Crash Into You (15 page)

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.