she'll only come out at night
the lean and hungry type
nothing is new, i've seen her here before
watching and waiting
ooh, she's sitting with you
but her eyes are on the door
so many have paid to see
what you think you're getting for free

Hall & Oates, "Maneater"

July, 1966.

Steve whistles when he sees it.

That's a '64 Pontiac, he says. It's a beautiful car. Deep purple. Waxed and shining in the sunlight. The heat of July is heavy already, not even noon yet, and sweat sticks to him. Soda's ringing up some Socy girls up front. The driver of this car's a wisp of a girl, looks about his age, with dark hair and skin and eyes. She eyes him up.

Y'all gonna serve me here? she asks. She cocks a hip where she's standing at the driver's open door. Her jean skirt is tiny, and her white blouse nearly see-through. Steve looks her up and down; Evie would smack him if she caught him at it. The girl continues, Or do y'all not like colored folks 'round these parts, neither?

Steve blinks. Who's calling you that? She looks like one of them girls who go to Our Lady, who speak Spanish and still try to get the Shepards to join them, even though Maria Shepard chases a different kind of wine ever since she married that second husband of hers. That's not any of Steve's business, of course, but that don't mean he don't know it.

She cracks her gum. Her teeth flash, white and straight. Had some geezer tell me not to drink from a blasted water fountain.

Sheesh, Steve says, and leans back. Puts his hands in his pockets, maybe flexes a little. She watches him, a little less hostile now than a few minutes before. Listen, if you can pay for it, we'll fix it. What's the problem?

The brakes are shot, she says, immediately.

Just need new brake pads?

I think so. Know how long that'll take?

If we got the parts, maybe an hour, Steve tells her. I'm not sure we got your model in, though.

It's a '64, like you said.

Not many folks drive Pontiac's 'round here, Steve says, but I can take a look for you.

She nods, and he moves back into the garage to see if they got the right parts. Most folks on this side of town are driving older models, sturdier ones, not the glitzy glammed up rides that the Socs and Buck Merrill prefer. Dallas has been trying to buy the T-bird off Buck for months now, and the bartender won't budge. Figures, Steve thinks. Dallas wrecked his last car—a brand new Shelby Cobra, so pretty Steve could cry—right after the Curtis news hit. Don't nobody trust him with a model as nice as Buck's got at this point.

The DX ain't got the parts, though, not that Steve was expecting different. There are other places in town who probably have them on hand, but Steve's not about to send business elsewhere. He comes back out, finds her still chewing her gum and watching one of the other mechanics work on a Buick.

'S a Deluxe, he tells her, and she jumps a little before turning back to him.

Yeah? Ain't seen one before, she says. Her twang is different.

You from around here?

She squints at him. Just moved. 'Bout two weeks.

Steve nods. Listen, he says. We don't got the parts, but we can order 'em for you.

Alright, she says, after a moment. You know how long it'll take for y'all to get them?

Coupla days, he says. It's Friday, so Monday at the earliest we can get it all fixed up for you. Might take longer if the wholesaler don't have the right parts, though.

She purses her lips. How much is this gonna cost me?

Depends, Steve says. He pulls a cleanish rag from his pocket, pats his face with it. Might need to look at all the axles. Replacements usually run around fifty, sixty bucks.

Her eyebrows go way up. Is it 'cause it's a Pontiac?

Nah, Steve says. That's right about what it costs. Maybe seventy, for the parts.

She rubs at her mouth. Real pretty mouth, Steve thinks, and stays watching her for a long moment. Finally she says, Do I gotta leave it here with you?

What kinda noises it making? Steve asks her.

It's grindin'.

He whistles, long and low. You're gonna wanna leave it here. Might break the discs if you keep driving with your brakes out.

She says, I don't know halfa what you said, but alright. She leans into the car again, pulls out a leather purse she slings over a shoulder. Do I gotta pay for the parts now?

When you pick up the car.

So I should come in Monday?

We can call, Steve says. Sometimes girls will come around, waiting on their cars to be done or just because they got nothing better to do, and it usually entertains Soda for a while. It can get boring, though, all the jokes and flirting and Steve stuck in the back looking over a car that don't need fixing when he could be inside the DX, where it's at least a couple degrees cooler than the summer heat.

Alright, she says again. Where do I write…?

I can meet you up front, Steve says to her. You got a spare set of keys?

Not on me, she says, but hands over a car key anyway, takes a minute to separate it from what must be her housekey. He tells her he'll be up in a minute and she shrugs, turns to make her way back to the inside of the DX. The car practically hums beneath him, and he wonders how she even got a car like this. She's gotta be at least sixteen, he figures, but she looks real young, not wearing makeup besides a red lipstick darker than the stuff Evie likes.

When he walks into the store he finds her loitering around some of the snacks, and nods at Soda.

You get her info? he asks him, and Soda shakes his head.

Nah, she said she was waiting on you.

