Crash into You

“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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck 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 cleavage 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.”

I jump off the bench and keep her hand to “steady” her as she also hops to the floor. The bar’s employees hastily pick up the broken tables and chairs. The bouncer with the dustpan and broom looks at us. “You two okay?”

“Yeah, can we go out the alley entrance?”

Giving me the green light, he tilts his head toward the back door. Knowing I no longer have a reason to hold Rachel’s hand, I let her go and snatch her jacket off the broken table. But I do place my hand on the small of her back to lead her out into the alley.

As we step outside, I regretfully remove my hand, then lift her jacket to my nose. The jacket has a sweet scent that reminds me of the ocean. It’s a bittersweet smell for me. I shove the memories away and focus. I can’t detect the scent of beer, but then again, we’re covered in it. “I know it’s cold, but if you can keep your jacket off, it would be better. It’ll keep the smell of beer off of it.”

From behind us, a garbage can clanks against the asphalt. I quicken my pace and Rachel has to double her steps in order to match my stride. I should slow, but I don’t like the idea of being in dark alleys with her. Too many things there go bump and jackass crazy in the night.

“What about the police?” she asks. “Won’t they still be looking for us?”

“I live a few blocks over. They’ve probably caught everyone they think they can catch, but I still want to stay off the main streets.”

“We’re going to your house?” I hear the hint of relief.

“Apartment.” She probably lives in a huge house full of nice shit. I lower my head. Damn. Suddenly, this no longer seems like a good idea. She’ll be shocked when she sees my place. “We don’t have much.”

“That’s okay. Are you sure you want to take me there? It’s late.”

Noah won’t care. “What time is your curfew?” Because girls like her have those.

The only sound besides the honking coming from the main street behind us is of our shoes hitting the pavement. She’s silent, which, from the short time I’ve known her, strikes me as odd.

We turn into another alley and I breathe easier when I spot the fire escape to my unit. Home sweet fucking home. Hopefully before Noah left, he emptied the rat traps.

Rachel’s arm brushes against mine, and I flinch from how cold it is. “We’re almost there. You can take a shower if you want to wash off the beer.”

“Ten,” she says in a small voice. “My curfew is ten.”

I hike one eyebrow, and when I glance at her she quickly looks away.

“Little late, aren’t you?” By two and a half hours.

She twists a strand of her hair around her finger. “My twin brother and I have an agreement. We cover for each other when—well, when we want to be out past curfew.”

I don’t get her. Not at all. “So you don’t drink?”

“No.” She releases her hair and raises her chin. Guess I should keep my mouth shut about how I do drink and how I’ve been known to get high.