Clearly, Denise’s reputation preceded her. What a shock. “Uh-huh.” A tissue would be handy right now, but the neckline of her tank top worked. She wiped her eyes, cringing at the mess left behind on the light-gray cotton. “Neither of us is particularly proud of the fact, but yeah, she is.”
“Is she going to be home when we get there?”
“Doubtful.” She sniffed to battle the tears trying to escape through her sinuses, but then gave up and wiped her nose, too. What the hell? At this point he wasn’t likely to mistake her for Miss America.
He stared out the windshield, but something in the set of his jaw told her he was considering the options. She held her breath as the silence stretched. He hadn’t challenged her obvious lie about not drinking. Hadn’t subjected her to a sobriety test, or arrested her, but it was probably too much to hope he’d let the whole incident slide without informing her parent.
“You’re sixteen, dammit. That guy was twenty-five.” Frustration reverberated in his voice. “Do you even realize how wrong that is? If you can’t keep yourself in check, someone needs to do it for you.”
“Denise isn’t that someone,” she whispered. “Please. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Serious eyes drilled into hers. Then he shook his head, and let out a low, resigned sigh. “Jailbait, this is your one and only free pass. I told you we’d consider tonight a warning, so listen up, because here it comes. I’m going to be watching you from now on. If you stray over the line in any way, shape, or form I’m going to bust your little ass so hard your head will spin. Understand?”
As if she’d say no. He had her boxed in, and they both knew it. Even so, some of the pressure in her chest loosened. Boxed in by Booker felt oddly secure. More like a safety measure than a shackle. She nodded.
“Good. What’s your address?”
She gave it to him, and then wrapped her arms around her middle for warmth and sat in the darkness as he drove to Nido Terrace—the ghetto of Montenido. An occasional shiver still rattled her teeth. After a mile he muttered a curse, aimed the vents her way, and punched up the heat. Otherwise, they traveled in silence.
Every so often she snuck a peek at him. He’d graduated from high school the same year as her friend Heidi, which made him a few years younger than the guy from the beach. But while Duke still had the lean, narrow build of a college boy, Booker was all grown up. She stole a glance at his lap from beneath lowered lashes, and swallowed. Definitely grown up.
Her gaze fled the imposing bulge and landed on his profile, taking in the slope of his forehead, the masculine angle of his nose, and his square chin. His cheekbone created a sexy parallel line with his jaw. He was cuter than Duke. No. Wrong word. Cute implied boyish, and nobody looking at Booker saw a boy. They saw a man. A girl in search of a guy who knew what he was doing could do worse. A lot worse.
He must have sensed her staring, because he glanced at her. She turned away, caught her reflection in the side mirror, and realized she was chewing the ragged cuticle around her thumb—a nervous habit she’d picked up from Denise. Forcing herself to stop, she put her hands to better use finger-combing some life into her hair, and then scrubbing away the traces of makeup under her eyes. Those little efforts helped. She looked more like her normal self. Then again, was that really helpful?
No. Not when it comes to a guy like Booker.
The depressing thought backhanded her, and left a lingering ache of truth. What did she really have going for her, other than the ability to fill out a tank top and cut-offs? Booker’s hard-to-read expression didn’t offer any indication he’d noticed those particular talents. Did he see anything in her except a troublemaker?
Why do you care?
She couldn’t explain why, but she did. She wanted him to like her. The car rolled to the curb in front of her house. He killed the engine and the lights. “This it?”
“Uh-huh.” Her pulse quickened. Could she make him like her?
While she worked on a strategy, he came around and opened her door. She climbed out and turned to him. Moonlight and shadows played over his face.
Go after what you want, her internal voice insisted. Work with what you’ve got. She straightened to full height, which still only brought her even with his chin, and eased her shoulders back to put the girls front and center. Then she inhaled deeply, hoping his gaze might slide down. It didn’t.
“How can I thank you for being so decent tonight?”
Her voice sounded a little hesitant, but it could pass for breathlessness rather than nerves.
“By staying out of trouble.” No hesitation there.
She took a step closer, so her breasts almost touched his chest. “I meant some way I could thank you right here and now.”
He retreated a half step, which offered zero encouragement. But now that she’d put herself out there, she couldn’t seem to find a graceful way to back down. She stared up at him, and slowly ran the tip of her tongue over her up
per lip. “Think about it.”
“I’m thinking about a lot of things, Jailbait, such as how, unlike your friend from the beach, I know the difference between a girl and a woman. Go home.”
Rejection stung. It stung a lot when it came from a mom who treated her like a stray dog, but it stung coming from Booker, too. “That’s it? Just, ‘Go home?’”
He nodded, and then added insult to injury by pinching her chin, and giving her the barest trace of a smile. “Do us all a favor and pick on someone your own size for a while.”
Embarrassment, and—if she was honest with herself—relief, filtered through her. But she wasn’t in the mood to be honest, or to be treated like a child. She had to stop herself from stamping her foot. “For how long?”