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I snag a list from my back pocket and tell her the names of the people to visit. As she listens, her only change in expression is one eyebrow that slowly lifts and then just as slowly eases down. She shoves the list into her jeans. “You’ve been busy playing Boy Scout to a lot of resourceful people. ”
Yeah, I have. “I like knowing there’s help when I need it. ”
“Or you could save your full house for another play and take the offer of jacking the cars. With your car knowledge you could easily steal five in a night. You’d have Eric off your back and Fuzzy Bunny on your arm by the time the church doors open tomorrow morning. ”
I shake my head before she finishes. “I’m doing this clean. ” Illegally street racing got me in this mess and I don’t want to take the chance of screwing things up more.
“Clean?” Her mouth flattens into a thin line. “How do you think these people are going to supply the car parts you’re asking for as payment? You honestly think they’re going to waltz into a store and buy them?”
No. I don’t. But I’m all for claiming denial. “Last time I’m saying it. Choose now if you’re going to help. ”
“God, you’re cranky. What does that girl see in you?”
I have no idea. “She likes my tats. ”
The deadpan look washes away and she laughs. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch. Fine, waste a good list like this on car parts. I’ll check in later. ” Without another word, Abby walks out of the garage.
I run a hand over my head and contemplate calling Rachel. I crave hearing her voice again, but she’ll expect answers and I only have theories. After I talk to my list of people, I’ll know more and then I can tell her to come.
I’m still not good enough for a girl like her, but she’s back in my life and she needs someone to protect her. I’ll fill the role and absorb as much of her light as I can before she leaves me behind in the darkness.
Chapter 26
Rachel
WHEN I WAS FOUR I had an infatuation with electrical outlets. Dark holes that led into the wall and if I plugged something in, the machine would spring to life. Electricity! What would electricity look like? Feel like? Submitting to temptation, I stuck my finger into the socket at the moment someone turned on the vacuum. My body jolted with the shock. I learned two lessons that day. One: don’t stick your finger into the socket. Two: I liked the rush.
Closing the door to my Mustang, I fumble with the buttons of my black winter coat. My blood pulses with the same buzz of electrical energy. I’m going to see Isaiah.
He never called, I remind myself. Isaiah never called and he looked me square in the eye at the bar and told me he owed me a debt. The same words he said to Eric in my school’s parking lot. Stop any silly daydreams that he cares. He doesn’t. I’m a debt to be paid. Nothing more.
The small sickly garage appears different during the day. Oddly enough, that night, this place became a beacon of light, a haven. Now, with the gray clouds hovering low in the sky and the cracks in the exterior wall, I’m reminded that I’m out of my element.
I pull on the heavy door and enter. Heat belonging to a jungle suffocates me and defrosts my cold fingers. My hair blows across my face as a surge of cold air encircles me when the door shuts. A radio plays music that is loud and angry and full of electric guitars. With no shirt on, Isaiah hovers over the open hood of his Mustang. Both of his hands deep within her body.
The flaming tail of the dragon I noticed on his biceps the night I first met him continues up his shoulder and curls around to his back. The green eyes of the wicked red creature peer at me like a sentry protecting his master. Near Isaiah’s shoulder blade, fire snakes out of the dragon’s mouth. With a socket in his hand, Isaiah works on the car in a fluid motion. The broad strong muscles in his back become more pronounced the faster he labors.
Isaiah shifts, getting a better grip on whatever he’s working on. My mouth goes dry and alien sensations warm my body. Isaiah is absolutely beautiful.
My purse slips out of my hand and lands on the floor in an embarrassing thump. His head jerks up and he spots me gaping. A knowing smile slides across his lips, causing heat to creep along my cheeks. If only I could die.
He straightens, and I try not to stare at the liquid way he moves. I grab my purse, drop it again, then snag it back off the floor. Why am I always such a mess?
“Hey, Rachel,” he says easily in that deep voice that causes my heart to skip more beats than it should. He didn’t call. He didn’t call, I repeat. He doesn’t want me. I’m a debt.
“Hi,” I respond, proud I didn’t stutter the small word.
Snatching his black T-shirt off the bench, Isaiah shrugs it on and indicates that I should walk in farther. “Sorry about the heat. It’s either the tropics or the arctic. Take your pick. ”
“Tropics,” I say. “I hate the cold. ”
“Me, too,” he agrees. So we have at least one thing in common, besides cars and the drag race and Eric. . . .
I pause on the other side of the open hood and openly appreciate the machinery embedded in the frame. He was right on one thing: that’s not the original engine of a ’94 Mustang GT. “You upgraded. ”
“Rebuilt. ” Isaiah studies the car with an intensity that suggests deep thought. “Found the trashed body in a junkyard when I was fourteen then spent the past couple of years smoothing out the frame and piecing together parts until I could make her run. On paper, I should be running more torque and horsepower, but too many of the parts are past their prime. ”
My hands sweat, not from the heat, and I clutch the strap of my purse. I swing it a little so that it hits my knees. I miss the way the two of us acted that night. I miss the idea of him liking me. “I’m sorry,” I say.
