#(my mom dropped it out of a hot car and a rod bent and i was like... literally crying LMAO)

[roseband]

my clarinet is in the repair shop and the tech was surprised it’s been 10 years since i’ve brought it in, so now i don’t feel so bad about needing a tune-up lol

[lovehugsandcandy]

Love in Color, Full Bright (Colt x MC)

A/N: This is the second part of Love in B&W; this part was inspired by @flowerpowell and @umiumichan (bad influences everywhere!). I didn’t know there was going to be a second part until they commented on the first part. Thanks, to both of you, for everything but especially for inspiring something happy.

Pairing: Colt x MC, ROD

Length: 3,450 words

Rating: N*FW (super light N*FW, more suggested than anything, but I want to be safe)

Summary: Colt has to go back to the safe deposit box.

Tags:  @deimosensblog @alegria1580  @choicesarehard @thefarrari @client-327 @moonlit-girl-wonder @going-down-downtown@soniadotalves@jolietmaraud @hazah@flowerpowell@poeticscolt @brightpinkpeppercorn @zaira-oh-zaira @powdesiree0816 @umiumichan @akrenich @sibella-plays-choices@leelee10898 @maxwellsquidsuit

Colt didn’t know if his life was ending or if it was beginning, if he would settle down and stay or yank up the roots that were tying him here and disappear into the night. All he could do right now was pull Ellie closer as she slept, softly dropping a kiss on each closed eye, on her nose, her lips, and listen to her breathe as he watched the moon move through the sky.

~~~~~

He had to leave early to make it there before it closed. Luckily, Mona had no plans and was willing to close the shop for him. If it were later in the week, he had no doubt she would tell him off and leave to go out, run the town like always. Mondays were quiet, usually, so she agreed to help him out. He knew he would need to pay for it down the line, but this errand was worth it.

He made it there 15 minutes before closing. He hadn’t come in years but still remembered the procedure, what to say, what to bring. Alone in the back room, alone with his thoughts, and this random case from his past.

His hands skated over the contents. He remembered thinking how much money there was in here; now, seven years later, he knew it wasn’t enough for the things he now needed to do, plans he now needed to make. He grabbed the smaller box, a quick check to make sure it was still in there. The ring sparkled in the light, bigger than he remembered, as if it had grown.

He shoved it in his pocket, closing the case, and left. He was going to be home late and Ellie would look at him, frown, and worry. 

He worried too.

~~~~~

The next day, he stopped his bike at the cliff, walking out to the edge, staring at the water lap at the shore. He wanted complete privacy for this call and this was the best place for it.

The phone rang once, twice, three times and finally an answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, mom.”

“Hi! How are you?” He could hear noise in the backgrounds, crowds. She was still at work.

No use dragging this out. “Ma, I gotta ask you something.”

“What?” He could hear the waver in her voice; after all the shit he pulled, she was understandably nervous.

“Did you and Pop ever wanna get married?”

“What?!?” He waited. “Colt…..”

“I just wanna know.”

She sighed, loud, and there was a loud scrape as she shifted the phone. “No. We never talked about it but we never really wanted to. Why?”

He touched the box in his pocket, careful fingers tracing the sides. “No reason. I gotta go, Ma. I’ll call you later?”

“Ok. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

He watched the waves for a while, the sun sinking down. It was beautiful here, peaceful. As the years had gone by, he had come here a lot. It was hard, at first, facing the memories, facing his past. Now, it was comforting, almost like his dad was here with him. He wondered what his dad would tell him to do.

When he got home, Ellie was sitting at her desk, massive textbook in front of her, laptop balanced in her lap.

“You’re late.” She didn’t even look up. Shit, she was annoyed.

“Sorry, baby.” He walked over to drop a kiss on her forehead as she rubbed her eyes.

“It’s ok.” She looked up at him, smiling weakly. “It’s fine, really. I just….I don’t feel great.”

He bent down to pull her into his arms, rubbing slow circles on her back. He didn’t think he could help her. He’d never been able to help any of the people he cared about. Why would now be different?

~~~~~

Wednesday found him pulling into a familiar restaurant. He walked in, past the host’s station, glancing around. It was dead, as per usual; the most successful part of his uncle’s restaurant was definitely not the food and beverage part of the establishment.

He sat at the bar, drumming his finger’s on the wood. He didn’t come here a lot but, since his uncle was one of his only family members in LA and one of the last connections he had to his dad, Colt definitely wasn’t a stranger here. He only had to wait a few minutes until Takehito emerged from the back.

He didn’t look shocked to see Colt, settling next to him at the bar.

“You wanna drink?”

Colt shook his head. “No, not today. I want info.”

“On what?” His uncle reminded him of his dad, so much that it hurt to look at him at times. Same hair, same eyes, same desire for a life of freedom, same distaste for the law.

He pulled out the box. “This was my dad’s. Who was it for?”

“Whoa.” His uncle studied the ring under the dim light of the bar. “This is quite a rock.”

“I know.”

“This was Teppei’s?”

“It was in the safe deposit box.”

“Hmmmm….”

Colt waited, looking around. The place was still empty, a lone employee sitting near the back, playing games on his phone. It was probably a boring place to be if you didn’t touch the back room deals.

“Do you know when he got it?”

“No.”

Takehito shrugged, putting the ring back. “I don’t think he bought it for anyone, no one that I knew at least. And I would have known. Maybe he won it, somewhere along the line? Payment for a car?”

Colt put the box in his pocket. He didn’t expect that Takehito would know anything, but it was a disappointment regardless.

“Maybe he meant for you to have it.”  

He tried to keep his face impassive. He did his damnedest to keep Ellie as far from his family tree as he could; it hadn’t exactly gone well the last time.

“Maybe he left it for you. Is there a reason you���re asking about it now?” Takehito turned to him, eyes probing.

He kept looking forward, covering his mouth with his hand until he he knew his face was expressionless. “Just tying up the loose ends.”

He turned to go, he had to leave, now, but an arm on his shoulder stopped him. “I actually need your help with something as well.”

Colt looked back at Takehito, the set of his eyes, the frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. Fuck. He sank back into the bar stool. “A job.”

“A job.” His uncle nodded, grimly, before starting a story about a rival pusher, a tough night, and a stray bullet hitting a friend. Colt could only nod and do what he did best.

On the way home, already late fuck, he stopped at the grocery store, rushing through the aisles. He had no idea what to buy, what she would like, what would make her feel better, but he did his best. Based on the confused look from the cashier, he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

Ellie was curled up with a book when he got home, pajamas on already. She didn’t even say anything about his lateness today but smiled weakly when he showed her what he brought.

“Can I make you some food?”

She shook her head. Colt thought she looked pale, worse than yesterday. “No, I’m fine.”

When she looked up, looked at his face, she smiled, but it was fake. She was trying not to worry him. It wasn’t working.

