Crash Into You

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.

As we step outside, I regretfully remove my hand, then lift her jacket to my nose. The jacket has a sweet scent that reminds me of the ocean. It’s a bittersweet smell for me. I shove the memories away and focus. I can’t detect the scent of beer, but then again, we’re covered in it. “I know it’s cold, but if you can keep your jacket off, it would be better. It’ll keep the smell of beer off of it.”

From behind us, a garbage can clanks against the asphalt. I quicken my pace and Rachel has to double her steps in order to match my stride. I should slow, but I don’t like the idea of being in dark alleys with her. Too many things there go bump and jackass crazy in the night.

“What about the police?” she asks. “Won’t they still be looking for us?”

“I live a few blocks over. They’ve probably caught everyone they think they can catch, but I still want to stay off the main streets.”

“We’re going to your house?” I hear the hint of relief.

“Apartment.” She probably lives in a huge house full of nice shit. I lower my head. Damn. Suddenly, this no longer seems like a good idea. She’ll be shocked when she sees my place. “We don’t have much.”

“That’s okay. Are you sure you want to take me there? It’s late.”

Noah won’t care. “What time is your curfew?” Because girls like her have those.

The only sound besides the honking coming from the main street behind us is of our shoes hitting the pavement. She’s silent, which, from the short time I’ve known her, strikes me as odd.

We turn into another alley and I breathe easier when I spot the fire escape to my unit. Home sweet fucking home. Hopefully before Noah left, he emptied the rat traps.

Rachel’s arm brushes against mine, and I flinch from how cold it is. “We’re almost there. You can take a shower if you want to wash off the beer.”

“Ten,” she says in a small voice. “My curfew is ten.”

I hike one eyebrow, and when I glance at her she quickly looks away.

“Little late, aren’t you?” By two and a half hours.

She twists a strand of her hair around her finger. “My twin brother and I have an agreement. We cover for each other when—well, when we want to be out past curfew.”

I don’t get her. Not at all. “So you don’t drink?”

“No.” She releases her hair and raises her chin. Guess I should keep my mouth shut about how I do drink and how I’ve been known to get high.

“And you don’t have a boyfriend.”

The chin drops. “No.”

The answer may bother her, but it’s the best news I’ve heard in days. Though it shouldn’t matter, I don’t like the idea of another guy kissing her. My stomach twists with the thought of the hundreds of guys that must be following her around, waiting for her to take notice.

I rub at my neck. What the hell is wrong with my thought process tonight? She’s not my problem. What’s between us is just for tonight. “And you like to drag race.”

Becoming more thoughtful, her forehead relaxes. “Not really. That sort of sucked. Drag racing is a lot different than when I push my car to see how fast it can go. I do like to let her loose. She can hit sixty in five seconds.”

Her excited eyes seek validation. She hesitates, and I nod for her to continue. As if my approval rocks her world, an extra spring appears in her step.

“It was cool, though. I had this huge adrenaline rush when I heard your car take off. But I got sort of frazzled. Like my arms and my legs started working separately. And by the time I got my act together, you were done.”

We reach the old Victorian house my landlord left to rot once he converted it into four separate apartments. I hold the front door open for her, then lead the way up the stairs.

“Watch the third and sixth steps.”

“This is where you live?” Rachel wraps her hands around her stomach and peers over the railing to the floor below. The light over the stairwell flickers.

“Yep.” I unlock the dead bolt then switch keys to unlock the actual knob. “It’s not much, but it’s home.” The hint of pride in my voice surprises me.

I open the door, switch on the light and motion for Rachel to enter. With her arms still clinging to her sides, she slowly shuffles into the apartment. As soon as she’s in, I shut the door, rebolt and head to the bathroom. She’ll want to clean up and the water takes at least five minutes before it’ll be lukewarm.

