I wanted to say ‘You, too,’ but I bit my tongue and focused on my seatbelt as he shut the door and moved to his side.
I had to get these hyperactive butterflies in my stomach under control, or this would be one long night.
“Mario’s okay?” he asked as he slid into the driver’s seat. He faced me, his gaze hot, sliding over me in a way I’d never experienced before. I wasn’t sure if I loved it or feared it.
I nodded dumbly, wishing I could be cool and sophisticated like my mom, the judge, right now. “Sure.”
I watched his hands as he worked the steering wheel, backed out of the parking space, and started maneuvering like he had been doing it for years. My eyes strayed up to his square jaw dusted with stubble that made him look so adult, so intimidating. And that’s when I realized how much older he seemed. Like he’d lived a lot of life in his eighteen years . . . survived things that most people never experience.
The muscle in his jaw ticked, tightened, loosened, like he was chewing on difficult words.
“I’ve never been to Mario’s,” I finally admitted in a breathless whisper, hoping to ease our growing tension.
His dark eyes caught mine momentarily, briefly lit up by a passing light, before his face was in shadow again. “Seriously?”
I thought of my family’s dining preferences. Five-star restaurants in the city or home-cooked meals by the chef. Small, family-owned Mario’s definitely wasn’t on the list. “Seriously.”
He grinned, making my stomach plummet. “Then you’re in for a treat. It’s awesome.” He studied the road for a few moments. “My mom used to take me there,” he added in a voice so low, it didn’t seem like he meant for me to hear.
Before I could respond, he turned into the driveway of the small restaurant. Dozens of cars and trucks filled the parking lot. Even an 18-wheeler sat in the far back against the tall wooden fence.
He killed the engine and popped out, rounding to my door and opening it. “Ready?”
I looked up into his face. So open, so sweet. Nothing like the Blake he showed most of the time. Gripping his hand, I stood, our bodies aligning, our eyes locked. “I’m ready.”
But was I? Was I really?
He lifted my hand and pressed a gentle kiss to my knuckles, his gaze searing into mine and communicating a thousand things I wish I could interpret. And suddenly I knew, without a doubt, that this thing between us was more than fixing a car. More than a date. But what? My experience with boys was limited. Blake was a force of nature, bound by no rules but his own. How could I withstand that and not get broken?
Blake
I took her to Mario’s. My special place, where memories of my mother permeated the space almost as strong as the garlic and oregano in the air.
I don’t know why I did it. Nobody knew how I felt about that place, and I didn’t take anyone there, ever.
But, there I sat, with Delilah Jackson across from me, her perfect porcelain face glowing in the soft light.
She sipped her water and smiled. “So, you come here with your mom?”
Innocent question. But it ripped at my scabbed heart. I swallowed and glanced away. “Used to.” I met her questioning eyes. “She’s dead.”
“Oh.” Obvious discomfort made her body tense and I hated that the openness was gone from her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”
I don’t think she realized that she’d reached across the table and was gripping my hand. “Still. You must miss her.” She glanced around the restaurant as if trying to see my mother there.
I didn’t have to look anymore. I had the place memorized. The multi-colored decanters decorating the back wall, the white tablecloths that mom used to ooh over, wondering how they got them so white, the outdated photos of Italy, the music, the smell of homemade Italian food . . . of home as I wanted to remember it.
“Yeah,” I said lamely. Missed her was the understatement of the ages. My mother had been the lone bright spot in my world. And now she was gone, and so was all the light.
Thankfully, the waitress interrupted us before I made a fool of myself and started blubbering or something equally as embarrassing. “Hey, Blake.” She smiled sweetly at me before her gaze wandered to Delilah with obvious curiosity.
“Hi, Sofia.” I indicated across the table. “Sof, this is Delilah Jackson. Delilah, this is Sofia Russo. Her grandfather, Mario, opened this restaurant and she’s been here as long as I can remember.”
Delilah nodded a greeting and we ordered our drinks.
“You want your usual?” Sofia asked, her deep brown eyes open and kind. Like Mom’s.
I grinned. “Yeah. Sure. Delilah, you need a minute to look at the menu?”
She glanced at the one I hadn’t bothered to open. “What’s your usual?”
“Spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti?”
I checked my smile at her disbelief. “With meatballs.”
“Ah.” She slapped her menu closed and smiled up at Sofia. “I’ll have the same.”
Sofia nodded once and spun for the kitchen.
“So . . .” Delilah started, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as if she was hiding her amusement.
“So.”
“Spaghetti, it is.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just that in an authentic Italian restaurant, where we could have anything, we’re having—?”
A deep laugh slipped from me before I could stop it. “Spaghetti. Yeah, we are. What can I say? I’ve eaten it since I was a kid and it’s my favorite.” My gaze skated across her mouth. “You could’ve ordered something else.”
She shook her head. “Nah. You’ve been here a lot, and if you say it’s good, I trust you.”
