Текст книги "Crash into You"

Автор книги: Katie McGarry

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 28

Rachel

MY ROOM IS PURPLE. THE walls, the throw rug over the white carpet, my comforter, my pillows, the floor-to-ceiling curtains—purple. Lavender really, but that’s just another way to say the word purple. I hate purple, but Mom doesn’t like green.

I sit in the middle of my four-poster bed and recount the money. Five hundred dollars. That’s what I have. Several pieces of jewelry rest on the pillow beside me. Those four pieces are the only ones I don’t think Mom would notice missing.

If my gowns weren’t in Mom’s closet, I could try selling those. While my mother can’t scrape up the ability to see who I am on the inside, she watches the outside like a hawk.

Someone knocks. I flip the pillow over to hide the jewelry and wad the cash. The door opens and Ethan catches sight of the money right as I slam it into my jewelry box. He strides into my room and plops on the bed. The pillow shifts and I glance over to confirm the jewelry is still hidden.

“Whatcha doing?” he asks as he stares at the box full of cash.

“Nothing.”

“Buying a new part for your car?” Because in Ethan’s mind, it’s the only thing I would need cash for. After a lecture from my dad, Ethan knows I won’t put my car parts on the credit card.

No. I’m paying off a psychopath. “Maybe.”

Me and my brothers, we’re spoiled. Each of us has a credit card so we can buy whatever we desire, but that financial freedom also carries a burden. Dad meets with us each month and reviews our spending. Two years ago, when I’d spent too much on parts for my car, I wondered if the women tried in Salem for witchcraft sweated as much as I had. This afternoon, for a brief thirty seconds, I considered a cash advance on the card, but West had done that once and Dad was on his case within twenty-four hours. Turns out, Dad set certain alerts.

“I need amnesty,” Ethan says.

Of course he does. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

A burst of air rushes out of my mouth and moves my hair. “What if I have plans? It is Saturday night.” He and West always assume the social worst of me.

Ethan’s face pales. “Do you? And if so, with who?”

“Maybe I want to drive my car.”

He rolls his eyes. “You can drive whenever you want.”

“Fine.”

Ethan swings his feet off my bed. “You’re the best.” He pauses at the door frame. “By the way, what would you think of extending twin amnesty?”

I pick at the lint on my bed. “To how many?”

My brother bobs his head as if he hasn’t already chosen a number. “Limitless.”

Dread weighs on my chest. Ethan and West sometimes can be out all night and I’m not always that creative in the lies I spin to cover for them. “I don’t know.”

“Sleep on it. And Rach.” The way he focuses on his sneakers makes the silence uncomfortable. Something that rarely happens between us. “I’m glad you’re helping Mom.”

I rub the skin between my eyebrows, fighting any thoughts that could lead to anxiety. On the corner of my dresser, taunting me, is a speech I have to memorize by next week.

“Will...” He closes the door to my room and leans his back against it as if to lock everyone out or imprison me. “Will you tell Mom if you get sick?”

I clutch a pillow to my chest. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

“Maybe you should talk to Mom and Dad.”

“And then what?” I fling the pillow off the bed. “Mom freaks? Dad’s disappointed? You and West and Gavin and Jack get on me for being weak? No, thanks. Where was your pity when Jack laid into me the other night because I hadn’t said yes yet?”

“They wouldn’t have asked if they knew you still had panic attacks.”

Disgust weaves into my voice. “Look me in the eye and tell me that this family isn’t happier because I’m hiding what they can’t handle.” What I can’t handle.

“Maybe I should tell them.” There’s an edge of seriousness to his tone that creates horror movie fear.

“You wouldn’t.” I search for words. “You want Mom happy, just like everyone else.”

“I know, but I keep thinking of you on that damn bathroom floor puking up your guts....”

My phone vibrates, and my stupid heart stutters because there’s only one person who would call or text me—Isaiah.

Ethan eyes my cell. “Who’s texting you?”

I grab my phone and try not to shake when I see Isaiah’s name. “West,” I lie. “He’s been having problems with his SUV because he forgot to change the oil again.”

“Moron,” Ethan mutters then looks at me again. “Think about what I said. At least about the amnesty.”

“Okay.” I struggle to keep my focus on my brother and not on the phone as Ethan leaves. If I don’t find a way to control my crazy emotions, Isaiah will only hurt me worse in six weeks when we pay Eric.

Meet me at the dragway at 7. My phone vibrates again with directions.