~~~~~

He did not want to be here, not at all. He was standing on the doorstep, coming straight here after work on Thursday, but he hadn’t knocked yet. It wasn’t nerves, it was the dread. One more deep breath and, fuck, the door opened.

“You know I can hear your motorcycle for blocks, right? Are you coming in?”

Colt hung his head. “Hi, Detective.”

Ellie’s dad stood aside, letting him into the entry way. “Where’s my daughter?”

“Home. She doesn’t know I’m here.”

Ellie’s dad fixed him with a look. They had come to an understanding, a stalemate. Colt didn’t talk about his family or the garage or his work or anything really; the only things Colt said in his presence were accolades about his daughter. In return, Ellie’s dad tolerated his existence and stopped threatening him with the business end of his service pistol. Not the greatest relationship in the world but it worked.

Colt reached into his pocket. “If I showed you something, could you tell me if it was hot?”

The detective raised his eyebrows but said nothing, letting his expression speak for him.

“It was my dad’s. He left it for me and I want to make sure it’s legit. That’s all.”

He handed over the box, watching as the detective opened it. Colt focused on not fidgeting under the glare he got. Finally, he got an answer. “All pieces this large have an ID code, in base of the setting. I can run it in the database and see what pops. Wait here.”

Colt shoved his hands into his pockets, walked slow circles around the room, looking at the pictures on the wall. Finally, Ellie’s dad returned and handed the ring box back. “Not hot, but pricey. Records show that it was designed ten years ago by a rich heir in Long Beach. Three years after that, insurance was purchased on it by your dad. It was never reported missing or stolen. I have no idea how he got his hands on it; I probably don’t want to know, but it’s not hot.”

Colt nodded, tucking it away. “Thank you.” Why would his dad get an engagement ring seven years ago? That was right when Colt moved back to LA, right when he forced himself into his dad’s life, and he would have remembered his dad talking about someone.

He turned to go, hand on the knob, when the detective spoke again. “You don’t have my blessing.”

Colt nodded and walked out the door, making sure it was firmly shut behind him and walking far enough away so only the bike would hear him mutter, “Didn’t ask.”

When he got home, Ellie was awake but already in bed. She looked exhausted and small, wearing his sweatshirt and resting on piles of pillows. He slid in to gather her in his arms, but she turned away.

“Where were you?”

He didn’t answer, could only trail his fingers down her back to circle her waist, dropping a kiss in her hair.

“Colt, if you don’t….” She stopped, hand wiping tears off her face. “If you can’t do this, you need to leave.”

He shut his eyes and pulled her closer. He didn’t know if he could do this without fucking it up and breaking everything around him. He couldn’t lie to her, couldn’t tell her it was going to be ok, could barely eke out a word, but he knew what he could do. He could show her. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, right there, that spot, slowly, deeply, until she made that sound that drove him mad; he kissed down her body, lips tongue and fingers moving, moving, and not stopping until she shuddered and cried out.

He crawled back up to the pillows and held her close, hands skating over her back, slow around her stomach, touching everywhere he could reach, until she finally fell asleep. She needed her rest.

~~~~~

The air was thick with incense and Colt couldn’t help but cough. This was the most ridiculous thing he had ever done and he had pulled a lot of stupid shit. At least this was relatively harmless; unlike most of the destructive decisions he had made, this wouldn’t end up hurting anyone.

The room was dark, dim and just fucking weird, exactly what he should have expected when he googled the highest rated occult shop in LA. There were weird crystals in a case underneath some kind of skull (a goat? the fuck?), next to some powders that he was sure he could move on the black market. He almost turned around, this was so stupid, but this was the last fear he had, the last item he needed to check off of his mental list of shit that could go wrong. He had fought through an hour of LA-traffic, lane-splitting the bike the entire way to get here, he might as well finish it.

“Hello?”

A bell chimed and a woman walked through a beaded curtain, hair wild around her face, scarfs billowing behind her. She stopped as she caught sight of him, head tilting, curious.

“What do you have for me?”

Colt started. “I’m sorry?”

“There is something you want to show me, yes?”

He took a step back, involuntarily. This just got creepy. “I do.” She waited, blinking up at him as he reached into his pocket. “Can you tell me if something is cursed?”

She laughed. She looked young, as young as him, but her laugh was that of an older woman, hardened by time and experience. He swallowed, wondering if it was too late to run for it.

“I can tell you many things.” She took the box and opened it, removing the ring with two gentle fingers. Even in the dim light of the shop, it gleamed, looking enormous in her small hands. 

She turned it back and forth, over and over, careful eyes studying it before putting it back into the box.

“It’s not cursed.”

Colt breathed out. He half expected her to say it was, as an excuse to hawk some magic “decursing” powder or some shit like that. He dropped the box in his pocket.

“You’re cursed.” He froze, the words stopping him in his tracks. It took a moment before he was able to smile, dry laugh slipping out. 

“I already knew that.”

She started again. “You’re cursed…but that doesn’t mean you curse others. That doesn’t mean those around you are cursed. Stop worrying about that. The curse on you is only on you.” He met her eye. “You are your choices, Colt. You can bring fire to those around you or you can lift them up. You can desert them or you can stand by them.”

He swallowed. “How did you know my name?”

An enigmatic smile was the only answer to his question. “Good luck to you, child.”

He watched her walk though the beaded curtain, into the back room. When he was sure he was alone, he fled.

Ellie was already asleep when he got home. He took a quick shower, rinsing the smoke and the magic off his hair, then curled next to her, resting his palm ever so lightly on her stomach. It didn’t feel any different but everything had changed. He dreamed of fire and cursed boys who became cursed men; he barely slept.

