I don’t want the game to end. I don’t want this rush to end. I want to stay right here in this booth for as long as possible. “So, my first tip is to stay away from my brother’s friends?”
“No. Your first tip is to stay the hell away from street racing.”
“And my second?”
“To become better aware of your surroundings. You focus too much on what’s in front of you and not what’s lurking on the sides. Avoiding your brother’s friends is the third. And if your brother’s anything like them, avoid him, too.”
“We’re up to four tips. Any more?”
“A ton.”
“Lay them on me.”
It’s only then that I realize that we’re both angled across the table. We’re mirrors of each other and we are shockingly close. So close our foreheads almost touch and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Our heads tilt in the same direction and, in the center of the table, our hands are a breath’s distance from a caress.
The energy and the warmth surrounding us...butterflies swarm in my stomach and take flight. This isn’t me. None of it. I’m not the girl who hangs in a bar. I’m not the girl who is comfortable talking to guys. And I’m sure not the girl who leans over the table to be close to anyone.
Yet I’m doing all those things and I’m loving every freaking second.
Chapter 11
Isaiah
A LOCK OF HER LONG golden bangs falls forward and highlights the sexy curve of her chin and her thick eyelashes. I’ll do anything to keep her talking as the sound of her voice creates a contact high. Rachel’s this brilliant flame blazing in the darkness. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’ve always been the kind of guy that likes a fire.
She asked for another tip for survival. Like at the end of any good buzz, I experience the first drop into reality. If I were honest with her, I’d inform her the next tip is to stay clear of me. A punk who could never fit into the world of a girl who wears the type of jewelry she does, drives her car or goes to her school. A punk raised by the system, by the streets.
“Isaiah,” she says with a dazzling smile, “are you going to tell me the next tip, or what?”
Be a man. Tell her you’re bad news.
Or take her home and enjoy the night.
I could, but maybe I shouldn’t. While I have undressed her several times in my head, each time slowly and methodically, and imagined that blond hair sprawled out over the pillow in my bed, the girl’s naive.
But naive about the streets doesn’t mean naive about the world. Beautiful girl, confident enough to tease me...she’s probably played her share of games. After all, she was the one looking for the drag race—a thrill.
“I don’t get you,” I say.
“What do you mean, don’t get?” Rachel cocks her head to the side like a puppy and she’s so damn cute that I have to fight the urge not to smile at her again. This playful thing going on between us, it’s new, and I’m not a fan of new.
“Why were you out on the streets tonight?” I ignore her question by asking one of my own.
“The race tonight was a fluke. I typically just drive around.” Rachel fiddles with one of the solid gold bracelets on her wrist. I could probably pay rent for a year if I pawned that. A shadow descends onto her face and steals some of her light, which is a fucking shame. “Being in my car, letting her run...it’s one of the few moments I feel like me.”
Rachel withdraws onto the bench, looking a little lost. I don’t care for how her outside reflects my inside. It’s too much of a reminder of the things I try to shove away.
“Anyhow.” Rachel mock-rolls her eyes, downplaying her statement. “I drive for fun. I know it sounds stupid, but driving my car—it’s just me being me.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid.” It’s how I feel when I’m behind the wheel of my Mustang.
“Really? You really don’t think it’s stupid?”
“No.”
A shy smile tugs at Rachel’s lips and while she keeps her focus on the bracelet, she flips it around with a renewed energy. I kick back and rest against the seat. What the fuck is wrong with me that I like that I made a rich girl feel better? Damn, I need a beer.
A crash of glass rips my attention away from Rachel and jolts me to my feet. A mad flurry of arms and fists beating the hell out of each other causes my instincts to flare. The two college guys going at it collapse onto a nearby table. In fight-or-flight mode, I gear up to fight. Rachel, on the other hand, does neither—she freezes.
“Stand up on the bench!” I yell at her. “Get against the wall.”
The guys roll to their feet and before Rachel can process my words, the asshole with blond hair rams into the dark-haired guy struggling to stay upright. Jumping onto her bench, I haul Rachel to her feet, press her against the wall and shield her with my body.
Wrapped in a fighting hug, the two guys slam into our table. It flips and the edge breezes against my arm and leg. I lean to the right to keep it from tearing into my thigh. The table completes a one-eighty and lands where I sat moments before.
“Oh, my God,” she whispers. In the same exact instant, wetness spreads down my T-shirt and a drop of liquid trickles along my arm.
“Sorry.” Standing on the bench beside us, a man taller than Rachel holds an empty beer bottle tipped in our direction. “Got caught watching the fight.”
He moves to touch her, possibly to wipe off the beer, but the ice forming in my eyes must have stopped the son of a bitch. That’s right, place your hand back at your side. Touch her and die.
The sounds of the scuffle disappear.