I toss my cell across the bed and fall back onto my pillows with a loud huff. A demand. Not a request or even a please. A demand. Like he knows he’s all hot and mysterious and how I can’t stop obsessing over him. I shouldn’t go. I shouldn’t answer. I should stand my ground.

The phone vibrates again. With a sigh too dramatic to use without an audience, I kick the phone toward me. I read the words then smother a pillow over my face: bring your car gassed

Because I’m nothing more than a debt. Stupid, stupid me.

* * *

My headlights flash across Isaiah as I park next to his black Mustang. With his back resting against his passenger door and his arms folded across his chest, he waits in the parking lot just like his texts said he would. The gravel beneath my tires cracks, and I hate the thought of rocks kicking up and hitting the paint.

I inhale, then slowly release the air. I’m a debt. I mean nothing to him. I will not lose it. I will not yell. I will be calm and collected and everything other than the crashing emotions and anxiety brewing inside of me. He will not know that he hurt me. I may be weak, but I’m good at hiding how I really feel. Pretending he didn’t break my heart should be easy.

I almost tumble out of the car when the door swings open without my assistance. Isaiah offers a hand as if I need help. Because it’s a strange gesture and one that catches me off guard, I accept and then internally curse myself once his strong hand wraps around mine. Crap. I still like his hands on me.

“Hey,” he says.

He closes my door, and the two of us stand there, holding hands, staring in silence. Well, almost silence; the sound of two engines simultaneously revving gains my attention. Isaiah smirks when I lean to the left to glimpse what’s behind the metal bleachers.

His finger performs this swipe on the back of my hand that sends an electric shock through my body. The blaring lights from the dragway cast a shadow across Isaiah, and I shiver at how comfortable he appears in the darkness.

“It’s a sweet sound,” he says referring to the engines, but all I hear is his deep voice.

I shrug as if I don’t care, but yeah...that sound rocks, the engines and his voice. Take your hand back, Rach. He’s playing you. One of his fingers moves slowly against my skin again, and goose bumps rise on my arms. The annoying voice in my head repeats the warning, but I don’t listen.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming.” He sounds both a little hurt and relieved. Good. I can’t contain the slight curve of my lips. I showed, but I also stood my ground by refusing to text back.

“You left your jacket at the garage. I’ve got it in the car, but it looks like you found another.”

Okay, that is sweet, but I’m still standing my ground.

“Come on, Rachel,” he says with a smoothness that reminds me of silk. “Talk to me.”

I shrug again. Okay, I know, completely immature. I haven’t even played this game with my brothers in years, but Isaiah so deserves it. We’re business, he and I. I’m a debt. He wants to use my car so we can pay off Eric. Nowhere in that agreement does it indicate I have to speak.

In one swift motion, I find the courage to remove my hand and shove it into my coat pocket so Isaiah knows touching me is off-limits. It’s a warm night for January, upper fifties, yet I use my jacket as a shield.

“Fine. We’ll talk later.” He pulls on his bottom earring. “Let me show you the place.”

I fall in step with him, and my eyes widen when I see the rows of cars looping around the metal bleachers, each waiting for their turn on the dragway. Mustangs, Camaros, Chargers, Novas, Chevelles, Corvettes. Oh, holy mother of God, the list is endless. All beautiful. All painted in reds or yellows or blacks or whites or blues or oranges—a glorious rainbow. All grumbling with the sounds of fantastic fast engines.

Gathered under smaller streetlights, guys lean against their cars or stand in small groups and call out to Isaiah. He nods or says something in greeting. My world freezes when I notice the gorgeous black beauty near the front of the pack.

“That’s a 2004 Mustang Cobra,” I say. My head snaps to Isaiah, and I repeat what I said, emphasizing each word. “That is a 2004 Mustang Cobra.”

He licks his lips in a pathetic effort to conceal his smile. Yeah, whatever, I’m talking so he won, but who cares. That’s a 2004 Mustang Cobra. That is the car I have always dreamed of owning.

“I know the guy who owns it,” he says. “Do you want a closer look?”

“Are you kidding?” I ask with a bounce that I’m sure makes me look like a five-year-old. “I sort of want to lie on the hood and hug it.”

Isaiah laughs the same laugh as the night in the bar. The one that creates an energized rush. The one that messes with my head and warms my blood. My excitement fades as I remember—Isaiah doesn’t want me.