Steve grabs for the right paperwork, then walks up to her. She turns her head to look at him, and he finally notices how tiny she is, long hair and long legs doing nothing to make up for the fact that she's shorter than even Ponyboy, who's waiting on a growth spurt or two. His birthday's soon, Steve remembers, and wonders what surprise Soda's going to try and cook up for him.

Can I get a name? he asks her.

Lisa Bernal, she says, and then spells it for him. Steve asks for a phone number to call and she says, Shoot, hold on, and digs through her bag for a slip of paper. She hands it over to him, shrugging and looking a bit embarrassed. I haven't memorized it yet.

No problem, Steve says, copying it down and then double checking it. You said you just moved here?

From the corner of his eye, he can see Sodapop watching them. She says, Yeah, been here since a little after the Fourth.

He nods. We'll give you a call on Monday, he tells her, once we've got the parts it shouldn't take too long to fix 'er up.

Solid, she says, lifting a shoulder, thanks. She walks out the door soon after, nodding a goodbye to Soda. They watch her hesitate for a moment at the bus stop, then square her shoulders and turn to walk to wherever it is she's going. Soda turns to him, eyebrows up like Two-Bit's when he's chasing after a skirt.

She's cute, Soda says.

You should see her car, Steve says. Pontiac. She's a beauty.

Soda hops up, says, Watch the counter for me, yeah? and doesn't bother to wait for Steve to agree before heading out back to check out her ride. He shrugs, gets settled; not like there's much else to do at four on a Friday, he figures.

Evie's got her hair teased up like usual when he goes to pick her up that Saturday, wearing a tight black skirt and matching top. Her collarbone's showing, and she kisses him with tongue as soon as she's in the car, like she doesn't care if it musses her lipstick or not.

Miss me, huh?

Shut it, she says, rolling her eyes, but smiles at him anyway. Her makeup's only a little bit smudged, and he fixes it for her. Afterwards, he rests a hand on her knee, and they cruise down to the Strip for dinner and a show. She updates him on something her sister's gotten up to, fifteen and already running about with one of Shepard's gang.

She finally get over Soda?

Evie laughs, says, Lord! It's about time, ain't it? It's been two years at least. Poor Susie.

I think she'll survive, Steve says. Bet she don't want your dad finding out about Ronnie.

He's dumber than Shepard's kid brother, Evie complains, hand resting over Steve's, I think she's just tryna get someone's attention.

You gonna give it to her?

I got more important things to do, she says, squeezing his wrist, and they grin at each other.

After dinner they head over to catch How to Steal a Million, which Evie ends up loving. Something about the Hepburn broad being a class act.

Her hair looks real nice like that, Evie's telling them, you think I should get a haircut? Maybe a fringe?

Your hair looks fine, Steve tells her.

But would bangs look alright? she asks. She's glancing at her reflection in one of the windows of the building next to the theater. Beyond her, buying tickets, Steve sees a somewhat familiar figure. I need a trim anyway.

He touches her lower back, gentle-like, like he only ever is with her. You'll look great either way.

Finally she turns to him, presses the back of her hand to his chest like she's going to shove him away. She's smiling. You're a sweet-talker, you know that?

Only for you, baby, he says to her, and she kisses him and laughs.

You ready to go?

Yeah, he says, opening the door to his car for her. He glances behind him before climbing into the driver's seat. Lisa Bernal, standing next to a young-looking girl a little taller than her and chatting with the ticket seller, doesn't see him.

On Sunday, when Evie stops by the DX to say hi, he compliments her new haircut—fringe included—and gets another French kiss for noticing.

Nice to see you again, Soda says when the Bernal girl walks in on Monday around noon. The two of them are screwing around inside, since Steve's usually not the only mechanic in during the week. Their boss much prefers him in on weekends, but it's summer and one of the regular guys had to quit back in May, so Steve's been working full-time since June. He's glad to have the extra money.

She's in a pair of navy hot pants and a white halter-top, this time, long hair let loose again. Steve can see a few strands sticking to her neck, damp with sweat. She smiles, polite but uninterested, at Soda and then quirks an eyebrow up at Steve. Any news on my ride?

It's a mean machine, Soda offers, and she smiles a bit more genuinely this time.

Thanks, she tells him, and turns to Steve expectantly.

Said we'd call you, he says, shrugging, not quite apologetic. Someone's gonna pick up the parts later today. Depends on what the boss says.

She tilts her head. But it'll be done by the time y'all close?

Soda takes over for him; he's always been best at tricking customers into hearing what they want even if it ain't quite what he's saying. If the boss sends 'em out soon, it should be done within the hour.

She says, Your buddy said the same thing on Friday, and Soda winces.

He tries for contrite next. Sorry, miss. We gotta lotta cars that came in last week and a coupla them are big projects.

She smiles again. Not hostile, not quite amused. Maybe playful, if Steve didn't know better. Don't it make more sense to get the easy ones done first?

Sure, Soda says, leaning in like he's got a secret to share. Steve barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes, turns his head a bit so they can't see him grin. But the ones that take a little longer—slow and steady, ya dig?—those are a lot more fun.

