Fighting for Flight Read Online Free PDF Page B

freaking spectacular.” I’d do
almost anything to get under the hood and fire this baby up. I bet
she roars like—
    Something sinister demands my attention. My arm
shoots towards it, my finger pointing in accusation. “Harley
Blackline!” My voice echoes through the space, allowing me to hear
the embarrassing high pitch of my outburst. I’d care if I weren’t
so utterly beside myself with Jonah’s collection.
    “You into bikes too?”
    “I’m into Harleys. I don’t know how to ride them,
but the power behind these babies deserves anyone’s
admiration.”
    He chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I’ll take you for a ride sometime.”
    Go for a ride on the back of a Harley with Jonah
Slade? His magnificent body between my knees, hands resting against
his six-pack abs?
    Yes, please. “Okay.”
    He hits me with his megawatt smile that has me
fighting to breathe. “Come on. The Impala’s over here.”
    I follow behind Jonah, my eyes firmly planted on the
way his jeans move with every stride of his long legs as he leads
me to the back of the garage. He stops and I almost slam into his
back.
    I step around him and there she is: the ’61 Impala.
Her classic blue paint still shimmers in places, like an old woman
who insists on wearing her red lipstick. This old girl isn’t going
down without a fight. I study every inch of her frame, and assess
how much work needs to be done. There’s surprisingly very little
bodywork outside of a couple rust spots and a dent.
    “Oh, Jonah, she’s beautiful.” I check out the wheel
wells, notice the window rubbers all need to be replaced, and make
a note to order new taillight covers.
    I pop the hood and lean in to take a peek. The
engine needs new motor mounts, all new belts, and a good cleaning.
It could be replaced with something bigger, but this isn’t a muscle
car. This car is for cruising. I need to take it apart piece by
piece to see what can be salvaged and rebuilt. A moan from behind
me cuts through my thoughts.
    With a twist, I squint over my shoulder at Jonah
standing a few feet from my back. My position, bent beneath the
hood and reaching into the back, has my bottom out and up and right
in Jonah’s line of sight. His eyes are firmly planted and my face
ignites.
    With a speed I didn’t know I was capable of, I
straighten up and look to the floor, hoping to hide my
embarrassment. Being in this place, my mind focused on the project,
I almost forgot he was there. Almost.
    “Sorry, I um . . .” I have no words. The heat from
my cheeks crawls down my neck.
    “Do you like rap?” He turns to nearby
countertop.
    “Huh?”
    “Music.” Jonah plugs his iPod to a space-age-looking
dock and hip-hop beats fill the room.
    I nod to his back. I’m not a rap music fan, but, at
this point, I’d agree to anything that takes the focus off of
me.
    “Come over here and I’ll show you where everything’s
at.”
    I exhale a breath. Thank goodness he didn’t make
that more awkward than it was.
    After a short guide to his available tools, we get
to work. I get into a zone and concentrate on the build. He asks
questions, eager to learn the process. We talk about our jobs and
friends, falling into comfortable conversation.
    A few hours into breaking down the engine, we take a
break. Jonah grabs a bottled water for me from the mini fridge. Its
diamond-plated chrome covering matches the cabinetry. Fanciest
garage I’ve ever been in, no doubt.
    I work to unscrew the cap from my water. “So let me
get this straight. You’ve been working out every day, letting your
friends kick your butt, and taking any fight you can get, all for a
big ugly belt?” I attempt to summarize the UFL 101 lesson Jonah
gave me.
    His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. “They
don’t kick my butt.”
    Laughing at his defense, I struggle with the
welded-shut water bottle.
    He motions for me to hand him my water. “Here, let
me.”
    Unscrewing the stubborn thing with ease, he hands