Camaro Quotes

Listen to you sounding all badass. I bet you're just listening to a CD called 'The Sounds of Crime' while you cruise for chicks outside the Old Navy in your Camaro.

It should have been impossible. No one should have been able to dream any of these thing, much less all of them. But Adam had seen what Ronan could do. He'd read the dreamt will and ridden in the dreamt Camaro and been terrified by the dreamt night terror. It was possible that there were two gods in this church.

There were many versions of Gansey, but this one had been rare since the introduction of Adam's taming presence. It was also Ronan's favorite. It was the opposite of Gansey's most public face, which was pure control enclosed in a paper-thin wrapper of academia. But this version of Gansey was Gansey the boy. This was the Gansey who bought the Camaro, the Gansey who asked Ronan to teach him to fight, the Gansey who contained every wild spark so that it wouldn't show up in other versions. Was it the shield beneath the lake that had unleashed it? Orla's orange bikini? The bashed-up remains of his rebuilt Henrietta and the fake IDs they'd returned to? Ronan didn't really care. All that mattered was that something had struck the match, and Gansey was burning.

The inside of the old Camaro smelled like asphalt and desire, gasoline and dreams.

Now Gansey grinned, the warmth of discovery starting to course through him. "So, pop quiz, Mr Parrish. Three things that appear in the vicinity of ley lines?" "Black dogs," Adam said indulgently. "Demonic presences." "Camaros," Ronan inserted. Gansey continued as if he hadn't spoken. "And ghosts. Ronan, queue up the evidence if you would.

Ronan looked angry, but he was in the mood where he was going to look angry no matter what. "I don't know what I want. I don't know what the hell I am." He got into the Camaro. "You promised me," Gansey said through the open car door. Ronan didn't look up."I know what I did, Gansey." "Don't forget.

They never predict anything fun," Granuaile answered. "Just once I'd like to hear a prophet tell someone, 'Thou shalt win a bitchin' Camaro on a game show.

He ordered Ronan to put on some terrible music--Ronan was always too happy to oblige in this department--and then he abused the Camaro at every stoplight on the way out of town. "Put your back into it!" Gansey shouted breathlessly. He was talking to himself, of course, or to the gearbox. "Don't let it smell fear on you!" Blue wailed each time the engine revved up, but not unhappily. Noah played the drums on the back of Ronan's headrest. Adam, for his part, was not wild, but he did his best not to appear unwild, so as not to ruin it for the others.

It shouldn't have happened at all, but their friendship had been cemented in only the time it took to get to school that morning - Adam demonstrating how to fasten the Camaro's ground wire more securely, Gansey lifting Adam's bike halfway into the trunk so they could ride to school together, Adam confessing he worked at a mechanic's to put himself through Aglionby, and Gansey turning to the passenger seat and asking, "What do you know about Welsh kings?

Watching him lumber back toward the apartment building, I got so mad I did something I can't explain. As Gabe reached the doorway, I made the hand gesture I'd seen Grover make on the bus, a sort of warding-off-evil gesture, a clawed hand over my heart, then a shoving movement toward Gabe. The screen door slammed shut so hard it whacked him in the butt and sent him flying up the stair case as if he'd been shot from a cannon. Maybe it was just the wind, or some freak accident with the hinges, but I didn't stay long enough to find out. I got in the Camaro and told my mom to step on it.

Gansey turned the key. The engine turned over once, paused for the briefest of moments - and then roared to deafening life. The Camaro lived to fight another day. The radio was even working, playing the Stevie Nicks song that always sounded to Gansey like it was about a one-winged dove.

But that wasn't what happened. What happened was they drove to Harry's and parked the Camaro next to an Audi and a Lexus and Gansey ordered flavors of gelato until the table wouldn't hold anymore and Ronan convinced the staff to turn the overhead speakers up and Blue laughed for the first time at something Gansey said and they were loud and triumphant and kings of Henrietta, because they'd found the ley line and because it was starting, it was starting.

The Camaro was like Gansey tonight: terrifying and thrilling, willing to do whatever she asked.