You're funny, she says, clearly trying not to laugh, and nods her head at Steve. So tomorrow, then?

Tomorrow for sure, Soda answers for him. Sorry for the inconvenience. You wanna Coke? Free, on me.

That don't sound like a good habit in this business, she says, just as Steve goes, Ain't like we called her in by mistake, Soda, and she blinks. For a second Steve thinks she'll get mad, think he's rude—and he is rude, he'll admit it, but he does okay by customers nine days outta ten, and then she says, Soda? like she's misheard.

You ain't checked out my nametag, huh? Soda says, grinning, Y'ain't the first. He offers his hand. Sodapop Curtis.

Her eyebrow goes up. Steve wonders if she has to think about it. That so?

Yes indeed, Soda says, laying it on thick. You're Lisa, right? Mighta been eavesdropping when Steve here was taking care of you last week.

She hums. You get a lotta business playin' nice with girls 'round here, don't you? she asks, sounding amused. Any of their steadies come chasin' after you?

Soda's smile turns a little wicked. I'm a sure thing in a fight.

Whadaya know, she says, cocking a hip. So 'm I. She jerks her head at Steve. How 'bout it, Steve? You any good in a rumble?

Shoot, Steve says, leaning on the counter next to her, Soda and me are some of the best fighters on the East side.

Not the West side?

Steve snorts. They're a buncha pansies.

She looks curious. That a known fact?

You just moved to town, right? Soda says. The thing is them West side kids think they can do anything they want, on account of they got the money to back it up. They don't like being reminded it ain't true, especially not when they're on our side of town. We give 'em hell when we need to.

She leans in on the counter and props her head up with a closed fist. Sounds like some machista bull to me, she says. They come 'round here often, then?

Their girls do, Steve shrugs. Soda here's a sweet-talker.

Evie says the same about you, Soda says, grinning, and Lisa laughs.

That your girl? she asks. I think I saw you out with someone over the weekend. She's real pretty.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed suddenly. Yeah, dinner and a show.

Sure, she says, breezy. My man ain't too fond of movies, but it's alright.

He live out here? Soda asks her, and she shakes her head.

Nah, she says, he's back in Texas. Might come up soon though.

Tuff, Soda says. Long as he don't chase me down for flirting with his girl, and winks at her.

She laughs. Sure, honey, she says, and straightens up. I'll wait for one of y'all to call me tomorrow before comin' over then. It's too hot to be walkin' around.

Hot as Texas? Soda asks.

Nah, she says again, and then, smiling, but that don't mean you wanna get caught up in it, neither.

Steve gives her a call the next morning, an hour after the DX opens. The phone is answered by a high voice, girlish and young. It yells, Lisa!, and then, Hold on just a second, and then Lisa's voice comes tinny over the receiver.

Is this about my car?

Straight to the point, huh? Steve says, like he's making a social call, and hears a huff of air like it were right next to him and not over the phone. Yeah, it's about the car.

This Soda or Steve? she asks.

Steve. Do it make a difference?

Wasn't sure if he's a sweet talker over the phone, she tells him. When can I pick the car up?

Right now, if you want, he says. Anytime today.

Right on, she says, be there soon.

She shows up within the hour, trailed by the same girl he saw her with over the weekend. The girl's in capri pants and a blouse, Lisa in a pale yellow shift dress like she's got somewhere to be.

Soda's in the stockroom, and Steve says, before he can really stop himself, Gotta date today?

Lisa rolls her eyes, the girl behind her looking a bit confused and amused all at once, no doubt wondering if the two of them are friendly. I have an interview, she tells him, that diner on 15th and Quaker.

They're hiring?

Mhm, she says, glancing at the girl when she moves towards a few of the snacks they've got on display. You hungry, Vic?

I'm alright, she says, not looking up and instead picking through a few of the sweets laid out. Lisa looks at Steve like he'll commiserate with her, but usually the gang don't cause too much trouble while he or Soda are at work. My sister, she says by way of explanation. Did the car give y'all much trouble?

It's an easy fix, Steve tells her.

Findin' parts's the hard part, huh? she says, and smiles at him. She tilts her head a bit, flirtatious, he thinks, and feels a little like Soda should be standing next to him.

He wants to take a minute to decide how to respond, but can't, says, Not so hard we can't do it, and it makes her laugh.

Anything's possible for y'all, then?

We're a buncha greasers, ain't we? he says, We make do, and she flinches. When he looks at her, her eyes are hard.

Don't call me that, she says, voice low, like she doesn't want her sister to hear. Who's callin' you a greaser?

He blinks. Bernal, that's what we are, he says, a little defensive. Broke folks on the East side. Socs on the West.

She watches him, suspicious now. Y'all got rich white kids callin' you greasers, huh?

He takes a minute to think before he speaks. It doesn't make a lick of difference, makes him feel begrudging instead. Yeah. Guess so.

