“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.