Gansey despised raising his voice (in his head, his mother said, People shout when they don't have the vocabulary to whisper), but he heard it happening despite himself and so, with effort, he kept his voice even. "Not like this. At least you have a place to go. 'End of the world'... What is your problem, Adam? I mean, is there something about my place that's too repugnant for you to imagine living there? Why is it that everything kind I do is pity to you? Everything is charity. Well, here it is: I'm sick of tiptoeing around your principles." "God, I'm sick of your condescension, Gansey," Adam said. "Don't try to make me feel stupid. Who whips out repugnant? Don't pretend you're not trying to make me feel stupid." "This is the way I talk. I'm sorry your father never taught you the meaning of repugnant. He was too busy smashing your head against the wall of your trailer while you apologized for being alive." Both of them stopped breathing. Gansey knew he'd gone too far. It was too far, too late, too much. Adam shoved open the door. "Fuck you, Gansey. Fuck you," he said, voice low and furious. Gansey close his eyes. Adam slammed the door, and then he slammed it again when the latch didn't catch. Gansey didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to see if people were watching some kid fight with a boy in a bright orange Camaro and an Aglionby jumper. Just then he hated his raven-breasted uniform and his loud car and every three- and four-syllable word his parents had used in casual conversation at the dinner table and he hated Adam's hideous father and Adam's permissive mother and most of all, most of all, he hated the sound of Adam's last words, playing over and over. He couldn't stand it, all of this inside him. In the end, he was nobody to Adam, he was nobody to Ronan. Adam spit his words back at him and Ronan squandered however many second chances he gave him. Gansey was just a guy with a lot of stuff and a hole inside him that chewed away more of his heart every year. They were always walking away from him. But he never seemed able to walk away from them. Gansey opened his eyes. The ambulance was still there, but Adam was gone.

Ronan's voice was slow, petulant. His eyes, though, half-hidden in the dim, warm light of the Camaro's interior -- they were terrible.

Blue was in a terrible mood. Something had clearly happened while she was on shift, but Gansey’s attempts to prise it from her had established only that it was neither about the toga party nor him. Now, she was the one driving the Pig, which had a threefold benefit. For starters, Gansey couldn’t imagine anyone whose mood wouldn’t be marginally lifted by driving a Camaro. Second, Blue said she never got a chance to practise driving in Fox Way’s communal vehicle. And third, most importantly, Gansey was outrageously and eternally driven to distraction by the image of her behind the wheel of his car. Ronan and Adam weren’t with them, so there was no one to catch them in what felt like an incredibly indecent act.

The slam of a car door drew her attention to a new arrival. Maxville Deputy Sheriff Zach Manus emerged from his unmarked 2011 Camaro and stalked toward them. Deep sorrow and anger laced across his handsome features. His light-brown hair stood a little more on end than normal. He stopped in front of them, his frown deepening and his golden-brown eyes darkening.

Once, Gansey had overhead his father saying, Why in the world did he even want that car? and his mother replying, Oh, I know why. One day he would find an opportunity to bring up that conversation with her, because he wanted to know why she thought he had bought it. Analyzing what motivated him to put up with the Camaro made Gansey feel unsettled, but he knew it had something to do with how sitting in this perfectly restored Peugeot made him feel. A car was a wrapper for its contents, he thought, and if he looked on the inside like any of the cars in this garage looked on the outside, he couldn’t live with himself. On the outside, he knew he looked a lot like his father. On the inside, he sort of wished he looked more like the Camaro. Which was to say, more like Adam.