That means somethin' different, she tells him. Voice no longer as strained, now, but not by much. In Texas. For Mexicans.

Yeah. Can't say much else.

She tilts her head. Her eyes are a little softer, more cautious than angry. She says, Vicky, you ready? and the girl pops up again, a bottle of root beer in hand.

Will you buy me this?

You gotta job, kid? she says, tugging on the girl's hair. 'Course I will. They don't much look alike. The sister—Vicky—has curly hair, closer to brown than the pitch black locks her sister has parted just to the side today. She's taller by at least an inch or two, in that same lanky stage as the youngest Curtis brother. Her skin is lighter, too, and Steve's not sure he'd pin her as Mexican if he didn't already know. Lisa says to him, How much for the car and root beer?

Root beer's on us, Steve says, and when she looks unimpressed, says, Soda said he'd cover you, didn't he?

There's really a kid named Soda here? the sister asks. She leans into Lisa a bit, and she reaches up absentmindedly to pat the girl's cheek.

Someone talking about me? says Soda, coming out of the stock room with a box of goods. He smiles charmingly at the three of them. Steve finally call you back, Lisa? he asks her, like they're friends.

That he did, Lisa says, says you're buyin' my kid sister this bottle of root beer, too.

Soda laughs. Sure, he says, why not?

You don't gotta, she says, already pulling out her wallet. How much for the brakes, anyway?

Sixty-seven fifty, Steve tells her, and she grimaces.

Don't worry about the soda, Sodapop says, more to Vicky than to Lisa, it's no problem. He smiles, differently than when he was flirting with Lisa the day before or when he's charming any other girl, this one more genuine, like something he might aim at Sandy, instead.

Vicky smiles back, caught somewhere between being pleased she has a free drink and acknowledging that Soda's a looker. Steve would put her at maybe twelve, younger than Pony by at least a little bit. Her face still has that real soft look like he does.

Thank you, she tells him, and Lisa hands over several bills, crisp twenties. Steve doesn't say anything, but he's sure he makes a real particular face, because Lisa grimaces. He gives her her change and then Soda speaks again.

Y'all enjoying the summer? he asks, and Lisa spares him a glance before looking towards Vicky. The girl shrugs.

It's alright.

Done anything fun? he says. Lisa looks fond, suddenly, like she can tell he's being polite because he wants to be and not because he has to be. Soda's real good with kids, always has been—has to be, with Ponyboy hanging onto him like he does.

Vicky blinks slowly, like she's thinking, bottle cradled between her hands. We moved, she says, a little dry, and Lisa purses her lips. Her eyes are bright.

Soda laughs. Yeah, your sister mentioned it. What grade are you in?

I'm in seventh grade this year, she says, smiling now.

Steve watches Lisa watch her, sees her expression soften, mouth quirked in a smile. She's not a bad looking girl, he thinks. She's real small, sure, but she's got long legs and smooth skin. Looks like the type of girl that might hang around Brumly if she were wearing a leather jacket, maybe, and only because she's got a mean scowl. Tim's outfit didn't usually deal with Mexicans, no doubt since their old lady still spoke English with an accent even after a lifetime in Tulsa. None of her children liked the reminder. More than anything, Steve still thinks she'd look right at home at the Our Lady of Guadalupe Church.

Are there any fun things to do 'round here? Lisa asks. She's looking up at him.

Steve shrugs. If you got the cash, sure.

She inhales, sighs. Right. Hey, gimme a pack of Parliaments, will you?

He fixes her with an unimpressed look. You eighteen?

Oh come off it, she says, grinning. What, you are? Don't tell me you don't sell 'em to your buddies who ain't eighteen yet.

She's got us there, Soda says, coming around the counter and grabbing a pack for her. 'S not for this lovely lady, is it? he says, nodding at Vicky, who immediately looks embarrassed.

Y'all start young 'round here, huh, Lisa says, wry.

Just the boys, he concedes, and says, that'll be thirty-one cents, and takes the two quarters she hands back.

I'll get the car for you, Steve says. They're supposed to bring it out front for customers, but half the time don't bother. Most customers don't mind it. But it might be the last time he drives a Pontiac for a while, and he wants to take advantage of it.

Lisa guesses it, too, says, She runs real pretty, don't she?

You bet, Soda answers for him, grinning too widely again.

It takes just a few minutes for Steve the car around, and he finds the two sisters waiting for him. They stop speaking when he climbs out of the car, and Lisa nods at it like she wants her sister to climb in already. She does so, and then Steve comes close to hand over the keys.

Any issues, let us know, he tells her. We'll take a look at the brakes for free.

Y'all really love doin' shit for free here, huh, she says, and his expression makes her laugh. Soda mentioned somethin' about drag races? Is that an every week thing?

Sure, Steve says, ignoring how he likes the way she pronounces it "thang". But girls don't really race up here.

She makes a face. You think I'm tryna risk my life like that? Figured it'd be good entertainment.

Your sister like cars?

