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“I’m not twenty-one,” Rachel whispers. Neither am I, but we can hide here.
The rolls on the fat son of a bitch shake as he eyes me then Rachel. She fastens her other hand securely on my wrist and moves so that she’s behind me. Good job, angel. Let him know that I’m your man. At least you’re a fast learner.
I rub my thumb over her smooth skin in approval, then stop. She doesn’t need my approval. I’m not her man, but, for now, I am her protector.
Two guys in the middle of the line shout, asking what the holdup is, and Jerry informs them where to shove their complaints. He lights a cigarette and inclines his head to the police scanner sitting on the small table next to the door. “Someone called in a street race and the cops are all over it. First solid tip they’ve had in months. They’re pulling people in left and right. Not part of that action, are you
?”
“Would it matter?”
Jerry grins with the cigarette still dangling from his bottom lip. “No. ” He lifts the rope and takes a step to create a path. “Impressed you got out. ”
With Rachel on my heels, we brush past Jerry. I pause in the door frame, half of me heated from the warmth of the club, the other half freezing from the night air. Jerry said the cops had a tip, not a report. A dangerous anger curls up my spine. “Did you say someone informed?”
He draws in smoke, then releases it. “Yeah. Tell Eric he’s got a snitch. ”
A snitch. Fuck. Not what anyone needs. Eric’s a mean asshole already, and he’ll go insane if he thinks someone turned his business over to the police. A gentle tug on my hand coaxes my attention back to Rachel. “Isaiah, let’s get inside. ”
Yeah. Inside.
The door closes behind me and I wait for Rachel to drop her hand. Instead, she inches closer to me when she surveys the narrow room. The chipped, worn wooden bar stretches the length of the left wall and in a nook on the opposite wall sits a stage.
The throb of an electric guitar playing Southern rock pulses against my skin. I place a hand on the nape of Rachel’s neck and guide her through the thick crowd so we can find a booth in the back. Even if the cops come in, they’ll give up before they maneuver past the groupies.
“Maybe you should go first,” she yells as I push her forward.
I lean down to say in her ear, “And take a chance on some drunk asshole grabbing your ass? I’m not interested in getting into a fight. ”
Her head whips back to see if I mean what I say. I nod for her to keep moving. A crowd this packed? They’d also try to cop a second-base feel, but no need to tell her that. The music becomes muffled as we continue toward the back. She pauses to take a seat at a table in the wide-open. I shake my head and point to the corner booth. “That one. ”
Preferring a view of the room, I motion for her to claim the space across from me as I settle on the bench against the wall. Rachel takes off her coat, sags in her seat and hides her face in her hands. “My parents are going to kill me. ”
I don’t know why her statement hits me the way it does, yet it happens. For the first time in months, I laugh.
Chapter 10
Rachel
I SPLIT MY FINGERS APART and peek at Isaiah between the gaps. He’s laughing at me. It’s not loud or boisterous. At first his eyes hold a bit of humor, but slowly the humor dies and his laughter becomes bitter.
“What?” I ask.
“You,” he says while scanning the crowd.
Feeling very self-conscious, I sit straighter and shove a hand through my hair. I’m probably a mess. “What about me?”
“There’s an entire task force against street racing hunting us and you’re concerned about getting grounded. ” Isaiah leans forward. His arms cover most of his side of the table, plus a little of mine. I place my hands in my lap and move my feet as he sprawls his legs underneath. The funny thing is, he appears relaxed, but his eyes keep searching the crowd.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Trouble,” he says without glancing at me.
I swallow and grab a paper napkin out of the dispenser on the table. My heart beats faster as I let the events of the past hour register. “Are the police here?”
He says nothing and my hands start to sweat. I smooth the napkin flat, then begin to fold. “Should we leave? Or stay?” Panic stabs my chest. My car. Oh, crap, my baby. “What about my car? Is it safe? Will they find it? Will someone else take it? And your car? What do we do?”
“Rachel,” Isaiah says in a low, calm tone that makes me meet his eyes. “We’re good. We lost the police. Your car’s in the garage where I work. And someone has to be damn desperate to jack my piece of shit. ”