So I take it you and Gansey get along, then?” Maura’s expression was annoyingly knowing. “Mom.” “Orla told me about his muscle car,” Maura continued. Her voice was still angry and artificially bright. The fact that Blue was well aware that she’d earned it made the sting of it even worse. “You aren’t planning on kissing him, are you?” “Mom, that will never happen,” Blue assured her. “You did meet him, didn’t you?” “I wasn’t sure if driving an old, loud Camaro was the male equivalent of shredding your T-shirts and gluing cardboard trees to your bedroom walls.” “Trust me,” Blue said. “Gansey and I are nothing like each other. And they aren’t cardboard. They’re repurposed canvas.” “The environment breathes a sigh of relief.” Maura attempted another sip of her drink; wrinkling her nose, she shot a glare at Persephone. Persephone looked martyred. After a pause, Maura noted, in a slightly softer voice, “I’m not entirely happy about you’re getting in a car without air bags.” “Our car doesn’t have air bags,” Blue pointed out. Maura picked a long strand of Persephone’s hair from the rim of her glass. “Yes, but you always take your bike.” Blue stood up. She suspected that the green fuzz of the sofa was now adhered to the back of her leggings. “Can I go now? Am I in trouble?” “You are in trouble. I told you to stay away from him and you didn’t,” Maura said. “I just haven’t decided what to do about it yet. My feelings are hurt. I’ve consulted with several people who tell me that I’m within my rights to feel hurt. Do teenagers still get grounded? Did that only happen in the eighties?” “I’ll be very angry if you ground me,” Blue said, still wobbly from her mother’s unfamiliar displeasure. “I’ll probably rebel and climb out my window with a bedsheet rope.” Her mother rubbed a hand over her face. Her anger had completely burned itself out. “You’re well into it, aren’t you? That didn’t take long.” “If you don’t tell me not to see them, I don’t have to disobey you,” Blue suggested. “This is what you get, Maura, for using your DNA to make a baby,” Calla said. Maura sighed. “Blue, I know you’re not an idiot. It’s just, sometimes smart people do dumb things.” Calla growled, “Don’t be one of them.” “Persephone?” asked Maura. In her small voice, Persephone said, “I have nothing left to add.” After a moment of consideration, she added, however, “If you are going to punch someone, don’t put your thumb inside your fist. It would be a shame to break it.” “Okay,” Blue said hurriedly. “I’m out.” “You could at least say sorry,” Maura said. “Pretend like I have some power over you.

But this version of Gansey was Gansey the boy. This was Gansey who bought the Camaro, the Gansey who asked Ronan to teach him to fight, the Gansey who contained every wild spark so that it wouldn't show up in other versions. (...) All that mattered was that something had struck the match and Gansey was burning.

on top of lumpy tufts of valley grass. A semitruck roared by without pause; the Camaro rocked in its wake. On the other end of the phone, his roommate Ronan Lynch replied,

You know what sucks about prophecies?” “They never predict anything fun,” Granuaile answered. “Just once I’d like to hear a prophet tell someone, ‘Thou shalt win a bitchin’ Camaro on a game show.’ 

The drive downtown is an experience unto itself. You're controlled by this dark energy that's about to take you to a place where you know you don't belong at this stage in your life. You get on the 101 freeway and it's night and it's cool outside. It's a pretty drive, and your heart is racing, your blood is flowing through your veins, an it's kind of dangerous, because the people dealing are cut-throat, and there are cops everywhere. It's not your neck of the woods anymore, now you're coming from a nice house in the hills, driving a convertible Camaro.

No one knew what Ganseylike was, even Gansey. Teachers and family friends were always collecting articles and stories that they thought might capture his attention, things they thought were Ganseylike. The well-meaning items always addressed the most obvious parts of him. Welsh kings or old Camaros or other young people who had travelled the world for bizarre reasons no one else understood. No one dug down past that, and he supposed he didn't much encourage it. There was a lot of night in those days behind him, and he preferred to turn his face into the sun. Ganseylike. What was Ganseylike?

Is Blue a nickname?" Beside the Camaro, Blue's eyebrows got suddenly pointy. Hurriedly, Gansey added, "Not that it's not a cool name. Just that it's ... unusual." "Weird-ass." This was from Ronan, but he said it as he chewed absently on one of the leather straps on his wrist, so the effect was minimized. Blue replied, "Unfortunately, it's nothing normal. Not like Gansey." He said, "I've always liked the name Jane." Blue's eyes widened. "Ja - what? Oh! No, no. You can't just go around naming people other things because you don't like their real name." "I like Blue just fine," Gansey said. "Some of my favourite shirts are blue. However, I also like Jane." "I'm not answering to that." "I didn't ask you to.

maybe this was who Jude would have been if her mother hadn’t married a dark man. In this other life, the twins passed over together. Her mother married a white man and now she slipped out of mink coats at fancy parties, not waited tables in a country diner. In this reality, Jude was fair and beautiful, driving a red Camaro around Brentwood, her hand trailing out the window. Each night, she strutted onstage, beaming, tossing back her golden hair while the world applauded.

Red is his favorite color,” Keelan said with a mischievous grin and put his hand on Knox’s shoulder. “That’s why his Camaro’s red.

So, pop quiz, Mr. Parrish. Three things that appear in the vicinity of ley lines?” “Black dogs,” Adam said indulgently. “Demonic presences.” “Camaros,” Ronan inserted.

They were headed back to Henrietta in the Pig, Gansey’s furiously orange-red ancient Camaro. Gansey drove, because when it was the Camaro, he always drove. And the conversation was about Glendower, because when you were with Gansey, the conversation was almost always about Glendower.