~~~~~

He woke up slowly gradually. The sun was high in the sky; thank God it was Saturday. He turned and Ellie was sitting at her desk, watching him, out of sweats for the first time all week. Shit. The look on her face, fuck; he needed to wake up for this.

“Good morning.”

“What’s wrong?”

She frowned, looking out the window. It took her a couple of moments to speak. “I just feel like I haven’t seen you. Since Sunday.”

She was right. He ducked his head.

“Listen, if you’re not in this, if you can’t do this with me, it’s ok, I get it. I was surprised too.”

“Ellie….” He wasn’t awake enough yet; she continued as if he hadn’t even tried to say anything at all.

“I know I surprised you but maybe this is what we needed to figure things out. For me to figure things out. Because I really need someone in my corner right now and it seems like it’s not gonna be you.”

Wait, what was she saying?

“I think I’m gonna go stay with my dad for a bit.”

Fuck. “No, not that!”

He followed her to the living room. He didn’t want her to leave, couldn’t stand to see her walk away. He was also admittedly worried about her dad’s access to guns; if Ellie moved home, especially after Thursday, he was a dead man. And he would absolutely deserve it. Hell, he would pull the trigger himself.

“Ellie, wait.”

“What, Colt?” Her hand was already on the door knob, tears in her eyes.

He reached for his jacket. “This isn’t how I wanted to do this.”

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this either! I’m in the middle of grad school, I want to get my PhD, the timing is awful, I get it!” She swiped at her face, angry. 

“Whoa, no, not that. I mean, yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

He didn’t even think she heard him. “It just happened and I need you to decide, Colt, in or out. Will you stand by me?”

He finally got the box out of his pocket and crossed the room, seven steps, and extended his arm to her. “This isn’t how I wanted to do this.”

She froze, staring at him. He tried to will his hand to stop shaking. It didn’t work. “What?”

“I would have done it anyways, maybe not yet, but I would have.”

Finally, she took the box, turning it over in her hands. “Is this what you’ve been doing all week?”

“That’s a really long story.”

She was still playing with the box, looking down, biting her lips. He couldn’t read her face, couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Ellie, what do you say?”

She still wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t catch his eye.

He waited.

“Everyone will think I’m crazy. My dad, Riya…” She still wouldn’t look up.

“Fuck them all. Fuck them all, Ellie. It’s you and me, that’s all it’s ever been for me.”

She laughed, bitterly. “It’s not just you and me, not anymore.”

“No. No, it’s not. But it is us.”

Finally, finally, fucking Christ, finally, she looked at him, tears in her eyes. “You didn’t ask me.”

“What?”

She smirked, lips twitching. “Do it right.” She handed him the box back.

He stepped closer to her, only stopping when his face was inches from hers. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” This close, he could see the mix of colors in her eyes, brown and grey and green, all colliding into the most beautiful thing in the world. 

He kissed her cheek. “I love you.” Kissed her shoulder, arm, hand, slowly kneeling, kissing her stomach, once, twice, three times. “And I love you.”

He looked up at her sob, hand in front of her mouth, eyes glistening. Shit, he didn’t want to cry but the sight of her, smiling at him like he was worth something, tears running down her cheeks. Shit.

“Ellie, marry me.”

She started crying anew, both hands in front of her mouth now.

“Ellie, baby. Come on. Marry me?”

She was grinning, smirking over him. Fuck, he ran a criminal enterprise in the middle of LA and this girl, this girl broke him. “Colt, I was expecting a list of all of my good qualities and a poem about how happy I made you.”

“Hmmm…and a room full of rose petals and some balloons and a kitten for good measure?”

“A kitten with a ring on it’s collar?”

“Ellie, you’re allergic.”

She pulled him up by his arms to meet him into a kiss, her tears falling onto his cheeks. She pulled away, smiling, crying, laughing, with a weird hiccup in her breath that would have been annoying on anyone else but was just so freaking cute on her.

“You didn’t answer.”

“What?”

“Ellie, do it right. You didn’t answer.”

She laughed, louder, peals of joy echoing through the room. “Oh my god, you know the answer.”

He grabbed her waist, pulling her against him as she laughed and laughed, kissing down her face, her neck, starting to go lower when finally she spoke again. 

“Yes, yes, oh my God yes.”

He barely remembered putting the ring on her finger, barely remembered what she said next about weddings and planning and telling her dad. He did remember their private celebration, the multiple private celebrations, under the covers and against the desk and in the shower.

Afterwards, after their celebration had ended and they were huddled in bed together, she laced their fingers together. “Where did you get the ring?”

“I told you. Long story.” 

She pulled him into a kiss, lips soft and sweet against his. “We do have the rest of our lives together.”

He could only smile at her, bearing both his ring and his child. “We do.��

[flaming-potato-arson]

Angel Rider Part 0ne

Altea Creek. Of course. Why had Lance expected anything else?

The tradition goes as stated below: every year on Christmas, after excessive gift giving and wrangling all of his relatives into a few cars, someone gets to pick where they go and what they do. Some years, the choosen location is closed and they go somewhere else, wether it be the Speedway down the road or the state park two hours from his house. Every year ended up wild and crazy - everything tended to end up wild and crazy with his family, Lance supposed - and a ton of fun. Even when it didn't seem like it.

Altea Creek did not seem like fun to Lance. To his horse crazed, nine year old sister who had been sprouting horses facts for the past five months, it was like Santa and God did a duel blessing/present from Heaven.

