“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 f**k 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?”
Chapter 12
Rachel
I PLACE THE DRYER ON the sink and run my fingers through my hair again. There—dry and officially beer-free. The edge of Isaiah’s dark blue T-shirt ends an inch short of my knees and I catch my silly smile in the blurry mirror. I’m wearing a guy’s shirt. Too freaking awesome.
I lower my chin to smell the shirt again. I want to wear this forever, without washing it. His dark, spicy aroma consumes the material. I peek at him from the corner of my eye, wondering if he spots me catching a whiff or if he knows how addicting his scent is to girls.
A knot forms in my throat. Does he have many girls?
As promised, Isaiah sits on the kitchen counter on the other side of the room from me. He leans forward, his legs lazily stretched apart with his joined hands resting between them as he watches me.
He’s observant. Overly so. I think he could tell me more about my actions than I could. A huge part of me doesn’t like it. In order for me to fit in at home, people can’t notice me. It’s harder to pull off being someone else when you’re the center of attention. But I’m not home. I’m miles from there. And here, in this room, I like how Isaiah looks at me as if I’m the only girl in the world.