Over the loudspeaker, the announcer calls the race. The groups quickly disintegrate and the drivers return to their cars.

“I’ll introduce you later,” Isaiah says. “Let’s go watch.”

We weave through the cars, past the bleachers, and stand at the fence near the starting line. I’ve never seen anything like it before: a flat stretch of road with concrete barricades following the eighth-mile course. Toward the end, two large electronic boards loom on both sides of the track. One set of numbers on top, another on the bottom.

The roar of an engine causes me to return my attention to the starting line. Guys walk alongside a red Camaro. One waves his hand in the air, indicating the driver should inch closer. “What’s he doing?” I ask.

Isaiah props his arms on the fence. “They spray water at the start of the track for the burnout. It’s better to get your tires right on the edge of the water.”

Holy freaking crap—a burnout. I’ve seen this hundreds of times on TV, but never in person. On cue, the back tires of the Camaro explode to life, spinning, sending heavy white smoke into the air as the driver heats his tires so he can gain better traction on the track. The sweet smoldering smell of burning rubber fills my nose. Finally, the tires catch and the car jerks forward.

The driver opens the door and fans it repeatedly to rid the interior of the smoke. Once clear, he shuts it and obeys the hand signals of his friend to move to the starting line.

“How do they know where to place their car to start the race?”

“Everything’s done by lasers,” Isaiah explains. “You need to hit the first laser without going too far. That guy doing all the hand motions is guiding the driver to the line. When he’s at the laser, a light over there will turn on.”

The competing car completes his burnout and thrusts to the line without help and without smoke infiltrating the car. “Why does the other driver need help and he doesn’t?”

“Because of the speeds some of these cars go, you can’t use regular seat belts. If we can get your engine to sing, we’ll have to install a safety harness in your car. Sometimes the harness keeps you so pinned in you can’t see the line. Sometimes the helmet keeps you from seeing it. Sometimes your friends want to help.”

He lost me at installing a safety harness in my car. Panic eats at my insides. “You’re going to change my car?”

Isaiah watches the cars at the line. “First they have to hit the line for prestaging. See that thing in the middle between the cars? That thing that looks like a traffic light?”

“Yes.” No. Not really. I mean, I see it. For both racers, the “traffic light” tower has two rows of white lights at the top, three rows of yellow lights, a single row of green and finally a single row of red. But what I really see is Isaiah missing the point. “As in you’re going to physically make a change to my car?”

“Yeah,” he answers calmly, as if he didn’t just announce he’s going to take the one thing in my life I love and ruin it. “It’s called a Christmas Tree. The white lights on top are prestage for the start of the race. They light up when the front of the car hits the first beam. When you hit the second beam, then the second row of lights glow to let you know that you’re ready to race. When both cars are staged, you have seconds before the lights on the tree drop.”

Yeah. Sure. Whatever. “What else are you planning to do to my car?” I grip the fence as a fresh wave of dizziness makes me light-headed. My car. I don’t want anyone messing with my car.

Either he’s ignoring me or he’s seriously into the race. “The yellow lights drop in descending order in .5 second intervals. If you leave before the green light, then the red light flashes.”

That snaps me out of near hysteria. “What does it mean if you get a red light?”

Isaiah glances at me. “It means you lost.”

Understanding socks me in the stomach. That’s why I’m not racing—I stalled at the line on the street and if I panic, I’ll possibly stall again. If I get overexcited and leave before the light turns green—and let’s admit it, I would—then I’ll lose the race before I even hit twenty miles per hour. “You don’t trust my reaction at the line.”

He kicks at the bottom of the fence, and I can tell he doesn’t want to answer. “We need a fast car, Rachel. Speed still means something, but out here at the dragway, whoever catches the light first is typically the winner.”

The cars in front of us roar. Torque causes the front end of the Camaro to pull up into the air, and I step back, half expecting the car to flip completely backward. It doesn’t. The front tires slam back down onto the asphalt. The Camaro races past the Mustang at a blinding speed. The sign at the end flashes. In an eighth mile the Camaro hits ninety-six miles per hour in 6.94 seconds.

My eyes widen and my heart beats hard in my chest. “I so want to do that.”

Chapter 29

Isaiah

WITH MY ARMS TIGHTLY CROSSED over my chest and my feet spread apart, I watch from a distance as Rachel chats animatedly with Zach, the owner of the Mustang Cobra. Her hair cascades down her back like a waterfall and her hands move gracefully in the air as she relays some story involving her Mustang on a country road.