"Horses, horses, horses...." Rod chanted softly, swirling the end of a plastic horse's tail on her finger, swinging her feet. Lance held in a groan, opting to look out the frosted window of his mom's mini van, Shaikra blasting in his ears from his ear phones.  The snow was coming down more thickly the farther out they got, a decent foot on the ground as far as the eye could see. The warm, cinnamony smell of his aunt's annual gifted air freshener and artifical hot air filled the car, which Lance thought was much better than the chill outside.  Voices threatened to block out his music, with his three older siblings in the very back row, and three of his four younger siblings inbetween them, all talking and screaming and reading and just generally being themselves.

Lance sighed, shifting against the window.

"Lance, lindo, is something wrong?" Curse-not-curse his mother's innate ability to sense apathy and sadness.

"Nothing, mama. Just a little worn out." He gave a tired smile back at her. She had twisted around almost completely in the passenger's seat to look him dead in the eye, the family junk that always got left in the car piled around her. "Are you sure? You've been holed up in your room a lot lately. Singing....playing loud music...." She trailed off before finishing quickly. "It's alright if you're tired - you can nap in the car while we go on a sleigh ride, if you need to. " Her bright blue eyes (the ones he had inherited) shined back at him. Lance focused on the swaying, classic green alien head hanging from the rearview mirror.

"Nah, I'll come."

"Okay, mi hijo." She sat up as his dad took a wide turn off the freeway on to a long, winding dirt road. Lance watched the alien head against the falling snow through the windshield before exhaling and closing his eyes.

Maybe some Shakira will help.

Oh my god this was the worst idea ever -

Slamming the car door shut, Lance took in the multitude of families wandering around and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. His aunt's car pulled up behind them, and a door swung open before the car even stopped, his nephew throwing himself out of it. Yelling poured into the air as the rest of the doors opened, countless cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents, and sibling unfolding like clowns from a clown car.

Someone was yelling at his nephew, - thank god, someone had to break him of that habit- cars locked with affirmative beeps,  and dozens of tiny little hands were pulling on his jacket, leading him in the familiar wave of being lost in the crowd that was his family, voices he knew well becoming background noise.

Lance took the time to actually look at his surroundings, checking out the spots where someone might think to hide if they found it funny. Tall, thick evergreen trees made for a shadowy forest on the edges of the premises, with plenty of nooks and crannies to slip inside. A few smaller, barn-like buildings dotted the mostly open, snow covered fields, but a big, firetruck red one dominated the area with a lingering warm and welcoming aurora. A long, thin building replicated itself, leaving an open path in between what he assumed where the stables.  

Stable workers walked around in elf and Santa like clothes, directing couples and kids to sleighs and others hitching horses to lead said sleighs. Laughter and excited squealing came from just about everyone, but someone's laugh tinkled like bells to Lance.  She was bent over, talking to a kid, crystal white hair spilling in waves out of a hat topped with a bell. The classic elf get up fit her nicely, her dark skin a refreshing change from the regular green. The Santa with a prosthetic arm and tuff of bleached hair next to her smiled down at the kids, one hand resting on her back. Their smiles were bright and wide, and the pair of them looked like something of a re-imagined Hallmark card.

It was sickeningly cute and Lance turned away, following his family.

"Hello, if you'd just follow me-" A short gremlin with short, messy hair lead the majority of his family towards a sleigh, a giant, butterscotch colored gypsy horse harnessed to it. The complete feathered look gave it away and Rod had been drilling him with horse facts constantly. Silently, Lance looked at the creases in the attendant's forehead and the look in his mother's eyes and lead a few of the smaller kids away. Ella, his older cousin, joined him with a quick wave.  His mama shot him a smile, and he returned it, herding six kids into a mostly open area.

"Okay, everyone stay in sight of this area. Waiting your turn can get boring, but if we all wander off we're going to get lost, okay?" A chorus of "okay's" came back to him. His nephew - Geroniom, not the crazy, throws-himself-out-of-moving-cars one and his baby sister sat down in the snow, content to throw it at each other, Ella quickly plopping down with the two toddlers. Rod was vibrating with excitement, virtually teleporting around the edge of the clearing to look at every passing horse. The other three were attempting to make a snow fort, that was actually coming along pretty well.

Deciding that his siblings and cousins could handle themselves, Lance turned on his music and shoved his phone in his pocket. His recent Twitter feed wasn't really appealing and the cold wasn't bad enough to need a distraction from. Dropping himself on to a bench, Lance closed his eyes, letting the sounds of a Hallmark movie come to life fill his ears and time cease to exist.

What Hallmark movie involved blood curdling screaming?

Snapping up, joints popping, Lance jumped off the bench and whipped his head around. Pounding and surprised screaming came from the stables, people running away from a literal fucking blur. Lance could only see glimpses of what he thought was a horse while employees tried to capture it before it got out to the clearing. Urgent bells were ringing, adding to the chaos. It was getting closer, and definitely was a horse. An attendant with a jet black mullet made a last grab for the reins, but the horse charged out the stable doors. Snow exploded where inky blue hooves pounded down. It was like someone had ripped an ink blot through a blank canvas. The whole horse was a deep blue that almost looked black, powerful legs launching it across the ground. Frantic energy filled it's motions, fear and anxiety dictating where and how it bolted.

Bolted right towards his little sister in the middle of the clearing.

Rod was frozen with fear, facing the oncoming bullet with her hands up.

The horse didn't seem like it was going to stop.

The horse wasn't going to fucking stop.

Fucking hell.

Lance didn't really care when he started running, just that he was running towards his sister. He wasn't on the track team for damn nothing. The snow tried to cling to his feet, but each adrenaline filled stride shook it off. That horse was fucking big - Some white soccer moms were screaming - and it wasn't going to fucking stop - the chilly air burned horribly with how fast he was taking it in - Goldenrod is nine that beast could fucking kill her- everything was blurry but his little sister - fucking horses - panicked energy circulated heat through his entire body, he swore he felt like a lit fire work - aren't you supposed to approach that fucking thing sideways, fuck it - he slipped - fucking NO - he gained the ground back -oh my fucking god - and tossed himself in between Rod and the horse.