If it’s not, it’s a coincidence the size of Russia.” “And you don’t believe in even small coincidences, I know.” He looked at the cup of tea, picked it up, and took a sip. “Todd ran the plate on the Camaro.” Jamison stiffened. “And?” “And it was stolen from a couple who live in Woodbridge.

Depressions are a lot like snowflakes – no two are exactly alike. Some people get drunk and puke up the badness into a public toilet. Some find a willing stranger and fuck their brain out in the backseat of a rusty Camaro. The Hole requires a lot less energy. In the Hole, time doesn`t exist.

Maybe for Mom’s birthday. I have to go. Things might get ugly.” The cell phone speaker made Helen’s laugh a hissing, pitchless thing. “Listen to you, sounding all badass. I bet you’re just listening to a CD called ‘The Sounds of Crime’ while you cruise for chicks outside the Old Navy in your Camaro.

He picked up Gabe’s Camaro by the torn roof, the chassis creaking and groaning. He raised the car over his head and threw it down the road. It slammed into the wet asphalt and skidded in a shower of sparks for about half a mile before coming to a stop. The gas tank exploded. Not a scratch,I remembered Gabe saying. Oops.

Adam Parrish. This was how it had begun: Ronan Lynch had been in the passenger seat of Richard Campbell Gansey III's bright orange '73 Camaro, hanging out the window because walls couldn't hold him. Little historic Henrietta, Virginia, curled close, trees and streetlights alike leaning in as if to catch the conversation down below. What a pair the two of them were. Gansey, searching desperately for meaning. Ronan, sure that he wouldn't find any. Voted most and least likely to succeed, respectively, at Aglionby Academy, their shared high school. Those days, Gansey was the hunter and Ronan the hawkish best friend kept hooded and belled to prevent him tearing himself to shreds with his own talons. This was how it had begun: a student walking his bike up the last hill into town, clearly headed the same place they were. He wore the Aglionby uniform, although as they grew closer Ronan saw it was threadbare in a way school uniforms couldnt manage in a single year's use--secondhand. His sleeves were pushed up and his forearms were wiry, the thin muscles picked out in stark relief. Ronan's attention stuck on his hands. Lovely boyish hands with prominent knuckles, gaunt and long like his unfamiliar face. "Who's that?" Gansey had asked, and Ronan hadn't answered, just kept hanging out the window. As they passed, Adam's expression was all contradictions: intense and wary, resigned and resilient, defeated and defiant. Ronan hadn't known anything about who Adam was then and, if possible, he'd known even less about who he himself was, but as they drove away from the boy with the bicycle, this was how it had begun: Ronan leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes and sending up a simple, inexplicable, desperate prayer to God: Please.

Ronan was in hell. He was dreaming. The Lace was everywhere; it was the entire dream. It was wrong to say it surrounded him, because that would imply that he still existed, and he wasn't sure of that. The dream was the Lace. He was the Lace. It was hell. It was the dreamt security system. It was Adam's scream. It was his last forest dying. It was his father's battered body. It was his mother's grave. It was his friends leaving in Gansey's old Camaro for a year's trip without him. It was Adam sitting with him in the labyrinth in Harvard telling him that it was never going to work. It was tamquam, marked unread. It would kill him, too, it said. You have nothing but yourself and what is that? But then there was a furious flash of light, and in it, he felt a burst of hope. He was part of something bigger.

