Make Out In Your Mustang To Radiohead Novels & Stories

I reached out and pressed the radio button on the steering wheel. My voice was cold, cutting through the static. "Mason Vale, do you see a ghost in your mirror?" I said coldly into the radio. Those words pierced straight through Mason's last line of composure. His car hesitated for an obvious instant on the straight. Now. I smashed the throttle down. The car tore through the air and pulled alongside him. Ahead was a chain of fast S-curves. Seeing that I was about to pass, a vicious look flashed through Mason's eyes.

"You drive like you fight, and we’re going to have a very long night when this is over." "If I wanted a cheerleader, I'd hire a professional," Madison muttered. She slid into the cockpit. The seat molded to her spine, a tight, claustrophobic embrace. She flicked the ignition toggle. The engine behind her head didn't just roar; it barked, a guttural, predatory sound that vibrated through her teeth. Austin’s tuned Mustang pulled up beside her. He revved the engine, the sound tinny and desperate compared to the Lykan. He glared through the tinted glass, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Behind him, the starting girl raised a checkered flag.

I grinned at him and turned on the radio, letting country music blast loud enough to wake the dead. “Why do I have the feeling that you’ll bust my balls instead of grabbing horns,” he murmured in a low, sexy voice full of dismay. The SUV’s engine roared as the car raced above the speed limit along the long, dark road.

I asked. He plucked the headphones from around his neck and gently placed them over my head. Then he handed me a plastic cassette case with names of songs written in messy block letters. I heard a click, and then my head nearly exploded. Pounding, concussive blasts of drums and guitars in unison: BUM, BABABA-BUM, BABABA-BUM, BABABABABA-BUM. I winced, took off the headphones, and handed them back. “That’s Diamond Head,” he said with a grin. “They’re fuckin’ awesome, right?”

He hit the cruise control and turned up the radio a little. It was then that I noticed on the console screen that he had it connected to his phone and the radio was not playing. He was playing a country music playlist. It didn’t take long until my foot was tapping away to the music. A song came on that I knew the lyrics off by heart on, and I found myself humming along without noticing. I saw a smile creep onto Damian face, even though it was clear he was trying to hide it. “Thank you.” I said, breaking the silence.

Stupid, I know. “Okay,” I whisper before she ends the call, and I turn up the music while I drive through the streets of New York. Once she gets in the car immediately, the music ends. She always turns the radio off because she does one of her live feeds things on I*******m to show off her boyfriend.

“This knob’s busted. Gotta give it a little help. Not too hard though.” Donald followed him out to where a very long roof had been erected to shield an open driveway out back. The pellets of water were having a field day with the tin acoustics. Beneath, there were cars in various stages of repair, plus a few off to the side that looked finished. One was a 1970 Ford Mustang, the other a 1974 Jensen straight out of a James Bond film, and the last a Honda Accord circa 1992. “The Jensen is mine. Ain’t she pretty?”

Mumbling, I pushed the dry lump down my throat. He smiled and tapped his finger over steering wheel before turning on the radio. Animals of maroon 5 blasted through the speakers making me cringe in distaste. I stuffed my index fingers in both of my ears and turned my face to look out of the window. " Baby I'm prying you tonight, hunt you down and chew alive...Just like animals-" He started mouthing the lyrics in an excessively annoying voice. I let out a small huff in irritation and turned to offer him my best death glare but like he was ever going to act decent. He passed a half smirk and increased the volume of radio.

Fists tight, I nearly crawl out of my skin when the sound of a loud horn and the roaring of a car’s engine reaches my ears. Looking back at the approaching headlights, I almost faint when I see who it is. As if I conjured him up from my obsessive musings, Rowan Cross shows up in his candy apple red, 1973 Ford Mustang. Don’t be impressed by my car knowledge; I looked it up online after he changed my car tire a couple of months ago. I guess I’m doomed to always run into him when my car breaks down. People should write a country song about me. Something about a stupid girl, with a broken-down car and a faulty phone: it’ll be a hit.

The more Amy would press the throttle, the more she would feel the muscle car’s engine causing her driver’s seat to tremble. The Camaro’s radio was on, playing music at a low volume. A young man’s voice exited from the muscle car’s speakers. He was rapping, but the Camaro’s roaring engine almost drowned out his voice. Despite the supercharged rumbling, Amy could hear Juice WRLD’s Lucid Dreams broadcasting out of the muscle car’s radio. She found it odd to hear another song she had on her phone’s music playlist.