She loves 'em, she says, then smirks. Plus, mine's got new brakes. Someone wants to drive her, might help my cred.

Steve blinks at her. Soda tryna race your car?

He might have asked, she says. He said you're the better driver, though.

Steve whistles. Shoot, he says. You just met me. You gonna trust me like that?

You fixed her up, didn't you? That's trust.

He shakes his head. Texas is about real hospitality, seems like.

Don't get it twisted, she says, it's just a bit of fun, ain't it? and when she smiles at him, a knowing quirk of her mouth, he feels something like butterflies, not that he'll admit it.

Friday night finds most of the gang down at the backroads of Tulsa, where there was usually a few pairs of locals—Soc or greaser or in between—gunning for a different sort of fight. Steve and Soda decide that they might as well check out a few of the races, and if they're lucky Lisa Bernal will show up with her pristine purple Pontiac and let one of them race.

Evie ain't too big on races, and Sandy's folks aren't too keen on her staying out as late as they usually do during nights like these even if it's the summer, so Steve doesn't put up as much of a fight when Ponyboy makes noise about joining them. Soda invites Two-Bit and Johnny along, too, since Dally's apparently back on with Sylvia for the weekend, and they pile into Steve's Plymouth.

There's a decent crowd of folks down there by the time they arrive, and Steve greets the handful of people he recognizes. He spots Evie's sister and her boyfriend, and she has the good sense to look embarrassed about it, eyes flitting nervously towards Soda.

You ain't gonna tell Evie, are you?

Shoot, kid, he says, glancing behind him and spotting Two-Bit telling some grandiose story to Johnny and Ponyboy, who both look like they know he's full of it, That's something you're gonna do anyway, ain't it?

I guess, she says, glum, and then her man tugs her away and they're lost to the crowd.

Evie's not gonna be too happy about that, Soda says, next to him, and Steve shrugs.

Not really my business, is it?

Soda bumps their shoulders together, says, Nope, and they turn back into the crowd and try to push towards the front. Soda calls out to Ponyboy that they're moving, but Two-Bit waves them off, mentioning buying a drink or two.

Steve shakes his head, says, You think Bernal will show?

I think so, Soda says. She got real excited when I mentioned the races.

Steve glances at him. Can't say I can see that girl getting riled up in a good way, he says, and Soda chuckles.

What, you know her that well already? he says. I'm telling you, she'll show.

Sure, Steve says.

Soda says, I think she's sweet on you, and he blinks.

We've had three conversations, Steve says, slowly, and all of them about cars.

Four, Soda corrects. C'mon, Stevie. You know what I'm talking about.

When Steve turns to him he sees his friend grinning. His tone's playful but underneath that, a little serious, a little knowing.

It's in the eyes, man, Soda says. Whatcha think?

I'm thinking Evie'd skin me alive if she caught me stepping out on her.

And if she don't catch you?

Lemme win a race first, Curtis, Steve says, thinking of Lisa's smile and the way she looked up at him. If she lets me drive her car you might be right.

I am right, Soda says, and then, oh look, there she is, and waves, grinning big like it wasn't nothing major they were just discussing.

Both of the girls are in jeans and plain tee shirts, no doubt figuring the crowd ain't much for looks, even if a good number of girls still make themselves up for their dates. Despite the heat, Lisa's got her hair down, and Steve finds himself admiring the way the afternoon sun glances off it, midway down her back and smooth-looking. She's got one hand hovering over her sister's waist, and when she catches sight of Soda waving at her she grins real big. Genuine. She looks real pretty like that.

Fancy meeting you here, Soda says once they're in earshot, and greets Lisa with a hug like they're old friends. Lisa looks a little surprised at the gesture, and quirks her eyebrows at Steve like he might be able to explain it. Steve has never been able to explain Soda—is usually just along for the ride, and in most cases they end up alright. He shrugs at her, and she rolls her eyes a little, but grins anyway.

It's good to know you're nice to girls who ain't customers, Lisa says, dry.

Most of our customers are regulars, Soda says, slinging an arm over her shoulder. Vicky lingers close by, eyes huge and absorbing everything that's around her. Steve's pretty sure she'll slip off to get a good look at the cars soon, based off both her clear eagerness to get loose from her sister and Lisa's comments about her liking cars. Soda says, I'm just tryna make sure you keep coming by to visit me and Steve.

I think you're just a flirt, Lisa says, smiling more genuinely, like when she first caught sight of them. Most girls would have reached out to touch Soda back by now, but she's still got a hand snagged in her sister's belt loop, the other hooked on one of her own with an elbow almost—but not quite—keeping Soda at bay. I'm surprised you ain't gotta girl hangin' off you right now.

My girl's folks don't want her out late, Soda says, they think I'm a no good hood. Soda says it jokingly, but Steve knows he means it. Lisa looks to Steve, something knowing in her dark eyes, and he nods incrementally. Her gaze swoops back to Soda.

The races ever get rowdy?

All the time, Steve says, but only if the race is good.