The very first dram Ronan had ever been truly proud of, truly euphoric over, had been a copy. It had been in high school. Ronan wasn't good at surviving high school and he wasn't good at surviving friendship, and so while his friend Gansey's back was turned, he'd stolen Gansey's car. It was a beautiful car. A 1973 bright orange Camaro with stripes right up its hood and straight down its ass. Ronan had wanted to drive it for months, despite Gansey forbidding it. Maybe because of him forbidding it. Within hours of stealing it, Ronan had totaled it. Gansey hadn't wanted him to drive it because he thought he'd grind the clutch, or curb it, or burn out the tires, or maybe, maybe blow the engine. And here Ronan had totaled it. Ronan had loved Richard C. Gansey III far more than he loved himself at that point, and he hadn't known how he was ever going to face him when he returned from out of town. And then, Joseph Kavinsky had taught him to dream a copy. Before that, all of Ronan's dreams--that he knew about, Matthew didn't count--had been accidents and knickknacks, the bizarre and the useless. When he'd successfully copied a car, an entire car, he'd been out of his mind with glee. The dreamt car had been perfect down to the last detail. Exactly like the original. The pinnacle of dreaming. Now a copy was the least impressive thing to him. He could copy anything he put his mind to. That just made him a very ethereal photocopier. A one-man 3-D printer. The dreams he was proud of now were the dreams that were originals. Dreams that couldn't exist in any other way. Dreams that took full advantage of the impossibility of dreamspace in a way that was cunning or lovely or effective or all of the above. The sundogs. Lindenmere. Dreams that had to be dreams. In the past, all his good dreams like this were gifts from Lindenmere or accidents rather than things he had consciously constructed. He was beginning to realize, after listening to Bryde, that this was because he'd been thinking too small. His consciousness was slowly becoming the shape of the concrete, waking world, and it was shrinking all his dreams to the probable. He needed to start realizing that possible and impossible didn't mean the same thing for him as they did for other people. He needed to break himself of the habit of rules, of doubts, of physics. His "what if" had grown so tame. "You are made of dreams and this world is not for you." He would not let the nightwash take him and Matthew. He would not let this world kill him slowly. He deserved a place here, too. He woke.

I wondered if other single women understood the delight that came from fifth-wheeling it. To not have to make small talk with some guy you’d been set up with, to not have to worry about some idiot with peppercorn-encrusted-filet breath trying to force his wiggly tongue down the back of your throat, and to not have to explain to that same idiot why you insist on taking a cab home when his super-fast Camaro is parked right over there.

Pulling the letter I wrote from my back pocket, I drop it on the hallway table and text down to have a cab brought around. As far as I'm concerned, Sin can have my Camaro, Ryan can have my Harley, and Sienna gets my Hummer. She loves driving that tank, and it's the safest vehicle out there for her, really.

Small towns usually have their share of petty larceny or domestic disturbances too. Graehling Station is no different. The repeat offenders make their rounds like the parking-lot carnivals that pass through in the stinking heat of summer.

The Upper Territory. It’s not Heaven, and time spent won’t keep you out of Hell. It’s somewhere in between, and it’s clear that none of us negotiate the terms of our existence.

All I know for sure is the past doesn’t always stay put. Maybe that’s one of life’s hard-knock lessons. Or maybe it’s just bad luck.

No sooner had I thought it, rain drops fell, speckling the windshield. I glanced up at the light, wondering what was taking so long. Tristan's phone rang, and he turned down the radio to answer it. I blew my bangs from my face and glanced back at the Camaro, noticing the driver had rolled his window down. He was looking at me. My heart stopped. Skyler.

A sedan slowed as it passed, the occupants staring out the window. Gansey was not an unpleasant-looking boy and the Camaro was not too hard on the eyes, either, but this attention had less to do with comeliness and more to do with the novelty of an Aglionby boy broken down by the side of the road in an impudently orange car.

The Camaro’s air-conditioning had only two settings: on and broken. To the phone, Gansey said, “That’s the only thing.” Ronan leaned on the cracked black vinyl of the passenger-side door and chewed on the leather bands on his wrist. They tasted like gasoline, a flavor that struck Ronan as both sexy and summery.

DOM’S CAR, A BLACK-ON-BLACK CAMARO, is sitting in the parking lot when I pull up to his apartment. The paint, although matte in finish, shines in the early evening sunlight. I’ve never been a big fan of cars, but this one is almost as sexy as Dominic. It sits low to the ground and sounds ferocious when he presses the gas and lets it roar down the road. Sometimes we take long, pointless drives out of the city, and I settle back in the leather seats and enjoy being wrapped up in so much power with him at the wheel.

It should have been impossible. No one should have been able to dream any of these things, much less all of them. But Adam had seen what Ronan could do. He'd read the dreamt will and ridden in the dreamt Camaro and had been terrified by the dreamt night terror. It was possible there were two gods in this church. Ronan crouched by the pew again, studying the list, his fingers running idly over his stubble as he thought. When he wasn't trying to look like an asshole, his face looked very different, and for a tilting moment, Adam felt the startling inequality of their relationship: Ronan knew Adam, but Adam wasn't sure he knew Ronan, after all.

