol' Trey didn't seem so relaxed now.

I pressed the pedal to the floor. I actually felt the tires dig into the pavement. The engine hummed approval and we hit 120.

"Okay. Okay. I get it."

"Get what?"

"This is one bad-a.s.s car."

"I know."

"Can you just slow down now?"

"No."

"But-"

"Did I warn you about not telling me how to drive?"

The dial on the speedometer jiggled toward 130.

I can't describe the sensation of driving 130 mph. Most people don't have cars that can reach that level of performance. And about two-thirds of the idiots who do purchase high-performance cars don't have the b.a.l.l.s to rod the p.i.s.s out of them.

I'd never had that problem.

At this speed everything outside the windows blurred like a Mondrian painting. The rush of power was incredible. One false move, one tiny twitch, one little lapse in concentration, and we'd become airborne and spin end over end like a baton.

Usually I pushed the girl to her limits when I was alone. But Trey had p.i.s.sed me off, not only because I'd discovered who wrote his paychecks, but because I realized he'd masked his sneering att.i.tude toward me behind a helpful demeanor. That was not the cowboy way; he was an insult to men (and women) who lived their lives by that simple code of ethics.

He was undoubtedly on edge. Might be juvenile, but I wanted to see what it would take to push him over.

My hands clutched the orange wheel. I saw his white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. I imagined his heart pounding. Sweat popping up all over his body. I smiled. Knew it looked mean and didn't care.

By the time you see the red lights on a semi at a cruising speed of 135, it's time to pa.s.s. Since the road was straight, I wasn't worried about coming up on another car.

"Watch this." I cut the headlights.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?"

"Playing chicken."

I eased over into the pa.s.sing lane. Whoosh. We were around the truck and back on our side of the road before Trey choked out a curse word.

I turned the lights back on and slowed down. To 100. I said, "Bet that trucker thinks he had an UFO experience."

Trey didn't respond.

"You lay an egg over there?"

"You're f.u.c.king crazy."

"Oh, you ain't seen crazy yet."

"You trying to kill me?"

"Maybe."

"Let me out."

"Uh. Let me think about that." Pause. "No."

I think he whimpered.

"I'm not kidding, Mercy. Stop the car."

"Fine." I lifted my foot off the gas. Took a while for the car to slow. When we hit 30 mph I slammed on the brakes.

Even with his seat belt on Trey smacked into the dash. Hard.

I whipped around 180 degrees so we were in the other lane and floored it.

"Jesus Christ! I said stop the f.u.c.king car!"

"And I did." The needle on the speedometer ripped past 70.

"You're gonna kill us!"

"Only if I lose control. So quit whining. It's distracting. Let's see what this b.i.t.c.h feels like when you push her. You like to push, don't you, Trey?" My eyes left the pavement for a second. "Guess what? I push back."

At that point Trey started praying. For a second I thought I smelled urine. It required every ounce of concentration to let her run at 120 and then let her fly.