Lisa hums. What makes a good race?

Nice cars, Steve says.

Good drivers, says Soda, and winks. Stevie here's the best.

That so? Lisa says. Her mouth curls up, a crooked smile. I happen to have a nice car. The three of them grin at each other. She says, Hey, Vic, you think I should let 'em drive the car?

Vicky turns back to them, having been analyzing the crowd with surprisingly shrewd eyes, and narrows them at the three teenagers standing before her, clearly up to trouble.

You're really a good driver? she asks Steve, like the others might have been lying, and he answers yes. She hums, and the resemblance between her and Lisa seems stronger, suddenly. What do you get if you win?

Bragging rights, Soda says.

No prize?

That's prize enough, he says, and Steve shrugs.

Sometimes there's cash. Maybe once or twice a year, towards the end of summer, he tells the girls, and Soda nods. Vicky seems considering.

You trust 'em not to crash the car?

We can always fix it, Soda says, and Lisa laughs.

Free of charge, huh? she says, looking up at him and then at Steve. C'mon, kid. Whadaya say?

Only if we can watch from up front, Vicky says, finally, I wanna get a good look at the other cars they got out here.

That we can do, Lisa says, and then she's pulling away from Soda and pressing her keys into Steve's palm. Her fingers are warm and dry, and they curl over his slightly. She looks into his eyes unwaveringly, head upturned, and tells him, Good luck.

Won't need it, he hears himself say. It's like staring into the night sky. I'm the best driver out here.

Steve ends up against a '63 Sting Ray. It's a little faster, sure, but the driver's some middle class goon from the West side of town. He's not sure where Two-Bit and the others got to, but Soda and the Bernal sisters find a good spot up front, close enough that they'll be able to see the start and end of the races.

Steve wins three in a row—the Sting Ray, a Mustang, and then a Corvette that crashes badly enough that Steve jumps out to help the driver. He can hear Soda's whooping from all the way down at the finish line, and when he finds them in the crowd he's still keyed up.

Steve! he says, practically jumping onto him from where he was standing with his arm still hooked around Lisa, congrats, that was killer.

Thanks, man, he says, patting his back. He nods at the girls, sees that Two-Bit and the others are lingering a little bit behind them. Ponyboy looks mighty confused, like he can't figure out why Soda might have had his arm wrapped around a pretty girl.

Next to Lisa, Vicky's eyes are bright, and Steve hears her say, Did you see that Mustang?, voice high and excited. Two-Bit comes close, Johnny and Ponyboy trailing him, and flings an arm around Steve and Soda's shoulders.

Nice job, Stevie, he says. He smells like beer, but he's acting as close to sober as he ever does. Mighty nice car, too. Who'd you rob?

Aw, that's Lisa's car, says Soda, slipping from Two-Bit's grip and catching the girls' attention. He tugs Lisa close, and with her comes Vicky, a hand at her elbow. This is Lisa, Soda introduces, she brought her car in last week and decided to let us try wrecking it today.

Now I know you ain't about to spread that lie, Lisa says, rolling her eyes and grinning at Steve. He notices suddenly that she's wearing that dark lipstick again, something like a burnt rouge, maybe, and not like he sees many girls wear around Tulsa. It makes her teeth look very, very white, makes something inside him clench at the thought of her mouth. Howdy, boys.

Two-Bit starts laying it on thick, complimenting her with a wink that clearly has her surprised from the way her eyes flit from him to Soda and Steve like she needs an explanation.

Don't go scaring her off, Steve says, finding the need to defend her even if he knows Two-Bit don't mean nothing by it, she was nice enough to let us race with the tuffest car one of us has brought to the DX, and I'm fixing to borrow it again next week.

Two-Bit laughs, and Lisa turns to look at him, more amused now. You gonna ask me first?

Let me build up to it, Steve says, not quite leering, and she bites her lip, trying not to smile.

On their way back to the Curtis' after, Soda lets Two-Bit sit up front, regales the other two with how good a view he got of the races and talks up how smooth of a ride the Pontiac is, as if Steve wasn't the one who did most of the work replacing the brakes.

Two-Bit waits for them to get absorbed, then turns to Steve and says, So Lisa, huh? with a knowing grin. Steve rolls his eyes.

Yeah, I know.

Shoot, really? Two-Bit says, and cracks up. Lemme guess, Soda pointed it out?

Figured she was just being friendly.

Oh she's being friendly, alright, Two-Bit says. Make sure you use a rubber, kid, else Evie'll figure out you're getting action from someone who ain't her.

Knocking up another girl's the least of my worries, Steve grumbles. Pretty sure she said she's got a boyfriend down in Texas.

Texas? Shit, that'll give you a few hours to find a hideaway, he laughs, and shakes his head, pitching his voice just low enough that they can't hear him in the back. Only you, Randle. Can't believe a car's the way to that girl's heart. Or, actually—

Don't finish it, Steve warns as they pull up to the Curtis', I swear I'll—

What are the odds of you getting busy in the Pontiac? Two-Bit says, and yelps when Steve reaches over and shoves him out of the stalling car.

