31
WHITTON
Harley was the only one sober enough to drive since she’d given up her seltzer hours earlier. She held her hand out. “Keys.”
I blinked at her. “You’re not driving my car.”
“I didn’t drive here. West picked me up.”
“West, give her the keys.”
West grinned as he admired his new red BMW M2. It was the fancy car he’d always wanted when he was broke as s**t. “It’s a stick shift.”
“I can drive a stick shift,” Harley said with a wicked grin on her lips.
West snorted. “Oh, we’ve seen exactly what you do with a stick shift. You almost ruined Mom’s transmission.”
“Hey! That wasn’t my fault.”
“Whose fault was it then?” West asked. “No way are you destroying my brand-new car.”
I cursed under my breath. The world was conspiring against me. “Why would you buy a stick shift anyway?”