The water pipes groan as I spin the knobs. “I’ll put a towel out for you. You’ll need to crouch to use the shower—or maybe not. You’re shorter than me,” I say over the water pouring into the old claw-foot tub. “I’ll give you one of my shirts to change into. Your jeans should be fine.”

I walk out and go for the bedroom to find her a T-shirt, but stop short. Rachel stares at the dead bolt on the door with one hand still clutching her stomach, the other pressed to her throat.

“Rachel? Are you okay?”

“Where are...where are your parents?”

The air rushes out of my lungs, and I scratch the stubble on my chin to hide the horror. I’m so used to people knowing...or assuming...or flat out accepting that people where I come from don’t have them...or if they did have them, that they weren’t any good. “I’m a foster kid.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, obviously not okay. “So what about them? Your foster parents. Where are they?”

I shift my footing and clear my throat as I come to terms with the situation I’ve put her in without knowing. All right, I knew. Fifteen minutes ago I contemplated bringing her home for the night. But that was before I realized how pure she was. Still, I brought her here, even if my intentions changed.

I force out the words. “I moved out of my foster parents’ home a couple of months ago with my best friend, Noah.”

She glances quickly around the room, searching for the threat. “And he is—”

I cut her off. “A good guy who’s probably staying the night with his girl. He goes to college and so does Echo. She came from a real good neighborhood, like you. Middleheights, I think.”

“I live in Summitview,” she says softly while staring at the empty rat trap in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Of course she does. That’s the damn Beverly Hills of Louisville. It’s gated. With guards. And she’s probably wondering if I’ve got body parts in the freezer.

The shower continues to pound against the porcelain tub and the damn insomniac old lady downstairs begins to play Elvis. Except this time, it’s one of his depressing songs.

“Rachel, I swear, my intentions are good. I won’t touch you. I’ll stay on the other side of the room from you at all times.” And why the fuck should she believe me? “You looked so damned scared at the thought of going home smelling like beer. I don’t know what shit you’ve got going down in your house, but I’ve been around enough to understand. Look, honestly, I’m just trying to help.”

She nibbles on a fingernail. “So you still go to high school?”

“Yeah. Eastwick.”

Silence. Her leather boots squeak as she adjusts her weight. The water still crashes against the tub. Elvis sings about rain.

“Eastwick’s a good school.” She drops her hand and peeks at me from below her eyelashes.

Finally, I’m getting someplace. “Yeah, it is.” No need to mention that my foster parents live right on the line between Eastwick, a good high school, and the one school in the county that is a step above a detention center. “I’m in the Automotive Accelerated Program. I’ve been the highest-ranking student in the program for the past two years.”

Past four actually, but I never tell people that I received that honor, let alone how many years I’ve earned it.

“I’ve heard about that program. I read the brochures when I was in eighth grade, but...” Rachel puts a hand over her mouth as if to prevent herself from saying anymore. “Anyhow, do you like it?”

“Yeah, I do.” I did it, I talked her down. The relief running through me is like a chaser after a shot. I push away the instincts that I’m playing with an unpinned grenade. People like her, nights like this, they don’t come around, and I just want to hold on to this flame for a little longer. Guys like me, we don’t make girls like her smile. “It’s where I learned to rebuild the engine in my Mustang.”

A spark ignites in her violet eyes. “You rebuilt your own engine? That’s sweet. I’ve played with the idea of adding some modifications to mine to increase the horsepower.”

I flinch at the thought. “Why? Your car is a perfect virgin. Never touched and in great shape.”

“Which is why I haven’t, but between you and me—” Rachel leans her body in my direction as if she’s revealing a highly guarded secret “—I really wanted an ’04 Cobra.”

That damn smile she’s already brought out in me once tonight crosses my face again. “An ’04 Cobra. That would be...” And I steal one of her words. “Sweet.”

“Yeah. It would, wouldn’t it?” Rachel rocks onto her toes and slides her long, beer-drenched hair behind her ear. “So, do you have a hair dryer?”