I thanked Sofia when she dropped off our sodas and watched as Delilah sipped like she was parched.
Suddenly, I was nervous. Stupid. It’s just, if I was being honest with myself, I felt something for Delilah Jackson. I didn’t know what it was, and it was obviously futile, but she was like this perfect untouched orchid plopped into my grungy world. I needed to taste her. Have her.
But no.
This was probably just a pity date. She was sorry for hitting my car. This had nothing to do with me.
She fiddled with her napkin, her aqua eyes darting between me and the table. “So, do you have any brothers or sisters?”
I sat back, surprised, making the wooden chair creak. Was she going to treat this like a real date? Try to know something about me? I swallowed, not sure if this was a good idea . . . as much as I wanted someone—her—to know me. “One. An older brother.”
“What’s his name?”
I yanked off a hunk of bread. “Brent.”
She was quiet a moment and I realized I’d been abrupt. My feelings toward my family had nothing to do with her. “He’s in prison. In Oklahoma.” I waited to see how she’d take this news. She didn’t respond, so I pushed on. “Aggravated assault.”
“Oh.”
With a sigh, I told her the whole stupid story. How my brother was just as angry as our father, and after our mom died, he went off the reservation. Brent got the maximum sentence after beating his then girlfriend so brutally that she was admitted to the hospital a mangled mess. It was something I was so ashamed of, so sure it stained me somehow, that I’d seldom told anyone the truth.
Yet, here I was, spouting it off to Princess Jackson like she was my therapist.
In a move that was becoming routine for her, she stretched her arm across the table and gripped my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She shrugged. “I just am.”
I studied our interlinked fingers. Was still staring when Sofia brought our dinner. I drew away reluctantly and picked up my fork. “What about you?”
She took a bite of meatball. “What about me?”
“Brothers? Sisters? Only child?”
“One younger sister, Daniel
le. She’s a freshman this year. And she’s perfect.”
She went on eating as if she hadn’t just said that. “Perfect?”
Her tormented gaze met mine. “Yeah.”
Didn’t she know she was the perfect one? It was so freakin’ obvious. Beyond her beauty, she was kind. Smart. Spunky enough to try and learn to fix a car. “How so?”
She rolled some noodles onto her fork, her gaze thoughtful. “In every way, I guess. She gets perfect grades, has perfect behavior, never talks back. You know . . . perfect.”
“Sounds boring to me.”
She looked up, a soft smile hovering on her full lips. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” This time I reached over for her hand that was loose next to her plate. “I happen to think girls who work on cars are much more fun.”
That got the storm-busting smile I’d been craving.
Delilah
Holy freakin’ smoke. I was in trouble.
All it took was one measly day together and one dinner to find myself more than willing to fall in line with the hundred other girls lusting for Blake Travers.
He was obviously so much more than the bad boy player I thought he was. He ate spaghetti and meatballs with the abandon of a child. Belly laughed at my jokes. He even asked me what I wanted to do after graduation, and I told him about my dream to do some kind of physical therapy, something I hadn’t told anybody else. He had no big reaction, other than a smile . . . like he thought it was perfectly attainable. He obviously didn’t know enough about my family.
We changed the subject and he told me more about his memories of his mother in that restaurant, and about his older brother, and how he was planning to join the Marine Corp after graduation. And I got the impression he didn’t share that part of himself with many people.
So why me?
I glanced over at his profile, cast in the muted light of the street, as he drove me back to my car after dinner. My heart began thumping. What would happen now? Would we go out again? Would he let me keep helping with the car?
He looked over and a half-smile tilted his lips. I tried to smile back, but I’m pretty sure it looked stupid and forced. I just couldn’t fathom what was going on between us. Inside of me. I’d never felt like this before.
We were silent as we pulled into the Whataburger lot and he parked next to my car. He shifted in his seat. “Thanks. I had fun.”
“Me, too.” My voice was a rushed whisper. I was desperate for him to ask me out again. To find out what this was pinging back and forth between us. His eyes simply pinned mine. “Okay,” I finally said, reaching for the door handle. “See ya later, I guess?”
I popped open the door, letting in a cool gust of December air. I shivered and stepped out. Just before I shut the door, he stretched across the seat and caught my gaze. “Wanna go out again sometime?”
My stomach seized and I wanted to jump up and down. But I kept it cool. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
I returned his mysterious smile and pressed the door closed with a click. I felt his eyes boring into my back as I turned to my car and opened the door. I slid into my driver’s seat and let myself look. His smile was gone. In its place was a fierce look I couldn’t name. Desire? Hope? Fear?
Yeah. I knew the feeling.
I offered him a brief wave then backed out. As I drove into traffic, I checked my rearview mirror. He was exactly where I’d left him, his car idling, headlights blazing a path in the darkness.
“Where have you been, young lady?”
