Crash into You

Isaiah opens the door and stares me down with his hard gray eyes. “Passenger side. Now.”

Passenger side. Right now. On it. I slide over the console and grasp the side of the seat when Isaiah simultaneously shuts his door and guns the engine. I click my seat belt in place as he takes a sharp left. The speedometer continues to climb.

“I thought you said two rights.”

His restless eyes check the rearview mirror. “The cop we saw took that route. I’m not interested in chasing him. Are you?”

I shake my head, but I doubt he sees it. He keeps his eyes trained on the ever-constricting slender space. It’s like we’re not even on a road anymore, but a sidewalk. My stomach cramps. Holy freaking crap. This is a walkway. The deep sound of the engine pushing out revolutions increases until Isaiah shifts into Fourth. Oh, hell, I’m gonna puke. We’re doing sixty. “Slow down.”

“Slow down?” He smiles. I’m seconds away from a full-on panic attack and the guy actually smiles. “Your car can do over double what I’m asking it. In fact, it was built to be let loose. You should try it sometime.”

“I do let it loose. Garbage can!” I close my eyes and bite back a scream when the car swerves to the left. Breathe, Rachel, breathe. Going mental is not going to help this situation. “I mean, slow down.” I reopen my eyes only to wish I hadn’t. Dumpster. Big Dumpster. Big freaking, going-to-wreck-my-car Dumpster. “You can’t make it. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t....”

And he swings the car to the right and into an actual alleyway. “Don’t hurt her. Just don’t hurt her. Okay?” Tears prick my eyes and the breathing thing isn’t working and everything feels out of control. “She’s mine. This is mine. I don’t have much that’s mine. So you can’t destroy her, okay?”

“What’s your name?” he asks in the calmest, deepest tone I’ve ever heard.

“What?”

“Your name. I want your name.”

“Rachel,” I squeak.

“Rachel,” he says with a long drawl. I glance over at him when he says nothing else. His eyes flicker between me and the road. “I’m Isaiah, and I swear I’ll take care of you and your car.”

Breathing becomes a little easier. “Okay.”

I smell it again, his scent. The calming aroma. The one that’s become my new favorite. I take a deeper breath.

Isaiah drops gears and for the first time hits the brake. “As soon as I stop, get out.”

I don’t have time to ask what he means. Isaiah slams the car into Park, hops out and punches buttons on a security keypad. I do what he said and rub my arms as he eases my car into the garage, turns her off and relocks the garage door.

“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.”