Zach touches her arm right above her elbow and says something that incites her laughter. A muscle in my jaw jumps. I’ve known Zach since freshman year. We’ve taken every automotive course together, and I was there when he bought the Cobra for dirt cheap. If the boy keeps flirting with Rachel, he and I may not be friends by the end of the night.

“Hey, Isaiah.”

I tear my eyes off of Rachel for a second to greet Logan. “S’up.”

“Thought I’d check out the action,” he says, following my gaze to Rachel.

In a motion I’ve memorized, Rachel shyly bites her bottom lip. Don’t do it. Don’t look at Zach with those gorgeous eyes searching for him to be your answer like you did with me.

The muscles in my neck relax when she brushes her hair over her shoulder and steps back, causing him to remove his hand. Distracting Zach, she points to the Cobra and moves closer to the car.

“What did you think?” I ask Logan, hoping to distract myself. Watching Rachel laugh with another guy twists knots in my gut.

“That was some insane shit.” A jean jacket replaces Logan’s school one, and he almost fits in with a T-shirt and jeans, but his black hair still has that straitlaced gel-style.

“Think you can handle a car going that fast, man?”

A lunatic smile crosses his face. “Yes.”

Before Beth fell for Logan’s friend, Ryan, she had told me stories involving this kid. She said his only fuel was adrenaline. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” I reply. “But I do have a problem with Beth. You want me to work on your car, then I’m fine with that, but keep her out of my garage.” And out of my life.

Zach opens his car door for Rachel and she trembles with excitement as she slides into the driver’s seat. Part of me loves seeing her happy. The other part yearns to shove Zach in a body bag.

“Look,” says Logan. “I’m a couple of weeks away from earning enough to buy a used supercharger from a friend, and I have a feeling we’ll need to replace some of the exhaust.”

Several parts of his statement catch me off guard. “You already know cars, don’t you?”

“What if I do?”

What if he does? When I say nothing, he continues, “Beth heard about the car and went nuts, knowing it gave her an excuse to see you. She misses you, but she’s with Ryan.”

Logan waits for his words to sink in. Yeah, I got it. Beth’s in love with his best friend. “Ryan’s got nothing to fear from me.” And that’s the damn truth. There’s no part of me that wants Beth anymore.

She’s in love with someone else and having my heart ripped out and burnt to ashes keeps me from wanting to replay the game with her.

“Beth’s my friend so I played car idiot. She needed an excuse to see you, and we wanted an excuse for someone to come with her.”

Because Beth is a fucking hurricane and would have blown into town regardless of what anyone else thought or desired. Yeah, I understood that, too. I may not like what happened between me and Beth, but I can respect the guy for being loyal to her.

“To be honest,” says Logan. “I could use your help.” He gestures at the dragway. “And nothing in Groveton can offer me that type of rush.”

“Can you pay me?” I ask.

“Not if I buy the supercharger. But if you agree to help me put the charger in and help make some other modifications, then I’ll give you anything I win at the dragway.”

I had planned to ask Noah to help drag race my way out of the debt, but he’s been slammed with his own problems. “Have you drag raced before?”

“Illegally, on backcountry roads and with other guys’ cars.”

“Are you any good?”

He shrugs. I can tell by the cocky way his shoulders flex that the kid’s an ace. Or at least he’s won against his redneck friends. “I’ve won a few.”

I can’t believe I’m going to explain this or that I’m making the offer. No one other than me drives my car, but desperate times... “Rachel and I are in some bad shit. I’ll be racing her car to win money. If you want, you can race mine.”

The parts I intend to add to her car will mean speeds that will put me against better racers. Better racers translates to bigger bets.

“You owe money,” Logan says—a statement, not a question.

“To the wrong people, and they won’t take kindly to anyone helping us.”

His smile widens, proving the kid is bat-shit crazy. “A debt, a villain, speed and bad odds. This is something I definitely want to be a part of.”

Amused, I shake my head. I’m joining forces with a fucking country-jock. I extend my hand. “We got a deal.”

He has a strong grip and doesn’t fear eye contact. I already like the son of a bitch. Logan jerks his thumb at Rachel. “Is she your girlfriend?”

My eyes shoot to his, and he immediately holds up his hands. “Beth’s my friend, and with that handshake, you are, too. I am neutral territory.”

“We’re friends,” I answer in regards to Rachel.

