I laughed despite myself as we walked down the driveway. “I’m not afraid of a spiritual awakening, Vincent. More like paranoia about the fact that it’s illegal.”

He stopped on the opposite side of the WRX, staring at the joint clasped between his fingers. “Weird how a little rolled up herb can get you locked behind bars,” he said. “Legality is just a bunch of old dead folks telling you what to do.”

I shook my head at him as I slid into the car, huffing in surprise when I sank into the strangely deep passenger seat. The seatbelt was weird too, a three-point harness that I had to slip my arms through and then clip into place between my legs.

“I’m surprised you don’t have cuffs in here,” I said, squirming around as I adjusted the harness.

“Right there.” He pointed, and I looked overhead, finding a cage of metal bars installed around the interior of the cab. It reminded me of the dune buggies I’d ridden in when I went out to Nevada for a bachelorette party. Sure enough, a pair of leather cuffs dangled from the bar above my head.

“Perfect for wrists or ankles,” he said, his grin widening. “But I think that harness will be enough to keep your ass in the seat for now. My rides can get a little rough.”

I had no doubt he was right, in more ways than one. The WRX shuddered as he started it; the rumble of its engine not as deep as Manson’s Mustang or the El Camino. It purred low and steady, and Vincent turned the music up loud as we pulled away from the curb. He sang along to the lyrics about choking and sodomy as we picked up speed, flying past my neighbors’ houses. He earned us more than a few odd looks from folks out watering their lawns and trimming their rose bushes.

“What are we listening to?” I shouted, praying all the while that no one was going to mention to my mother that they’d seen me drive away in a loud car with a long-haired stoner.

“You’ve never heard System of a Down?” He practically gaped at me. “Oh, we need to get you to expand your musical horizons, Jess. What do you usually listen to?”

It didn’t take long to realize that Vincent’s musical knowledge went significantly deeper than mine. But he wasn’t restricted to one genre. His playlist changed wildly as we drove, from screaming metal to melodic electronic and classical orchestra.

“I’ll make you a playlist,” he finally insisted. “We’ll start with more approachable shit and then work our way deeper.”

For as long as I’d known Vincent, he’d always managed to put other people at ease and now was no different. We drove through town with the windows down, and I dangled my arm out in the breeze.