Sharp hooves slammed down inches from his face,  a startled neigh accompanying it. Sweat dripped down the horse's dark blue coat. It - no, she - reared back, rocking on her hind legs. The leathery brown reins shook in front of his face, whipping around with each movement the horse made.

Lance yanked them down.

Wide, fear blown out eyes met his, hot horse breathe almost mixing with his. Stress literally vibrated off this horse, giant frightened huffs and puffs expanding her whole chest. Sky blue eyes stared him down, terror swirling in pitch black pupils. Lance let his eyebrows raise in a stressed out manner and knew he made a mistake.  A rough jerk nearly ripped his hand off his wrist when she tried to buck back, to get away from him, but he gritted his teeth and  held on, trying to anchor her down.

Rule one of horses : Don't show fear or stress. Rule two : They like music.

His phone was off and he couldn't risk letting go. Too many people were around, dead silence dripping stress and caution from the shifty crowd.  If anyone got too close, she's freak and Lance didn't know how much longer he could fight the weight of a wild horse.

Well, he could sing.

"A steady beat goes one, two, three, four " Lance let his eyelids slide down, refusing to make eye contact with the horse. Carefully, he put a hand on her nose, and was a little relieved she didn't try to bite it off.  He let the cold seep into him, letting it encourage him to remain calm."A steady heart goes I love you more"  Her breathing stopped feeling like a punch to the gut and more like a slap to the face against his fingers. "I know, sometimes  it's confusing"

With slow, conscious steps, he started to lead her to the stables, avoiding anyone. When she flinched away, ebony tail dancing, he made eye contact.  "Pick out a moment when you couldn't make up your mind, and you think your entire life is timed" he could hear the quiet crunch of hay under his feet, but he wasn't in the stables. Where were the stables? "You said it's your choice but who's choosing?" A blurry something edged in the corner of his eye, and Lance pushed a hand out, not daring to lose eye contact and unwilling to let this stranger get closer.  (He hopes they were dragging Rod away from the horse.)

"You told me we were the perfect song, so I continued to sing along" At least he didn't sound horrible. Lance never thought three years of chorus would come in handy. Then again, he never expected to be leading a crazed horse through snow. "But now that I know what this is all about, I'll stop talking, and shout..." Warm, giant hands eased onto his shoulders suddenly and Lance had to fight to keep his voice steady. "Hey, I thought we were the greatest symphony, melody, harmony," "Hi, I'm Hunk." A warm breath whispered in his ear, faintly smelling of heat and peppermint. Lance kept singing, monitoring the horse's jostling before she settled. This horse really didn't like anybody. He put his hand back on her muzzle, relishing in the warm air she gave off.

"I'm gonna lead you to the stables okay? I need you to keep singing until we get her squared away. We haven't named her yet and she's really flighty - came from a bad place, and you're the first person to actually calm her down. We're pretty close, just follow my lead, yeah?"

Lance nodded, staring deadfast into sky blue eyes, letting the motion of giant hands on his shoulders push him where he needed to go.  He ignored everything in favor of singing for the horse is front of him, adding a soothing note to the lyrics when she almost fought against going in the stable the guy was pushing him towards - moving a horse backwards was probably a really bad idea, but Lance wasn't going to try his luck anymore today.

Eventually, she was completely inside, shifting around as he and Hunk backed out, Lance letting the words die on his tongue. The door swung close with a solid click, and she neighed softly from the pile of hay she had curled up on. "Look man, I'm really sorry about all this-" Hunk started when Lance turned to face him, hands springing up in a defesive gesture, chestnut eyes wide. There was a light pink tinge burning through the dark color of his ears, a yellow strip of fabric dangling against one.

"It's fine. Nothing really happened -" Lance cut him off, slicing a hand through to air to silence him. Despite his size, Hunk looked like a nervous mouse but the adrenaline leeched out of Lance, leaving him suddenly dead tired, and ready to get the hell out of this crazy horse ranch. "Yeah, but -" Hunk tried to match his unwavering strides through hay and mud. "Look, I'm really tired, so I'm gonna assume you're worried about legal stuff, right? I'm not gonna sue or anything - here you can have my number if you're really that worried" Pulling a pen out of his pocket, Lance bit the cap off and snatched Hunk's bulky forearm. "Yeah, okay, goodbye." Finishing the little scibble with his name, he pulled back and stalked back out.

The rest of his family must have gotten off the sleigh and were crowding around Ella and the others, loudly chattering. He slipped inside, using the fact Ella was the one telling the story and thus, the attention was all on her, to sidle up to his mom and not be noticed. "I'm going to go nap in the car." He said in her ear, not sticking around even when she tossed a surprised  glance his way, treking through the snow to the minivan. Heaving open the back hatch, he wriggled inside, slammed it shut, and flopped on to the row of seats. Sighing, he shifted around, found a blanket folded in the pouch on the back of the seat, spread it over himself, let his tired blue eyes flutter shut in the muted darkness of the near empty car, and passed out.

[itsworn]

68 Years Later Russ Aves Still Tinkers With 1932 Ford 3-Window Coupe

Surrounded by the tools, spare parts, motors draped with canvas, and memorabilia that have taken a lifetime to collect sits the youngest member of the Clockers hot rod club from Culver City, California. At least in his mind he is. In reality, Russ Aves is 83 years old. But you’d never know it when he puts his foot on the gas of the three-window Deuce he has owned for 68 years. When he does, you can still see the spark in his eyes that signals mischief.

At age 15, when his mom was conveniently out of town, Aves bought a “nondescript” green ’32 Ford, stock “except for 15-inch wheels,” from Blessing’s Auto Sales on Wilshire Boulevard for $75. He says, “I was $35 short, so my neighbor not only loaned me the money, she signed a waiver for an underage kid to buy a car. I had to get my friend Bob Claypool to drive it home for me. I didn’t have my license yet.”

Russ Aves’ three-window coupe has gone through several incarnations since he bought it in 1950. The present-day version harkens back to the days when he bought it as a teenager, with a few contemporary upgrades.