Steve spends most of the rest of the weekend trying to figure out how to get in touch with Lisa in a way that doesn't require he be a creep. Sure, her number's listed alongside the rest of her information at the DX, but he'd rather not risk her kid sister answering the phone. Worse, one of her parents might answer, and with the Pontiac gone he doesn't have a sound reason to offer if someone tries to sniff him out.

Lisa does him a solid by coming by while he's at work on Wednesday, early enough in the day that it's not busy but the boss is out at one of the other gas stations he owns. Steve's working in the stockroom, counting merchandize and cursing whoever it was that made a mess of it over the weekend. Soda—and he reminds himself to thank him later—sends her back, and he practically slams his head on one the shelves when he hears her voice, lilting and almost playful, calling his name.

Shit, he says, jerking up and rubbing his head. He finds her wide-eyed and trying not to smile, mouth pursed a little bit but without makeup this time around.

Sorry, she says, not looking sorry at all, and steps into the stockroom. She lets the door slide mostly shut behind her, and she's giving him a look he thinks he understands completely. Soda said you were working back here. Busy today?

No more than usual, Steve says, finally letting his hand fall back to the side. Soda might just be the best friend in the world. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking flirtatious and young and reminding Steve of Evie so strongly for a split second that he feels guilty. He pushes the feeling away quickly—what she don't know won't hurt her, he figures. The two of them have been going out since the end of winter, and it's been mostly good, and really, none of that has anything to do with him and Bernal.

He says, like he really cares and not like he's trying to figure out how to get her close enough to him that he can touch her like he wants to, How'd the rest of your weekend go?

Great, she says, drifting close to him. He finds himself doing the same. Drove around, cleaned, you know. Summer fun. Her gaze is focused, knowing, wanting. Steve wonders if he looks the same.

Sure, he says. She's still a few feet away from him, and she glances around like she's only just realizing where she is.

How long'd it take for you to make this mess? she asks, and Steve tries not the bristle, knows she's joking around.

'S not my mess, he tells her, setting down the clipboard he was holding on one of the bays. Pretty sure it was whoever was in on Friday.

Rough, she says, smiling now. Her eyes—still dark, like when the storms come up and cover everything in thick blackness—seem to dance. Steve's not one for metaphors, but he can see it, now, why someone might want to write about a broad like that. She bites her lower lip, and Steve can't help himself from immediately tracking the action. Her tongue, pink, swipes over the same spot just a second later.

How much trouble will you get in, she asks, staring at his mouth, too, if your girl finds out you kissed me?

None if she don't find out, Steve says, and doesn't think about it when he takes one, two, not even three steps to get to her. He has to duck his head to kiss her, knows she's gone up on her toes besides. He's been thinking about that mouth all week, it feels like, and her kissing him now, lips parted on a sigh, is good proof that that it wasn't a wasted daydream. She skims a hand up his waist, fingers skirting over his ribcage, the other reaching up to curl over his chest.

He tugs her close, palm spanning nearly the entirety of her lower back. Lets himself cup her hips, rub his thumbs against the thin fabric of the shorts she's wearing, then moves his hand higher to touch the soft skin of her midriff, her cropped top probably the best part of her outfit today. She lets him use his tongue, pushes into the kiss more firmly when he hitches their hips together, and the hand she had over his heart slides up to grip his jaw.

When she bites his lip he makes a sound against her mouth, and when she does it again he can feel her smile. Somehow—he's not sure how, considering the mess—he gets her against one of the bays, bodies pressed together. It was already hot in the room when he first came in and now it feels almost unbearable. She hooks an arm around his neck, skims her fingernails up his stomach with the other, and he pulls her up so that her thighs bracket his hips. She makes a sound caught between a sigh and a moan at the feel of him, tilting her head back so he can press wet kisses to her neck.

For a second Steve thinks they're about to go all the way in the stockroom, Soda upfront keeping watch, when the sound of several things falling makes enough noise that the two of them jerk apart. Steve takes several feet back, almost immediately missing the warm contact of her body against his. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Steve slowly turns his head towards the rest of the room to see if maybe they knocked something over.

It looks like the same mess it was when he walked in, and then he hears Soda's voice—friendly, comforting, care-free—through the still-not-completely-closed door, a bright, Oh, don't worry about it! I'll clean it up in just a second, clearly pronounced.

Just a customer, Steve says. He looks back towards Lisa, watches her chest move as she takes a deep breath. Wonders how screwed he'd have been if the boss had walked in.

Yeah, she says, and looks at him, mouth swollen. She smiles, that little quirk of the mouth he can already tell is going to drive him crazy for a while. What's your weekend look like?

I close on Sunday, he tells her. Watches her. She smiles again,

See you then, she says, and breezes out of the stockroom easy as pie.

On Sunday, fifteen minutes to close, she shows up with a milkshake and one of the tiniest outfits he's ever seen. Lisa grins around the straw when she walks in to find Steve by himself, says, Where's your partner in crime?

