“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 f**king 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 f**king 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 f**k 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 cle**age 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.”