His mother “didn’t like the car idea too much.” Fortunately for Aves, he says that “a few months later, when I got my license, she started giving me a dollar a week for gas to drive my brother to school. So I guess that worked out.”

It was the beginning of a story that defines the man. His Deuce has been with him longer than anything in his life. It’s his best friend, his partner in crime, and the car that has thrilled anyone who has been lucky enough to take a ride in it or just see it rolling down the road.

Russ and his coupe in 1955, after he installed the small-block Chevy V8. “It was cool to run no hubcaps in the back,” he says. “It meant you were ready to put on your slicks and go racing.”

The coupe has been through several incarnations in the last 68 years. It has been drag raced, was featured in HOT ROD magazine in 1960, and has won multiple awards at auto shows.

“There isn’t anything on that car I didn’t do myself,” Aves says. This includes the motor, channeling, the interior, chrome plating, and the paint—everything right down to pinstriping.

Aves drag racing the coupe in San Luis Obispo in 1958.

Within hours of owning the coupe, Aves stripped the fenders off and started working. While still in high school, he channeled the car 2 1/2 inches. He then installed a Lee Stewart Dago axle, still on the car to this day, which he bought from a junkyard for $10. It provides an additional 3 1/2 inches of drop to the front end and gives the car its unique stance. “It was bent when I bought it, so I took it to shop class. With a little heat and a protractor, it was good as new.”

Aves says, “Those polished wishbones you see on the car all started with a piece of paper and pencil in high school. I finally made them at Santa Monica Junior College, where I learned to weld.”

The coupe was featured in the March 1960 HOT ROD. Aves’ goals for the car were “efficiency plus good looks,” said the article, words that remain true nearly 60 years later.

He remembers painting the firewall white by masking it off and using a sprayer he built from a glass jar and a mister powered by his mother’s Electrolux. Eventually he painted the entire car white with the help of his friends from the Clockers (named after the Clock drive-in in Culver City where they used to hang out) with the same spray gun. Years later the car was painted a deep purple color he had custom blended.

When Russ wanted to pinstripe the car, he couldn’t afford to have Von Dutch do the job. “I bought him a hot dog, and we climbed under the car. He showed me his craft as he pinstriped the rearend for me. I figured out the rest from there.”

The 1980s revamp of the coupe took Aves a few years. This 1994 photo shows him stripping the custom purple paint before he sprayed on a custom green inspired by a color he saw on a Rolls Royce.

Aves learned how to do interior work while working at a local Chevy dealership doing dealer prep and small repairs. “When it was time to do my interior, I bought a Singer sewing machine from the L.A. city school system for $28 and made my own. The only detail in the interior I couldn’t do was the stitching on the door panels. I had those done by a local shop. It’s best to know your limitations.”

When Aves bought the car it had the 21-stud flathead in it with an aluminum pan. Since then the car has had several different powerplants, everything from a Studebaker with a Caddy crank to the Ford Z-block flathead it has today. The drivetrain is ’39 Ford with stock ’39 linkage, a Schaffer clutch, and a shortened driveshaft made in Aves’ garage.

By 1996 the coupe’s makeover was finished.

While he was working at the Chevy dealer in 1954, Chevrolet announced the new 265 V8 for 1955. “I couldn’t buy the motor complete, so I bought it in pieces and assembled it myself. Once built, I dropped it in the Deuce. It may very well be the first small-block Chevy ever dropped into a Deuce coupe. I still have the motor stamped with the number 1 in the block.”

Of course, stock wouldn’t do for Aves. He installed an Edelbrock triple manifold to accommodate the three Rochester carb setup he wanted. “I then asked Ed Iskenderian to build a camshaft for the car. Since the motor had not been released from Chevrolet yet, Ed had to custom build it. I gave him the heads off the motor so he could work out the proper valve ratios. That little exercise may well have been the start of the famous E2 roller cam.”

Aves has run a number of engines in his coupe over the years. When he revamped the car in the 1980s he returned it to flathead power, building the motor using a Z block.

In 1986, Aves felt it was time to go through the car again and make some updates. “I changed a few things in the process. I fell in love with a color I saw on a Rolls Royce. It was a rich deep green. I reproduced the color by mixing cobalt blue and orange together. It still boggles my mind that there is no green in the paint itself.”

He reupholstered the interior in dark brown leather. “While rummaging through a local junkyard, I spotted a Mazda Miata that had a really cool steering wheel and column. It was a banjo-style wheel that really worked with the vintage car. I topped it off with a Gilmore Oil emblem I affixed in the middle of the horn button. That little piece really finished it off. It sounds like a crazy setup, but everything fits like a glove and offers the perfect combination of old and new without looking out of place. I also changed the windows to power and used Lincoln window switches that are very discrete and integrated into the door panels.”

Topping the flat motor is a Navarro intake with four Rochester carburetors. “I went with the Rochesters because those are the carbs I learned to work on back at the Chevy dealer when I was a kid. It’s really easy for me to work on them and get them leaned out just right.”

Aves created an electric emergency brake using a GM power-window-gear setup.

It was also time for a motor change. “I really loved the thought of putting a flathead back in the car to bring it back to the way it was when I found it, but with a new twist. The car now has a Ford Z block in it. The Z block is a Canadian truck motor flathead with lots of torque. It has a Navarro intake with four Rochester carbs. The distributor is stock Ford, but those headers are all custom.”

Aves reupholstered the seats in dark brown leather during the car’s freshening. As for that old-school-looking banjo steering wheel, it’s from a Mazda Miata. The Gilmore horn button adds to the vintage look.

Aves also installed an electric antenna and a CB radio, and “remote hood releases using gas door latches that I release with a small button under the dash. I never like knobs or switches that stand out and end up giving you a headache. I also installed Corvette license plate lights on the bottom of the doors that now act as courtesy lights activated by opening the doors.”

Russ Aves’ car represents a lifetime of work and constant enjoyment. It’s the culmination of everything he has learned and an expression of who he is. This Deuce continues to put a smile on the face of anyone who sees him coming or going. But if you see him on the road, don’t be surprised if you can’t catch him. Once you see that spark in his eye, you know he’s bound to put his foot in it.