She spent the first part of the evening trying to ignore me. Eventually, she broke down and talked cars, but it’s obvious she meant what she said to me in the garage: that she and I would work together and nothing more.

Zach rests his hands on the roof of his car and leans down to put his head closer to Rachel’s. She still sits in the driver’s seat with both hands on the wheel. Because fate has taken pity on me, she’s totally absorbed with the machinery and not with Zach. It’s like he knows nothing about personal space.

“You look like the two of you are just friends,” says Logan.

“I’m just watching her back.” I promised Rachel and myself that I’d protect her—from Eric, from the world.

“So you’re telling me that you’re into delusional shit?”

My spine straightens. “What did you say?”

Not giving a damn that I’m two seconds away from throwing a fist into his face, Logan lazily hooks his thumbs into his pockets and slouches to the side. “I got this friend Chris, right? He fell for another friend of ours, Lacy, but he didn’t want to admit it. Claimed the friend card, just like you, but for six months he looked at Lacy just like you’re looking at Rachel.”

“How’s that?”

“Like she amputated part of you and took it with her the last time she walked away.”

“Naw, you have it wrong.” But as my gaze switches to Rachel again there’s an ache growing in my chest. “Rachel and I are complicated.”

“Does your homeboy know you’re in a ‘complicated’ relationship with her?” asks Logan.

Since I’ve never brought a girl to the track before, you’d think my “homeboy” would be reserved. “Not sure.”

“So you’re standing thirty feet away because...”

“She wanted to see that car.”

“You could have gone over to see it with her.”

“Could’ve.”

“Jealousy’s a bitch,” taunts Logan. “And a symptom.”

“Why do you care?” I pop my neck to the side. If I look too close at the reason why I chose to keep distance between me and Zach, it’s because Zach’s a player and if I were any closer, I’d kick his ass and then Rachel would never see that car.

“I don’t,” he answers. “For some reason I’ve got a thing with stating the obvious. So you’re into her. If this shit you’re in is that bad, you might want to figure out what’s going on with the two of you first. Save yourself the drama of a breakdown in the middle, you know?”

I rub my hands over my face and feel as if my knees are about to give out. Fuck me, I am jealous and that is bad news. Wanting her is one thing, kissing her once in a moment of weakness is another. But having feelings for her? This is the type of shit that almost killed me with Beth.

“The look on your face is why I’m never falling,” Logan says. “I’ll swing my car by this week.”

I nod my goodbye and search for calm before I head over to the Cobra. The car may be named after a reptile, but its owner is the damned snake.

“Why would you mess with the original engine, though?” Rachel slides her fingers over the steering wheel as if she’s in mourning. “She was beautiful just the way she was born.”

Zach finally acknowledges me when my elbow smacks against his side as I shove my way between him and Rachel. He straightens and mumbles so only I can hear, “Damn, she gives me a hard-on. Gorgeous, and she knows cars.”

“I suggest you back the fuck off,” I mutter.

Zach smirks. “Hey, you’re the one that left her here with me.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Rachel asks.

“Cars,” I say. “You said you needed to be home by ten. It’s nine-thirty.”

She blinks as if she just woke up. “Crap. Already?”

I step aside so Rachel can exit the driver’s seat. Because Rachel is every guy’s fantasy, Zach begs her to stay: she should see the engine, she can ride in his car, she can drive his car. Each of his attempts to lure her to stay causes me to think of one more way to hide the body parts after I kill him. Rachel laughs him off and thankfully follows me to the parking lot.

The gravel crunches beneath our feet, and I envision a million different ways to wipe that conceited smirk off Zach’s face as she describes, in detail, every inch of the Cobra. A continual pressure builds with each word out of her mouth. I remind myself I was the one who introduced her to the dick.

“...and the inside was perfect.” Rachel rambles with a level of excitement I only thought possible in four-year-olds. “Like it just rolled off the lot. Well, not really, but you can tell he’s done a great job trying to re-create the feel...”

She’s impressed with him. Impressed with his car. Just impressed. And it’s not with me. We reach our cars, and the pressure rises to the level of explosion. “Do you like him?”

“What?” She half chokes.

“Zach. He asked you out. Do you want to date him?”

Rachel grimaces. “He did not ask me out.”

“Yeah. He did. He asked you to take a ride with him next weekend and you blew past the question. Did you want to say yes, but didn’t because I was there?”