Went home an hour ago, Steve says, smirking a little and pretending he hadn't been thinking she was going to stand him up. Mechanics just packed up.

Ain't that convenient, she says, leaning on an elbow. She offers him her drink. Wanna try? It's chocolate.

I'm alright, he says, and she shrugs, still smiling just a bit, mouth a full, friendly pout.

How's your week been? she says. She seems almost genuinely interested.

The usual, he says. And then, because she asked about Evie last time, and he feels like he should probably have an idea of what he's up against, says, Any word on your man coming up to visit you?

She looks surprised, like she didn't expect him to remember about the boyfriend she apparently has no issue two-timing.

No, Lisa says, he's still not around, and when she tilts her head she really looks at him, like how Steve's seen Evie look at him sometimes or how the girls Dallas chases after do. Like how she did on Wednesday, even.

Yeah? he says. Sunday means they close early. He had a date with Evie Friday night and works all week, so he probably ain't seeing her again until the weekend again at the earliest. He thinks he should feel guiltier. He says, like he wants to make conversation and hasn't driven her car recently, Your brakes still working alright?

Think so, she says, leaning in, elbows on the counter. She's wearing a black tube top, itty bitty skirt like the first day she walked into the DX. Her hair is long and straight like always, none of the bounce in it like Evie likes. Steve figures he's as good as got permission to take a look down her shirt, doesn't look up 'til she says, coquettish, You wanna take a look at 'em?

Steve stares at her, a little dumbfounded. Her mouth twists, like she's trying not to smile.

The brakes, she says.

Oh, Steve says.

I parked out back, Lisa says, and Steve can hear the laughter she's trying to hide. I'll meet you there, while you lock up. She's still looking at him, like she knows all she needs to know about him, and once he's done locking up the place he finds her leaning against the driver's door, smoking a cigarette, milkshake discarded.

All done for the night? she says, grinning a little when she catches sight of him swaggering towards her, work shirt unbuttoned in the heat already. He decides he likes the way she watches him.

Yeah.

The look on your face, she says after a moment, and bites her lip. Drops her cigarette, puts it out, looking pleased as can be. Lord, are you a sight for sore eyes.

You sure about that? he says, and like before doesn't stop to think before he ducks his head to kiss her again, slouching a bit so she doesn't have to go so far up her toes. She's maybe five-feet tall and fits against him far differently than Evie. He didn't appreciate that enough, when he kissed her on Wednesday, is maybe only thinking of it now after the quality time he and Evie spent together earlier that weekend.

Lisa ends up pressed up against her car, and Steve gets a hand on her lower back to better pull her close. She hitches a leg up over his hip, curls her fingers over his ribs, mouth wet and open beneath his. He cradles her jaw with one hand, lets his fingers fan over the nape of her neck, and then grips just so. She makes a noise against his mouth, hips grinding upwards, and he pulls back.

He touches her over her underwear. How 'bout it?

Yeah, she says and they disentangle long enough for her to tug him into the backseat of her car. She's warm, too warm for all the summer heat, but it don't much matter to Steve.

Afterwards she tugs her tube top back up where he'd pushed it down around her waist, straightens her denim skirt. Steve's pretty sure it's the exact one she was wearing when she first came to the DX, but he can't be too sure. Absently, he wonders if she left any marks, and if he'll need to lie low for a few days to keep Evie from finding out. Wonders if the guilt will hit him sooner or later.

This what you were after the whole time? he asks her, lighting a smoke. He's half out of the car, now, having shrugged back into his shirt, and lets one foot rest on the concrete floor as he watches her smooth her hair. She snorts.

Ain't you the one who worked on my car?

Brakes were shot, sure, he says, but you kept coming 'round.

She shrugs. I don't got much company 'sides Vicky, she tells him. Just got that gig over at that diner near the high school, though. I start this week.

Bored, huh?

You look like someone who knows his stuff, she tells him instead of answering, a smirk almost playing at her mouth. I was right.

Steve laughs.

She says, Your girl gonna look for me?

You think I'm stupid enough to tell her what went down?

Shit, that was you, too, Lisa says, and laughs at her own joke. You need a ride home, Stevie? I can give you another.

He snorts this time. You ain't that funny, he tells her. Where d'you live, anyway?

Oh, you know, she says, and tells him, and something cold goes down his spine, like an egg's been cracked at the base of his skull.

Really? he says, and she looks at him funny.

Yeah, she says. Told you, we've been here a coupla weeks now.

It's nothing, Steve says, and shakes his head. You live right near my buddies, is all. I'm real close, too. He doesn't add that Evie's only a few blocks over, all the gang nearby.

Huh, she says, and grins a little. Tulsa's small, I guess.

Sure, he says, but lets her drive him home anyway.

the woman is wild,
a she-cat tamed by the purr of a jaguar
money's the matter
if you're in it for love
you ain't gonna get too far