“What are you doing?” I ask.
We both jerk our heads to the right when a siren cries on the other side of the warehouse. Flashing blue lights reflect against the wall. Isaiah grabs my hand and leads me away from the police. “I can’t get busted here.”
My heart stutters. He’s holding my hand. A guy is holding my hand. Touching it. Like his fingers entwined with mine. I’ve never held a guy’s hand before and it feels good. So good. Warm. Strong. Awesome. And it would only be a million times better if the guy holding my hand liked me.
Or if I liked him.
Isaiah and I step out onto a bustling sidewalk. Fear slams into my body, and if it weren’t for his sturdy hand wrapped around mine, urging me forward, I would have stopped dead.
Oh, hell.
Holy hell.
Oh, holy hell with lettuce on top.
I’m on the strip. This isn’t the place you go when you’re seventeen. No. This is the place you go when you’re twenty-one. Or the place you go when you’re pretending you’re twenty-one. And in college. And want to get drunk. Or pretending to be in college. And want to get drunk. Or you own a motorcycle. And want to get drunk. Or you’re a prostitute. And want to get drunk. Or you’re a slimy guy. And want to get drunk.
My brother West comes here.
But me? I don’t.
Neon lights hang over bars and burly men guard the entrances. Long lines weave along the sidewalk as people wait for admittance. Guys loom over barely clothed girls. Most of the people on the sidewalks laugh. Some of them make out. All of them are sloshed.
Isaiah tugs on my hand, guiding me closer to him. Our arms touch and I shiver as if I was zapped by lightning.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” he says. “Cop cars are everywhere.”
I turn my head to the street and stop when Isaiah squeezes my hand. “Don’t look. We’ve got to blend in.”
“I don’t understand,” I say in a hushed voice. “We’re not in our cars. How would they know?”
Isaiah keeps his eyes straight ahead. “I only said I wouldn’t rat. I didn’t say anything about anyone else.”
My mouth dries out—West’s friends. Did they escape or are they telling the cops my phone number and address? Can this get any worse?
Isaiah lets go of my hand and in a blur, pushes my back against a cold brick wall. His body becomes a hot, thick blanket over mine. The fine hair on my neck stands on end and my eyes close at the sensation of his warm breath on the skin behind my ear.
I’m absolutely terrified, but at the same time my body tingles with a weird anticipation.
“There’s two cops walking the street,” he whispers.
Peeking beyond his biceps, I see the two blue uniforms stalking in our direction. “What do we do?” I barely breathe out.
His hands go to my waist—my waist! And they feel so right. I like this closeness. Maybe I like it too much. A guy has never been this close to me. Never. And I can’t believe it’s happening, even if it is to keep from being arrested.
My heart beats frantically. Isaiah is hot and scary and hot. Why on earth would a guy like him want to be anywhere near a girl like me?
It’s the adrenaline rush. That’s what it is. I like how he feels because I’m still experiencing the adrenaline rush from Isaiah’s NASCAR driving skills. His arm shifts, and I love how that movement causes his muscles to flex.
Stop it, Rachel. It’s not real. Focus.
“Kiss me,” he whispers. “If you kiss me we’ll blend in.”
My mouth drops open as if to make a sound, but nothing comes out. How do I say the words...I don’t know how to kiss.
Chapter 9
Isaiah
RACHEL’S BODY STIFFENS AGAINST MINE. I’ve scared her. Of course I have. I’ve thrown an angel against a wall, into darkness, and asked her to do something unthinkable.
The area between my shoulder blades itches as if I’ve got a bull’s-eye painted on my back. The cops must be scanning us.
She places her soft hands on my bare forearms and whispers my name with an edge of panic. “Isaiah, they’re looking at us.”
Girls like her never notice guys like me and damn me to hell for enjoying her touch and the sound of my name on her lips. I may be a lot of things, but naive isn’t one of them. Her dependence on me is because she’s terrified of the cops. “Tell me how close they are,” I demand.
“Very,” she breathes out.
“Are they still looking at us?”
She nods. Fuck.
Kissing would be better, but I won’t drag her further into hell by forcing her to be physical with me. I lower my head away from hers and hover my lips near her neck. Rachel’s chest moves as she sucks in air. God forgive me for scaring her. “Angle your head to mine to hide your face,” I whisper. “It’ll just appear like we’re hooking up.”
She does, and her forehead brushes against my cheek. “I’m sorry,” she says.
My eyebrows furrow. “For what?”
“For...for...messing this up. You would be safe if it wasn’t for me.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” I turn my head in her direction. Her face is centimeters from mine, and she looks up at me with wide, beautiful blue eyes. Above us, a security light flickers on, then off. I’m wrong. They aren’t blue. Those eyes are so dark they’re violet. “You could have left me behind.”