Gansey stepped into the yard and the dense flock immediately rushed up around him. They swirled around him, wings brushing against him, feathers touching his cheek. He couldn't see anything but the birds, every shape and color. His heart was a winged thing itself. He couldn't catch his breath. He was so afraid. If you can't be unafraid, Henry said, be afraid and happy. The flock dipped away. They meant to be followed, and they meant to be followed now. They swirled up in a great column over the Camaro. Make way! they shouted. Make way for the Raven King! It was loud enough now that lights were beginning to come on in the houses. Gansey climbed into the car and turned the key--start, Pig, start. It growled to life. Gansey was all things at once: elated, terrified, overcome, satiated. With a squeal of tires, he pursued his king.

She kept hollering until Ronan had caught up with her. Sure enough, she had found something out of place. He kicked through the leaves. It was a metal artifact that looked centuries old. It was the wheel of a 1973 Camaro. It matched the ancient, impossible wheel they'd found on the ley line months earlier. Back then, Ronan had taken that to mean that at some point in the future, they would wreck the Camaro in the pursuit of Glendower, and the ley line's bending of time would have sent them back in time and then forward again. All times being the same-ish on the ley line. But it looked as if they hadn't gotten to that place yet: They had future adventures waiting for them on the ley line. It was a thrilling and terrifying prospect.

I press the yellow trunk-release button inside the Camaro’s cabin.

Howie was outside warming up the Camaro,

don’t want to be known as the guy who screwed up the Mustang.” Rest well, Mr. Mays, your team’s effort on the 2005 Mustang was directly responsible for the reappearance of the Dodge Challenger (2008) and Chevy Camaro (2010). Rest well, indeed!

The women are lusting after Hael, the men after the car. It’s pretty pathetic. But I can't say I totally blame them. It is hot. The Camaro, I mean, not the man.

two flatbed tow trucks lumbered down the driveway. Each with a covered vehicle on the back. They pulled up in front of the house and positioned themselves to unload the vehicles. The man in the first truck got out and said, “This Stargazer Ranch?” Jack replied, “Yeah.” “You the owner, Jack Turner?” “Yeah.” “Delivery’s for you, man.” Jack and Caleb came off the porch, staring at the trucks and the man. “Whose cars are these?” “Yours. Sign here, please.” Jack signed and the man got out two pink slips. “Who gets the Camaro?” Caleb and Jack looked at each other blankly. “She didn’t,” Caleb blurted. “If the she you’re referring to goes by Jenna Caldwell, then yes, she did,” the delivery man said. “Uh, the Camaro is mine, I guess.” Jack couldn’t believe it. She bought him a car. “Okay, sign here.” Jack did and took the pink slip. “Is the Mustang for you?” the delivery man asked Caleb. Caleb opened his mouth, closed it, then said still unsure, “Uh, yeah, I guess it is.” “Sign here and we’ll get them unloaded.” “Jack, she bought me a car. Why did she buy me a car?” Stunned, they could only stare. “This can’t be real. People don’t buy other people cars. Not like this.” “I don’t know. She bought me one, too,” Jack said, dumbfounded. -Deliveryman, Jack, & Caleb

needle-nose

With all that in mind, I left the banana, and got into my sixty-nine Camaro with a pocket full of cash, and a painful cock and balls.

give you a call once this calms down some,” I told Freddie, as Fiona headed to the Camaro pulling me behind her. “Maybe next weekend?” “Sounds

K.T. stops dead in her tracks, her eyes locked on Horace’s car. “Holy crap,” she mutters, eyes wide. “Is that a ’69 Camaro SS?” I glance back at her as I unlock the door. “Yeah. You know cars?” She shakes her head, her lips trembling. “Just this one.” Her reaction is too strong to be normal. People don’t usually get choked up at the sight of a car. There’s something about this car specifically that freaks her out. It takes a second for her to smile, but she forces the expression onto her face. “It’s my sister’s favorite car.