“Fight’s over!” The easily two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bouncer dares anyone to tell him differently as he straightens and clenches his fists. Two other bouncers return from the front. They’ve already thrown the troublemakers outside.
The bitter scent of alcohol burns my nose and as I glance at Rachel, I close my eyes. Beer soaks her hair and shirt. Shit. “Rachel...”
“I can’t get into a car like this.” The edge of panic is clear in her voice. “If I get pulled over, the police will think that I drink and I don’t drink. Ever.”
I take a step back as she shakes her arms like a kitten coming in from a rainstorm. A few drops of beer cascade off her onto the bench. I run my hand over my head. If this were any other girl, I’d give her a hard time for being overly dramatic, but the way the color drains from her face and how her body begins to tremble tells me she’s not being dramatic. She’s terrified.
“And what if I make it home? What am I going to do?” She shakes her arms again. Her voice rises higher in pitch and the words tumble out on top of each other. “I can’t go home like this. I can’t!”
“Rachel.” I need her to focus. “Are you hurt?”
Her body goes still as her eyes immediately dart over me. “Are you okay? They were closer to you. Oh, my God, Isaiah. Do you need to go to the hospital? Oh, hell, you’re bleeding. You’re bleeding! Oh, my God!” Her hand flutters near her mouth.
I follow her intense gaze to my elbow. Fuck me, I am bleeding. The edge of the table must have struck me. I turn my elbow up and use the hem of my T-shirt to remove the small pool of blood. “It’s barely a scrape.”
Soft fingers grip my wrist and forearm. My eyes shoot to hers, but she’s too busy fussing over the noncut to notice how her caress is turning me inside out. In a good way. In a strange way. In a way I haven’t felt since...Beth.
“But there’s blood.” Her chest expands and deflates faster than it should, and she sucks in too much air. “You’re hurt. We need to make sure you’re okay. Can you move your arm? Is it broken? Oh, crap, what if you broke your arm?”
A bead of liquid appears at her hairline and slides down her face. When it hits her cheek, I can’t tell if the drop is from the beer or from her eyes. My hand moves, the need to touch her more powerful than thought. Before I know what I’m doing, I wipe away the wetness.
Aw, dammit, no. I don’t want to be the fucking guy that wipes anything away. I tried this merry-go-round with Beth once, and the moment she saw a life other than what she had known with me, she threw me into the gears of the ride. Pull back, man. Pull back.
“What you’ve done for me already tonight,” Rachel continues, “and what you just did for me, and you’re bleeding!”
Take the hand away. Take the fucking hand away from her face.
But I don’t. Instead, my thumb moves again to capture one more drop. It’s as if she doesn’t notice my touch, which is annoying because my fingers are memorizing every curve of her face.
In one long, run-on sentence, she continues, “It could be a hairline fracture or a sprain and you’re bleeding and I don’t know how deep a cut should be in order to need stitches. Oh, hell, oh, hell. Staples. What if you need...”
“Rachel?”
“Staples! That can be serious!”
The honest to God worry she feels is over me. Something solid in my chest shifts, and it shoots a warning tremor though my system. Whatever the fuck is going on inside me has to stop. “Rachel!”
Her violet eyes, full of hysteria, finally meet mine. Since entering the system, I’ve never met anyone who cared enough about me to freak out over a cut. She’s not just worried. She’s panicked.
“I’m okay. Take a deep breath before you pass out.” I’m kidding, and I’m not.
She nods as if I’m dispensing quality advice, and she does exactly what I said. Her small amount of cleavage moves up with the inhale, then slowly down. Rachel performs the exercise one more time, her hands tightening around my arm as if she’s leaning on me for support.
“I’m good now. I am. Sorry about that.”
Because I want to, I keep my hand against her face. Rachel’s cheek is warm and smooth. I like touching her and, even more, I like her touching me. This angel has blown my every idea of what a rich, private school girl should be. No drinking, no boyfriend, likes fast cars—hell, knows fast cars—and is concerned over me.
“Who are you?” I mumble. Another drop of beer descends from her hairline and I move my thumb against her skin a third time in order to catch it.
She blinks. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” I lower my hand and snag her fingers. I should take her straight to the garage and send her home, but, because I’m a bad son of a bitch, I won’t. The dickhead who spilled his beer has given me an excuse to enjoy her for a little while longer. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I jump off the bench and keep her hand to “steady” her as she also hops to the floor. The bar’s employees hastily pick up the broken tables and chairs. The bouncer with the dustpan and broom looks at us. “You two okay?”
“Yeah, can we go out the alley entrance?”
Giving me the green light, he tilts his head toward the back door. Knowing I no longer have a reason to hold Rachel’s hand, I let her go and snatch her jacket off the broken table. But I do place my hand on the small of her back to lead her out into the alley.
