8

Camaro ‘68  |  zainclaw  |  E  |  17,707 words  |  soundtrack

There’s a guy standing by the pumps when he comes back outside. He’d seen him through the window, seen him edging closer to the car while kicking sand in his worn-out sneakers. Derek tucks his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and meets the guy’s eyes—brown, beautiful—as he approaches.

"Nice ride," the guy says with a faint smile, pulling one hand out of his pockets to let it wander across the pump, long and distracting fingers drumming on the surface.

Derek arches an eyebrow as he stops barely three feet in front of the guy, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. There hadn’t been enough people appreciating his choice of wheels, most not understanding why he’d pick a black ‘68 Camaro rather than one of the newer models. But then most people didn’t know where he got it from.

"You like American muscle?" He asks.

What had been a smile turns into a smirk as the guy gives him an unabashed once-over.

"I do."

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