I’ll never forget that. Never. Only one other person in my life would risk everything for me. That’s Noah. Our bond is one forged through the blood of battles won and lost in the system. We understand each other. Get each other. Have each other’s backs. We’re surviving warriors.
But this girl...she owed me nothing. Yeah, I turned back for her, but when I did, I knew I would still make it out. Her scenario was different. When I blew a tire, Satan was breathing down our necks and she stood against the flame. Hell, without batting an eyelash, she’s still standing in the inferno.
I owe her.
She lets out an unsteady breath. Her eyes fixate on the Brothers of the Arrow Knot tattooed on my left forearm then follow the flaming tail of the dragon that winds up my biceps and disappears from view at my short sleeve. I know what she sees: a punk.
Without moving her head, Rachel glances to the right and sucks in her lower lip. I’ve seen roses the color of her lips. “They’ve gone across the street.”
The tension eases from my muscles. I slide my fingers through hers again and pull her in the opposite direction of the cops. We need to get inside so I don’t have to keep tossing the girl against buildings. She deserves better than that. My apartment is close, but not close enough. Rachel and I need walls between us and the streets.
Rachel obviously said a prayer to her God, because a few feet down the sidewalk, beneath a neon sign, is our answer: a guy who owes me for fixing his car. The line into the club stretches beyond the plastic ropes and wraps around the building, but we won’t have to wait.
Jerry lifts his chin in acknowledgment the moment he sees me. “Isaiah, what’s doing?”
“I got problems.”
“I’m not twenty-one,” Rachel whispers. Neither am I, but we can hide here.
The rolls on the fat son of a bitch shake as he eyes me then Rachel. She fastens her other hand securely on my wrist and moves so that she’s behind me. Good job, angel. Let him know that I’m your man. At least you’re a fast learner.
I rub my thumb over her smooth skin in approval, then stop. She doesn’t need my approval. I’m not her man, but, for now, I am her protector.
Two guys in the middle of the line shout, asking what the holdup is, and Jerry informs them where to shove their complaints. He lights a cigarette and inclines his head to the police scanner sitting on the small table next to the door. “Someone called in a street race and the cops are all over it. First solid tip they’ve had in months. They’re pulling people in left and right. Not part of that action, are you?”
“Would it matter?”
Jerry grins with the cigarette still dangling from his bottom lip. “No.” He lifts the rope and takes a step to create a path. “Impressed you got out.”
With Rachel on my heels, we brush past Jerry. I pause in the door frame, half of me heated from the warmth of the club, the other half freezing from the night air. Jerry said the cops had a tip, not a report. A dangerous anger curls up my spine. “Did you say someone informed?”
He draws in smoke, then releases it. “Yeah. Tell Eric he’s got a snitch.”
A snitch. Fuck. Not what anyone needs. Eric’s a mean asshole already, and he’ll go insane if he thinks someone turned his business over to the police. A gentle tug on my hand coaxes my attention back to Rachel. “Isaiah, let’s get inside.”
Yeah. Inside.
The door closes behind me and I wait for Rachel to drop her hand. Instead, she inches closer to me when she surveys the narrow room. The chipped, worn wooden bar stretches the length of the left wall and in a nook on the opposite wall sits a stage.
The throb of an electric guitar playing Southern rock pulses against my skin. I place a hand on the nape of Rachel’s neck and guide her through the thick crowd so we can find a booth in the back. Even if the cops come in, they’ll give up before they maneuver past the groupies.
“Maybe you should go first,” she yells as I push her forward.
I lean down to say in her ear, “And take a chance on some drunk asshole grabbing your ass? I’m not interested in getting into a fight.”
Her head whips back to see if I mean what I say. I nod for her to keep moving. A crowd this packed? They’d also try to cop a second-base feel, but no need to tell her that. The music becomes muffled as we continue toward the back. She pauses to take a seat at a table in the wide-open. I shake my head and point to the corner booth. “That one.”
Preferring a view of the room, I motion for her to claim the space across from me as I settle on the bench against the wall. Rachel takes off her coat, sags in her seat and hides her face in her hands. “My parents are going to kill me.”
I don’t know why her statement hits me the way it does, yet it happens. For the first time in months, I laugh.
Chapter 10
Rachel
I SPLIT MY FINGERS APART and peek at Isaiah between the gaps. He’s laughing at me. It’s not loud or boisterous. At first his eyes hold a bit of humor, but slowly the humor dies and his laughter becomes bitter.
“What?” I ask.
“You,” he says while scanning the crowd.
Feeling very self-conscious, I sit straighter and shove a hand through my hair. I’m probably a mess. “What about me?”
“There’s an entire task force against street racing hunting us and you’re concerned about getting grounded.” Isaiah leans forward. His arms cover most of his side of the table, plus a little of mine. I place my hands in my lap and move my feet as he sprawls his legs underneath. The funny thing is, he appears relaxed, but his eyes keep searching the crowd.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Trouble,” he says without glancing at me.
