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The voice spoke out of the darkness, just beside her ear. She whirled, flattening against her car, thinking of Tyler and Seth and what they’d threatened to do.
But it was just Nick, his eyes dark this far from the lights on the porch. “You want to come in for a minute?”
He seemed to speak right through the rain, his voice intense, as if they weren’t near strangers standing in the middle of a downpour.
His eyebrow raised, and he pushed wet hair off his forehead, making it spike a little from the rain. “How about it?”
Becca swung away to fight with her door handle. “Save it. The other guy didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.”
He reached out a hand and held the door closed—like it needed the help. “Michael’s okay. Look—” He hesitated, and she watched the water sluice down his forearm. “Tell me what happened to Chris.”
There. True concern. Enough to make her turn back around and swipe the rain out of her eyes. It made her think of Chris’s half-lucid statements from the parking lot. I need a frigging rainstorm.
She stared up at his brother. “I’m getting soaked.”
“So come in. Dry off.” His expression darkened, along with his voice. “Tell me whose ass we need to kick.”
Nick gave her a towel.
He flung it, really. She was dripping on his kitchen tiles, and he tossed it from the doorway.
“Let me change my shirt,” he said. “You want me to get you something?”
She stared at him for a second, wondering whether he meant food or something to wear. When she realized her mouth was working but nothing was coming out, she quickly shook her head.
Then she was alone, long enough that she finally dropped into a chair and shivered. No woman lived in this house; she could tell that just from the kitchen. The paper towel holder sat empty and a stack of dishes hid in the sink. A pot of coffee had been made at some point, left to cool in the carafe long ago. But the counters appeared mostly clean, simple granite that still had a shine and didn’t sport any spilled food. No curtains hung over the windows by the sink, no soft hand towels hung on the oven.
Becca’s mom rarely had a chance to cook, but her kitchen was a place of warmth, with fresh fruit always spilling out of a bowl on the counter, a snack drawer that never went empty, and a feeling of welcome that never went cold.
This kitchen should have been nice, with a set of French doors leading out to a back porch and enough space for a large table and a cooking island. But the lack of family touches left it feeling institutional.
She gave her hair a cursory squeeze with the towel. She’d never been one of those girls who looked sexy with wet hair. Her dark strands weighed heavy on her neck, clumped and tangled from the water. She finger combed them away from her face, knowing it would leave her cheeks stark and pale, making her gray eyes appear huge. She zipped her damp sweatshirt all the way up, though it seemed to seal the cold to her body. Sitting in a house full of boys in a wet tee shirt didn’t seem the best way to uphold her reputation.
wallowed. What was the right response? “You’re welcome” didn’t quite seem to cover it. Then again, his “thanks” didn’t, either. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”
“Nah. Home.” His breath hitched, and she took a glance at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes were half closed, his voice ironic. “If you don’t mind.”
She didn’t think that was a good idea, but what was she going to do, wrestle him into the ER? “Aren’t your parents going to freak when they see you?”
That rough laugh again. “I’d probably freak if I saw them.” A peal of thunder interrupted his words. Raindrops appeared on the windshield. “Figures,” he muttered. “Now it rains.”
Maybe he had a head injury. “Where do you live?”
“Just north of the fire station. On Chautauga. We’re the blue house at the end of the court.”
She nodded, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. He fell silent for a while, and she glanced in the rearview again to find his eyes on her. Blue eyes. Nice eyes, she noticed, sharp and intelligent under that fringe of dark hair.
Then he smirked. With the cuts and bruises on his face, it made him look a little scary. “You’re probably thinking I owe you my life.”
She jerked her eyes back to the road. “No,” she snapped. “Just sixty bucks.”
“You charge for the hero act?”
His voice sounded light, but she still heard the wheeze behind the words. Another quick glance in the mirror revealed his head had fallen back against the seat.
“I really think I should take you to the hospital. You probably have broken ribs.” And a concussion. “They can call your parents from there.”
“Why? You think they have a Ouija board?”
