A black, shiny vintage car with white stripes on the sides was parked in front of our office, and I did a double take before realizing Amos was behind the wheel.
He got out of the car, coming around the back to open the trunk.
“You drive a Camaro?” I asked, dropping my sunglasses to the tip of my nose.
He gave me an uneasy smile as he opened the trunk. He took my overnight bag out of my hand before I could lift it into the car, and then he knelt to pick up the box of comics I was carrying with me.
The car was a beauty, but not at all what I’d expected.
It seemed so unlike him. Even though I didn’t know him, Amos St. Clair always struck me as a hip, modern man from Portland, but that car made him look…vintage.
For some weird reason, I liked that. It made me smile. I glanced in his direction.
He was wearing a thin, worn-out leather jacket over a faded Batgirl t-shirt.
Black straight jeans and Nike Air Jordans completed the look.
His eyes met mine, bright and amused, and this time the smile stretched big across my face.
“You drive, not a new, but a vintage Camaro? What year is this one? 1967?”
“1969,” he replied, sweeping his hair across his forehead. I noticed a hint of stubble on his jaw and wondered if he always looked that cool and put together.
He probably did; I just avoided looking at him on a regular basis, so I wouldn’t know.
“I didn’t peg you for a vintage car type of guy. I half-expected you to show up with an electric car.”
“Yeah. I get enough shit for having this car, but it’s a family heirloom. It belonged to my grandfather. We used to work on it together.”
“Shall we go?”
He slammed the trunk closed and I opened the passenger door.
“So, I guess you’ve never ridden in a Camaro?”
“Nope. Never had the pleasure.”
“Well, buckle up. You’re in for a treat.”
“A treat? Well, now, calm down a notch, St. Clair.”
“You’ll see Andrews. This car is not like any other car.”
“Not like any other car, you say.”
“This car is an experience. It’s a time machine.” His hazelnut brown eyes brightened up as the engine came alive and he bit his lip, smiling to himself. When he turned to me, his smile was somehow even bigger. The way he smiled and looked at me made me feel things I didn’t want to feel.
Heat radiated in my chest as I reciprocated his smile uneasily.
“Buckle up,” he repeated in a commanding tone.
I did as he asked and then sat in a daze as he drove us out of Portland, headed to Seattle.