Her mouth opens and closes several times. “He didn’t... It’s me, so he wouldn’t... Why do you care?”

Fuck it. “Because I do.”

Adrenaline pours into my bloodstream with the words, and my eyes dart around her face hoping to see some sort of a sign that what I said mattered. That I matter.

“Give me something, Rachel.” A word. A knowing glance. Anything.

Her beautiful eyes widen and because she must be the type that enjoys playing with fire her gaze falls to my lips. “Give you what?”

My heart rate increases. I’d give anything to kiss her again. Without realizing it, I step forward and Rachel retreats, backing into the car. Keeping her eyes locked with mine, I slowly reach out and cradle the slender curve of her waist, and when she says or does nothing to stop me, I step closer, letting my body slide against hers.

She sucks in air, and I love the soft sound. Her body heat reaches out and warms me and I wish I could wrap my arms fully around her. I crave to lose myself in the crook of her neck and be surrounded by her silky hair. Rachel tries to lower her head, but I reach up and touch her chin. “Don’t.”

I tilt her head up, engulfing her line of vision. She’s going to see me and me alone. No cars, no Zach, none of the other assholes trying to win her eye during the night. The sweet scent of jasmine entwining with the salty smell of the beach rushes into my lungs. I lick my lips, wanting to kiss her, but I’m too full of energy to dare let my lips brush hers.

Beneath my fingertips, her pulse beats wildly. “I don’t understand you, Isaiah.”

“Then we have something in common, because I don’t get you at all.” Nor do I understand the edge of anger and confusion beginning to roll in my veins.

Rachel was supposed to be a memory burned into my brain. The girl that I kissed, the girl that left me wanting more. But she’s delved deeper than physical, become embedded, and I don’t know how to dig her out. “I shouldn’t like you.”

She blinks several times as her eyes get glossy, but the tears I expect never come. Instead she jerks her chin and I drop my hand. “I think that’s clear. You kissed me then you never called.”

“If Eric knew I care for you, he’d use that against me.” Tons of people Eric know could be watching us, calling him, telling him that I’m close to the girl he felt betrayed him. It’ll give him an advantage over me. It’ll let him know my weaknesses, but the thought of Rachel accepting a date from another guy overpowers any logical thought.

“That sounds like a convenient excuse.” She wraps her arms around her waist, but she doesn’t push me away. Part of her wants me. A part she doesn’t understand, probably just like the part I can’t control. We’re at a tipping point. Both of us teetering one way or the other. I need the right words.

“I found out that night from a friend that you were in danger. I couldn’t let Eric think I liked you, not when your life was on the line. You were never going to be a fuck and I never called because I couldn’t be the link that led Eric to you.”

She shakes her head as I talk. “You told Eric I meant nothing!”

My voice rises to her level. What doesn’t she understand? “I was protecting you!”

Rachel presses both of her hands against my chest and forces me away. “I gave you my first kiss! I deserved better than to be left hanging. I deserved better than to be treated like I was nothing! Then I deserved better than to have your girlfriend thrown in my face!”

Girlfriend? “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Beth,” she says as a slur.

“Beth is not my girlfriend!” I yell and the sound of any conversation around us ceases. Both of us are breathing hard, as if we’ve run miles. She’s right. She deserved better then and deserves better now. She blinks and I hate that I can’t read her expression.

“What do you want from me?” I demand. I’ve tried to explain. I’ve tried to make nice and it’s not enough. Just like with Beth, nothing I do will be enough.

Rachel turns her head away and stares out into the dark night. No response. No words. Withdrawn into her head.

Fuck this. I’m standing here bleeding, and she doesn’t give a damn. “You can ignore me, Rachel, and you can try to treat me as a friend, but none of that will erase the fact that I think about kissing you every second I’m awake and dream at night of my hands on your body. And it sure as hell won’t erase that I’m terrified by how much I like you.”

I’m trembling, and my instincts scream at me to run. I said too much and feel things that are too dangerous. Her eyes snap to mine, but she says nothing. Does nothing. My heart drops as I realize what a fool I am. I’m just a guy who injured her pride. I mean nothing to her.

It’s too much. All of it.

“Forget about it,” I mutter as I wheel away and avoid eye contact.

I stalk off, unable to look back. Logan’s several spots down, talking to someone, and I point to where I left Rachel. “Make sure she gets in her car and leaves.”

Logan grins because I proved him right. “Sure. Where are you headed?”

“The dragway.” I need speed.