Maybe I’ll recall it tonight when I’m alone in my room, but it’s best I don’t have hand jobs on the brain when I’m stuck in a car with Ivy. Even if her delicate fingers would probably look sexy as hell wrapped around my dick.
A few weeks ago, after watching one of the Fast and Furious m
ovies, Ivy decided that she wanted to learn how to drive manual.
When I asked her why she wanted to since her car is an automatic, she launched into this very Ivy tirade, listing all of the reasons why all women should know how to drive a manual transmission vehicle if they want to.
“But Ives, you’ve never owned a stick shift, and neither has anyone we’ve ever known—”
“Vicky Spencer’s older brother had that muscle car in high school and I’m pretty sure that was a manual,” she interrupted.
“Okay. I stand corrected.” I laughed. “But how many times did you even speak to Vicky Spencer’s brother? Hell, how many times did you even speak to Vicky Spencer?”
“That’s irrelevant. The point is that if the opportunity ever had come up with Vicky Spencer’s brother, I would have missed out. And you know how to drive a manual transmission.” She huffed, flustered and indignant and totally adorable.
Like a little pissed-off kitten.
“And anyway,” she continued, “don’t you know that manual transmission cars are easier to maintain, and they get better gas mileage—a significant two to five mpg! That can lower a vehicle’s cost by up to $1,200!—and they’re cheaper brand new?”
She had her little hands on her grippable hips, and her head was cocked to one side, her toes tapping in her Chucks. I half-expected her to hiss at me, and I was having a hard time fighting back my laughter.
“And,” she added, “manuals give the driver a better sense of control, and you know how I like control, Kelley. And even though only approximately thirteen percent of the vehicles in the U.S. are manual, that still means there is a thirteen percent chance of coming across a manual transmission vehicle in the event of an emergency or something like that.”
I raised my eyebrows at her.
“In the event of an emergency? And what kind of emergency would lead you to needing to drive a stick shift?”
“All sorts.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Ivy.”
“Kelley.”
“Name one.”
If I thought I’d stump her, I was very, very wrong. Ivy Rivenbark doesn’t go into any decision without having thought it out and done research. Preparation is key.
Ticking off on her fingers, she started listing.
“Well, there could be a natural disaster limiting the variety of available safety vehicles. I could get stranded in the middle of a road trip and the only rental is a stick. I could need to drive someone to the hospital and their car is a stick. Or the apocalypse, Kelley. Zombie apocalypse, alien invasion, volcanic eruption, fascist governmental coup. The possibilities are endless.”
She leveled me with a stare, daring me to contradict her.
“Zombie apocalypse? Alien invasion? Do you believe those would happen?”
“No, of course not, but I needed to list as many things as possible,” she said matter-of-factly, waving her hand in the air as if this conversation was completely normal.
“Plus, driving a stick would make you feel like a badass, empowered woman who ‘don’t need no man and anything he can do, you could do better’?”
She grinned widely.
“Most definitely. I want to learn to drive stick, and you’re going to teach me.”
And that was that.