The instrument panel came out of a ’71 Chevy Impala. It “worked perfect” in the coupe’s ’40 Ford dash and “gave it an updated look without looking out of place,” says Aves.

Aves integrated Corvette license plate lights into the bottoms of the doors to act as courtesy lights.

Aves sectioned the grille 3 1/2 inches. “After lowering the grille, I had to create a custom headlight bar, which also lowered the lights 3 1/2 inches to match the new grille height.” Aves says that during the 1980s revamp he “was also tired of the directionals, so I found a pair of GM marker lamps that I embedded into the radiator shell. They’re very discrete. I guess you could call that custom.”

The Lee Stewart 3 1/2-inch dropped axle helps give the Deuce its signature stance. Front springs are stock ’32 Ford, brakes are ’58 Buick. In back is a ’39 Ford rearend with a 3.78 gear ratio and ’48 Lincoln brakes.

Aves sketched out his wishbones in high school, then made them after he learned how to weld at Santa Monica City College.

The hot rod club Aves belonged to got its name from the Clock drive-in restaurant in Culver City where the guys used to hang out.

Aves still has the business end of the makeshift spray gun he used to paint his car. Instead of a compressor, he hooked it up to his mother’s vacuum cleaner.

After 68 years, Aves still drives his Deuce and still tinkers with it. “There’s always something new, to this day,” he says. He calls the buildup “ongoing.”

  Inside the Shop Russ Aves’ shop space, like his Ford coupe, is a symbol of his hard work. It reflects the rebel who built it all from scratch with his bare hands.

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[itsworn]

This Nasty Classy 1931 Ford Model A Roadster is as at Home at a Show as it is Dragging on the Beach

Full-tilt.

Our story’s title may sound like a contradiction in terms, but Cedric Meeks coined the phrase himself to describe his Model A roadster’s mix of badass and beautiful.

Cedric has actually owned this gennie ’31 Ford twice. He first spotted it about three years ago in the yard of Stan Ochs, another hot rodder in the Portland, Oregon, area where Cedric lives with his wife, Kim.

At the time it was a bone-stock A. “Stan told me it was the body that Dee Wescott took molds off of to make his fiberglass roadster bodies,” Cedric recalls. “My dad worked for Dee in the 1960s before he worked for Gene Winfield. We’ve known him forever. When Stan told me that, I really wanted the car bad.

“Then Stan goes into his shop and comes out with these chopped windshield stanchions,” Cedric continues. “He told me, ‘These were the stanchions off your dad’s car.’” Cedric’s dad is Russ Meeks, a longtime hot rod builder who, among other cars, built the rear-engine Model A for John Corno that won the America’s Most Beautiful Roadster award in 1972.

“Well, I couldn’t say no,” Cedric admits.

“I bought the car at about 2 in the afternoon, had it home by 4, and then I called my dad and some buddies, and they came over at about 6 and stripped the car down,” Cedric says. They took off the hood, fenders, and running boards, and about a week later Cedric put a set of bent-spoke Kelsey-Hayes wheels on it and a straight pipe. “It looked just like an early gow job. I drove it as a prewar hop-up for six months.”

But then another car “popped up,” he says, a sectioned ’56 Nomad that Russ had built when he worked for Winfield. “Mom and Dad brought me home from [the] hospital when I was born in that car. In 1969, he tore it apart, never finished it, and it went into storage. I used to play in that car when it was just a mothballed show car full of rat turds.” And here it was, back. He sold the roadster and “every piece of speed equipment I could part with” to buy the Nomad, he says. The roadster went to a guy who worked with Russ.

But about a year later, that guy wanted to buy a house and offered Cedric first right of refusal to buy back the roadster. Cedric and Kim had just built a shop, so it wasn’t a great time to buy another car. “But I didn’t know if I would ever get a car this nice again,” he says.

So in November 2015, the roadster returned. And in January 2016, Cedric heard that the Race of Gentlemen was headed west. He had been working on a Model A coupe for Kim, but the coupe went on the back burner to get the roadster ready for TROG at Pismo Beach in October.

“In the meantime, my wife says to me, ‘What are we going to take to Santa Maria [the Cruisin’ Nationals by West Coast Kustoms]? I said, ‘The roadster. I’ll have it ready to go.’ So it was full-tilt, to see how fast I could do it.”

It helped that during the year it had been out of Cedric’s hands, the previous owner installed a dropped front axle, and Russ had built a custom steering arm for it. “So it was already dumped in the front.” The rear was left at the stock height, though Cedric swapped the original rearend for a Halibrand quick-change. He had a stock ’39 transmission to mate to the motor.

The Model B four-banger, which has a Miller-Schofield overhead-valve conversion, came from a fellow Estranged car club member, Mike Thompson. “It was in a roadster that had come out of Idaho,” Cedric explains. “He raced it at the Billetproof drags in Washington a couple years before. I raced him in my wife’s sedan, and this thing was fast. Even with a single 97, it ran hard.” Portland’s Model A Works freshened the motor, Cedric added some speed equipment—Thomas intake, dual Stromberg 81s, and a Charlie Yapp exhaust—and “it’s been running like crazy ever since.”

After stripping the roadster’s body, Cedric painted it in a custom-mixed green hue that’s “based off Kevin Sledge’s ’40 Merc,” he says. “I took a copy of The Rodder’s Journal with that car on the cover to a buddy at a paint shop, and he mixed a base/clear that was pretty close without being candy. I didn’t want to spray candy for my first car.”

Two days before Santa Maria, Cedric had the roadster running, and he and Kim made the trip. It turned out to be the beginning of a very busy year for them. “After Santa Maria, we went to Billetproof Chehalis [in Washington state], got Best of Show from the Slowpokes, from there to Deuce Days in July in Canada, came home, took it to the Billetproof Hot Rod Eruption drags in Toutle [Washington], broke the rear axle racing it there, fixed it, and then went to TROG.” The weekend after TROG, they went to the California Hot Rod Reunion and that same weekend drove up to El Mirage, where the roadster served as a push car for Russ’ XO modified roadster.

