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“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.
“And you don’t have a boyfriend. ”
The chin drops. “No. ”
The answer may bother her, but it’s the best news I’ve heard in days. Though it shouldn’t matter, I don’t like the idea of another guy kissing her. My stomach twists with the thought of the hundreds of guys that must be following her around, waiting for her to take notice.
I rub at my neck. What the hell is wrong with my thought process tonight? She’s not my problem. What’s between us is just for tonight. “And you like to drag race. ”
Becoming more thoughtful, her forehead relaxes. “Not really. That sort of sucked. Drag racing is a lot different than when I push my car to see how fast it can go. I do like to let her loose. She can hit sixty in five seconds. ”
Her excited eyes seek validation. She hesitates, and I nod for her to continue. As if my approval rocks her world, an extra spring appears in her step.
“It was cool, though. I had this huge adrenaline rush when I heard your car take off. But I got sort of frazzled. Like my arms and my legs started working separately. And by the time I got my act together, you were done. ”
We reach the old Victorian house my landlord left to rot once he converted it into four separate apartments. I hold the front door open for her, then lead the way up the stairs.
“Watch the third and sixth steps. ”
“This is where you live?” Rachel wraps her hands around her stomach and peers over the railing to the floor below. The light over the stairwell flickers.
“Yep. ” I unlock the dead bolt then switch keys to unlock the actual knob. “It’s not much, but it’s home. ” The hint of pride in my voice surprises me.
I open the door, switch on the light and motion for Rachel to enter. With her arms still clinging to her sides, she slowly shuffles into the apartment. As soon as she’s in, I shut the door, rebolt and head to the bathroom. She’ll want to clean up and the water takes at least five minutes before it’ll be lukewarm.
The water pipes groan as I spin the knobs. “I’ll put a towel out for you. You’ll need to crouch to use the shower—or maybe not. You’re shorter than me,” I say over the water pouring into the old claw-foot tub. “I’ll give you one of my shirts to change into. Your jeans should be fine. ”
I walk out and go for the bedroom to find her a T-shirt, but stop short. Rachel stares at the dead bolt on the door with one hand still clutching her stomach, the other pressed to her throat.
“Rachel? Are you okay?”
“Where are. . . where are your parents?”
The air rushes out of my lungs, and I scratch the stubble on my chin to hide the horror. I’m so used to people knowing. . . or assuming. . . or flat out accepting that people where I come from don’t have them. . . or if they did have them, that they weren’t any good. “I’m a foster kid. ”
“Okay,” she says slowly, obviously not okay. “So what about them? Your foster parents. Where are they?”
I shift my footing and clear my throat as I come to terms with the situation I’ve put her in without knowing. All right, I knew. Fifteen minutes ago I contemplated bringing her home for the night. But that was before I realized how pure she was. Still, I brought her here, even if my intentions changed.
I force out the words. “I moved out of my foster parents’ home a couple of months ago with my best friend, Noah. ”
She glances quickly around the room, searching for the threat. “And he is—”
I cut her off. “A good guy who’s probably staying the night with his girl. He goes to college and so does Echo. She came from a real good neighborhood, like you. Middleheights, I think. ”
“I live in Summitview,” she says softly while staring at the empty rat trap in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Of course she does. That’s the damn Beverly Hills of Louisville. It’s gated. With guards. And she’s probably wondering if I’ve got body parts in the freezer.
The shower continues to pound against the porcelain tub and the damn insomniac old lady downstairs begins to play Elvis. Except this time, it’s one of his depressing songs.
“Rachel, I swear, my intentions are good. I won’t touch you. I’ll stay on the other side of the room from you at all times. ” And why the fuck should she believe me? “You looked so damned scared at the thought of going home smelling like beer. I don’t know what shit you’ve got going down in your house, but I’ve been around enough to understand. Look, honestly, I’m just trying to help. ”