Steph, I’m really not in the mood this morning for your attitude,” I growled.   “Too bad,” she shot at me. “Your girlfriend spent the night on my couch.”   “What?” My reaction got a snide little smirk out of her. I pushed my annoyance to side and questioned her about Bella.   “She’s fine. So far. Stubborn girl that one.” She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head, pushing her chestnut curls out of the way of her eyes. “She told me about her kid.” Her voice dropped and she walked around her Camaro until she was standing in front of me. With the sun just starting to rise, her face looked soft. Like it used to before so much hatred and pain settled in her expression.   “Why is she by you? Why isn’t she here?” I sunk my hands into my front pockets, trying to keep my voice civil. Getting all hard on Steph would only send her packing back up into her car and heading out without giving me any information. And if Bella was hiding out there, Steph would make the fucking place a fortress to keep me out.   “She doesn’t want to see you, or want your help.” She leaned against her car. “Apparently, her friends are involved on the wrong side of this shit storm, and she doesn’t have anyone else.”   We never talked about family. She knew about my brother, but she didn’t talk about her family. Did she even have anyone other than that fucking ex of hers? “Did she finally get a hold of Ashley?”   “Yeah, well, sort of. Not that it was any help. The important call she got was from Shadow.”   “Shadow called her?” My hands came out of my pockets, balled into fists, and I took a step toward her. Stella weathered more than one shit storm, as she liked to call them, while married to Jaxson, she kept her ground, not even flinching.   “Yeah. He’s got the little girl. The fucking prick.” Her eyes widened and her mouth went taught. Jaxson never could get her to quit cursing like a biker, but I think it was one of the things he found so damn irresistible about her. She didn’t take shit from anyone, but she could sure as hell dish it out when she needed to.   “What did he want?”   “He wants to meet her. Said he’d give her back the kid if she meets him this morning at eleven.”   The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Bella wasn’t as seasoned as Stella.

He picked up Gabe’s Camaro by the torn roof, the chassis creaking and groaning. He raised the car over his head and threw it down the road. It slammed into the wet asphalt and skidded in a shower of sparks for about half a mile before coming to a stop. The gas tank exploded. Not a scratch, I remembered Gabe saying. Oops.

Quella versione di Gansey era il Gansey ragazzo. Era il Gansey che aveva comprato la Camaro, il Gansey che aveva chiesto a Ronan di insegnargli a lottare, il Gansey che conteneva ogni scintilla selvaggia in modo che non si notasse nelle sue altre versioni. Era stato lo scudo nel lago a liberarlo? Il bikini arancione di Orla? I resti sfondati della Henrietta che si era costruito e le patenti finte? A Ronan non interessava. Tutto ciò che importava era che qualcosa aveva acceso il fiammifero, e Gansey stava bruciando.

I’ve literally just fucked his best friend on the hood of his Camaro, in the driveway of a tame, suburban neighborhood. How weird is my goddamn life right now?

Beauregard thought the night sky looked like a painting. Laughter filled the air only to be drowned out by a cacophony of revving engines as the moon slid from behind the clouds. The bass from the sound system in a nearby Chevelle was hitting him in his chest so hard, it felt like someone was performing CPR on him. There were about a dozen other late-model cars parked haphazardly in front of the old convenience store. In addition to the Chevelle, there was a Maverick, two Impalas, a few Camaros and five or six more examples of the heyday of American muscle. The air was cool and filled with the scent of gas and oil. The rich, acrid smell of exhaust fumes and burnt rubber. A choir of crickets and whippoorwills tried in vain to be heard. Beauregard closed his eyes and strained his ears. He could hear them but just barely. They were screaming for love. He thought a lot of people spent a large part of their life doing the same thing. The wind caught the sign hanging above his head from the arm of a pole that extended twenty feet into the air. It creaked as the breeze moved it back and forth. CARTER SPEEDE MART the sign proclaimed in big black letters set against a white background. The sign was beginning to yellow with age. The letters were worn and chipped. The cheap paint flaking away like dried skin. The second “E” had disappeared from the word “SPEEDEE.” Beauregard wondered what had happened to Carter. He wondered if he had disappeared too.

SEONG-JAE PROPPED HIS ELBOW AGAINST the base of the car window, stared out over the late night city, and pointedly avoided looking at, acknowledging, or even thinking about Malcolm Khalaji. Not exactly an easy thing to do when barely a foot and a half of space separated them in the Camaro, but damn it he was trying. He had been trying all week. Unfortunately “trying” was not synonymous with “succeeding,” and at the moment his failure rate was rather high.

Camaro’s 396 big-block option (actually a 402 by this point)

the bull-man bellowed in rage. He picked up Gabe’s Camaro by the torn roof, the chassis creaking and groaning. He raised the car over his head and threw it down the road. It slammed into the wet asphalt and skidded in a shower of sparks for about half a mile before coming to a stop. The gas tank exploded. Not a scratch, I remembered Gabe saying. Oops.