Once they got home, Cedric could assess the damage from TROG. “There were 2 inches of sand on the framerails,” he says. “I forgot to put nylons on the intakes, and the rear carb just sucked sand into the engine. It still runs fine; I’ve changed the oil quite a few times, but I’m guessing the cylinders got a fresh hone, just not with the right crosshatch pattern.” He also had to work on the car’s paint, as “every panel was scratched” by the slinging sand.

It was while cleaning TROG off the car that Cedric decided he wanted to take it to the Grand National Roadster Show, “and I wanted it 100 percent finished for GNRS.” That meant fabbing a hood, building top bows for a new top from Guy’s Interior Restorations, swapping out the tires and wheels for the whitewalls and Olds caps seen here, and then having Mitch Kim pinstripe the car, inside and out.

“In just a few months, this car has had three totally different looks,” Cedric points out. “When I raced at Billetproof, I took off the blackwalls on green wheels and made a new set of reversed rims to run really narrow 5-inch slicks. Then for GNRS, I put on the new top, hood, and different tires and wheels. It totally changed the look from a down-and-dirty early ’50s hot rod to a mid- to late ’50s custom show rod. It has just the right attitude. It’s nasty looking, but nasty classy.”

There are more shows in the car’s near future, and then Cedric plans to “do nothing but drive the paint off the thing. Or my wife will until the Model A coupe is ready. I have to get it ready for GNRS, so it’s nose to the grindstone again.”

Compare Cedric Meeks’ Model A in its “100 percent finished” state to how he ran the roadster at The Race of Gentlemen West. It’s amazing what a hood, top, and new tires and wheels will do to the look of a car.

More TROG action, here on the soft, downhill chute to the beach. Note the black smoke coming from the engine, the result of the banger ingesting sand. The scrunched look on fellow Estranged club member (and HRD contributor) Kleet Norris’ face is from all the sand the right front tire is throwing at him.

The Model B four-cylinder is pressurized, fitted with insert bearings, and topped with a Miller-Schofield overhead valve conversion. Cedric bought it as a running motor but added the Thomas intake, twin Stromberg 81s, Winfield cam, and Charlie Yapp exhaust manifolds, which are hooked to an exhaust system Cedric fabricated.

Engine is fired by a 12-volt Mallory dual-point ignition. “It’s an honest 100hp motor, maybe 110,” Cedric says. “Reliable as all get-out.”

Mitch Kim pinstriped the firewall, as well as the dashboard inside.

The Vintage Moon fuel pressure gauge is cool, as is a small example of Cedric’s handiwork with copper tubing. Cedric and Kim operate Schmeer Sheet Metal, an architectural sheetmetal shop.

Front suspension consists of a dropped axle hung by a reverse-eye recurved spring. “It’s my dad’s design that we put on everything,” Cedric says of the spring. Boling Brothers early iron brakes stop the roadster. Note that the tires have whitewalls on both sides. “There’s so much black up front [so] I wanted something to contrast with the backing plates,” Cedric says. He sent his Coker wide whites to Diamond Back Classic Tires for the inner whitewalls.

Rearend contains a magnesium Halibrand 101 quick-change. “It’s an in-and-out box,” Cedric says of the q-c. “You can see the shifter hanging down.”

Guy’s Interior Restorations handled the upholstery and also made the roadster’s new top. Pinstriping on the dash is by Mitch Kim, and Cedric fabricated the brass engine-turned panels inset in the beautifully stained floor.

The Ford Crestline wheel was originally intended for Kim’s coupe but wound up in the roadster. “I bought an original Bell wheel for her car, but she doesn’t like it,” Cedric says. “Not enough bling.”

Stock Model A gauges in the dashboard are complemented by a 1950s-era aftermarket Stewart-Warner gauge cluster underneath.

A stock 1939 shift lever is capped by a knob with an inset brass coin, commemorating Ford’s “40 Years of Progress” from 1932-1972. “I bought the knob from Lucky Burton,” Cedric says. “He makes them. I liked the color combination, the Ford script; it just worked.”

Roadster’s nice rake is achieved by dumping the front end and leaving the rear at its stock ride height.

“We have had so much fun in the car,” Cedric says. “The engine is really torque. It goes down the freeway at 65 to 70 with no problem and leaves the line hard. It’s not quite as snappy as something with more cubic inches, but it sings down the road. It just flies.”

The Miller-Schofield/Cragar OHV Conversion

Harry Miller, most famous for his Indy racing machines in the 1920s and 1930s, formed the Miller-Schofield company in 1928 with several other investors, including financier George Schofield. Among the company’s products was an overhead valve cylinder head that was designed by Leo Goossen, one of Miller’s chief engineers. Moving the valves out of the block and into the head improved the engine’s breathing to such a degree that a stock, 40hp Model A motor could make nearly 70 hp with the addition of the head alone.

According to automotive historian Art Bagnall, Miller-Schofield was making up to 50 of these heads a day at its peak. That peak was short-lived, though; Miller-Schofield was bankrupt by 1930, one of the many victims of the 1929 stock market crash and ensuing Depression.

Not long after, Harlan Fengler, a former board-track racing driver, teamed with a young plumbing heir named Crane Gartz and bought the remains of the Miller-Schofield cylinder head business. They formed a company and named it Cragar by contracting Gartz’s first and last names. For a couple of years, they manufactured the OHV head as a Cragar component, but they, too, couldn’t escape the crush of the Depression and went bankrupt in 1932. The Cragar name was saved, though, by George Wight, founder of Bell Auto Parts, who bought Cragar’s leftover parts from Gartz.

The cutaway illustration of a Cragar head you see here was drawn by Rex Burnett for an article by Don Francisco called “Ford 4-Barrel Speed Secrets” in the Nov. 1950 issue of HOT ROD. The 4-barrel term referred to the number of cylinders in the block and had nothing to do with carburetion. This was one of a series of tech articles Francisco did in 1950-1951 that examined ways to hop up banger motors for the street and track.

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