Green Goddess smoothie, please. Large.” Yes, that’s right. I was a fucking walking cliché. All I needed was a crop top, oversized hoops, and those ridiculous high-waisted mom jeans that made my ass look like the back of a Camaro to fit right in. I couldn’t help it though. I fucking loved green smoothies.

Bruna acariciou o cabelo dele, “Preocupa não, amore. Cê ainda vai encontrar o hétero da sua vida.” “É, ele tá aí, em algum lugar...”, Letícia indicou o mundo com as mãos. “Em seu Camaro branco.

Bruna acariciou o cabelo dele, 'Preocupa não, amore. Cê ainda vai encontrar o hétero da sua vida.' 'É, ele tá aí, em algum lugar...', Letícia indicou o mundo com as mãos. 'Em seu Camaro branco'.

Fred Smith’s replacement would be Gary Valentine, a New Jersey fuckup who liked to occasionally go out in drag and had a talent for songwriting. For a while he lived with Harry and Stein in Harry’s tiny one-bedroom at 105 Thompson Street; Stein was subletting his own place at 18 First Avenue off First Street to Tommy Ramone. Harry had a ’67 Camaro that opposite-side-of-the-street parking rules required her or Stein to move back and forth in the early morning, but it was beloved; on summer days she’d drive the guys to Jones Beach or Coney Island, looking like a modern version of a Shangri-Las song where the girl had the wheels and called the shots. While there was plenty of style-mixing,

Sally Jackson and son Percy are still missing one week after their mysterious disappearance. The family’s badly burned ’78 Camaro was discovered last Saturday on a north Long Island road with the roof ripped off and the front axle broken. The car had flipped and skidded for several hundred feet before exploding. Mother and son had gone for a weekend vacation to Montauk, but left hastily, under mysterious circumstances. Small traces of blood were found in the car and near the scene of the wreck, but there were no other signs of the missing Jacksons. Residents in the rural area reported seeing nothing unusual around the time of the accident. Ms. Jackson’s husband, Gabe Ugliano, claims that his stepson, Percy Jackson, is a troubled child who has been kicked out of numerous boarding schools and has expressed violent tendencies in the past. Police would not say whether son Percy is a suspect in his mother’s disappearance, but they have not ruled out foul play. Below are recent pictures of Sally Jackson and Percy. Police urge anyone with information to call the following toll-free crime-stoppers hotline.

Gansey drove, because when it was the Camaro, he always drove. And the conversation was about Glendower, because when you were with Gansey, the conversation was almost always about Glendower.

So, I’m a Camaro girl. Mustangs have no place in my life.

Relationships are about the three Cs: compassion, communication, Camaros, and counting.

I drove a brand new Camaro. Yep, the stereotypical symbol of the madness of encroaching middle age.

She called Kaneesha, whose machine said, "If you want money, go away. If you want to sell me something, it better be clothes. If you are a friend, let's party soon. If this is Tanya, where's my red tank top? Later. Beep." She called Douglas, the one boy in school she felt comfortable with. They could talk about anything. His answering machine said, "I'm probably underneath my Camaro, but leave a message for when I'm vertical." Hannah sighed.

Jeremy George Lake Charles The classic Corvette (Richard Nichols, 1984) contains the following chapters on the Corvette's design, engine, chassis, interior and exterior design. The Corvette Bible (Mike Yager (2007) is a comprehensive guide to the history of the Chevrolet Corvette from 1953 to 1987. Jeremy George Lake Charles This show includes a full-color illustration of the original Corvette and a detailed description of the interior and exterior design of each car. You will notice that all 65 of the 1968 convertibles were, but the covered models include the Corvette Stingray, Corvette ZR1, Corvettes, Camaro and Corvette Convertible.

The bass from the sound system in a nearby Chevelle was hitting him in his chest so hard, it felt like someone was performing CPR on him. There were about a dozen other late-model cars parked haphazardly in front of the old convenience store. In addition to the Chevelle, there was a Maverick, two Impalas, a few Camaros and five or six more examples of the heyday of American muscle. The air was cool and filled with the scent of gas and oil.

Right. Thanks. I need to slow down. You know what sucks about prophecies?” “They never predict anything fun,” Granuaile answered. “Just once I’d like to hear a prophet tell someone, ‘Thou shalt win a bitchin’ Camaro on a game show.’