I grimaced at my father’s condemning tone as I spun to face him from the top of the stairs. Damn. I’d hoped to sneak in quietly. I pasted on a contrite expression. “Out. With . . . friends.”
“Friends?”
“Yes.” God, I hated to lie. But I wanted to get caught with Blake even less. That would be ugly. “With Rachel.”
My father studied me, but when his cell phone rang, he nodded and walked away.
Phew.
I closed myself into my bedroom and plopped on my bed. Was I being dumb, making too much out of this? It was only one date. Nothing.
Liar, my heart called out. It felt like a lot more than a date. And we were going out again. Well, if he was serious.
A brisk knock preceded my mother barging in. “You’re back,” she said, stating the obvious.
I plucked at the hem of my sweater, watching as she paced in front of my gleaming mahogany dresser, stopping to lift the cover of my Anatomy book then letting it flop back down as she faced me. “John called while you were out.”
“John?”
Displeasure splashed down her features. “John Hughes. The Councilman’s son.”
“Oh. Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “To speak with you, of course. I hope to ask you out on a date.”
I gaped like a fish. “A date?”
With a sour face, she headed for the door. “I left his number downstairs. Call him back.” Then she was gone in a whoosh of Chanel.
I thought of John’s perfect, blond good looks. Maybe any other day, I would’ve found him attractive. Or at least tried, to please my parents. But not today. It was impossible with Blake Travers’ brooding brown eyes swimming around my subconscious.
Blake
I let myself in the house after dropping Delilah off. I stood for a second to adjust my eyes to the dark, my nose to the stench. Sweat, alcohol, cigarettes. Misery.
It was still cool, but not as cold as that morning. Maybe Dad had worked on the heater. I hung my jacket up on the rack by the door and ran a hand down my face. I was suddenly tired. So tired.
“Where’ve you been?” Dad’s quiet voice came from the living room.
I squinted and saw him lying on the sofa. “Out with a friend.” I padded down the hall toward my room, not waiting to see what else he had to say.
Before I got to my bedroom, soft snoring sounded from the living room. I shut my door and locked it before flipping on a light. I dumped my wallet and keys on the dresser, my eyes catching on the photo of me, my brother, and my mom at a Boy Scout event.
I picked up the dusty frame and swiped a finger over my mother’s face. She was always smiling. Always happy with her boys. And she’d done everything with us. Everything that a dad usually does. She’d taught us to ride bikes and swim, took us to play baseball, to every activity we wanted, all while Dad worked like a dog.
Those had been happy times. The best.
As I set the picture back down, I wondered what she’d think of what we’d become. Dad drinking himself into oblivion because he couldn’t stand to be without her. My brother eaten up with anger, feeling abandoned by both parents. And me . . . I didn’t know what I was. Hopeless, I guess. Burned out, for sure.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Thanks for dinner : )
I smiled automatically as Delilah’s face danced in my mind. Wonder what Mom would think about her? She’d probably think she was sweet and wonderful, because it was true. She’d also probably say I should go for it . . . that I should be happy. That I deserved her.
But as I glanced around my sparse room, to my bent up mini-blinds and rumpled, old bedding, I realized that simply wasn’t true. Not anymore.
I ducked through the sleety drizzle into school on Monday morning. I refused to think I was in any hurry to see a particular blue-eyed beauty.
“Hey, Blake.”
I spun from my open locker, dopey smile on my face. It slid off. “Oh. Hey, Alexa.”
Her assessing eyes slid up and down my body. “How are you?”
“Good.” I watched Jesse’s little sister, Leta, weave through the crowded hallway until she joined us with a shoulder bump for her best friend, Alexa.
“Hi, Blake.”
I tipped my head in greeting, my gaze suddenly glued to Delilah as she strolled our way, her eyes glued to the ground. God, I wish I’d kissed her.
She looked up and caught me staring. A soft smile whispered across her lips and I would’ve sworn I smell
ed sunshine as she passed.
“Well?” Leta’s voice carried with a touch of irritation.
“What?” I turned my attention back to her.
She rolled her eyes and glanced at Alexa. “I asked if you’re coming to our Christmas party?”
“I dunno. Am I invited, short stuff?” I grinned at the girl I’d teased since she was in pigtails.
“Yes. Though I don’t know why, troublemaker.” Her hazel eyes brightened.
I nodded as the first warning bell of the day rang. “Sure. I’ll be there.”
Both girls grinned, and as they walked off, I heard Alexa murmur something about mistletoe and they giggled.
I grabbed my books and slammed my locker. Hustling into Government class, I studied Delilah with open scrutiny as I made my way to my seat. Her long, chestnut hair was braided today. A snug purple sweater hugged her curves. Bright, open blue eyes watched me in turn, making me stupidly wish I had shaved and put on something besides an old hoodie.
I sat and made a show of pulling out some paper and a pen. “Hey,” I said when I finally looked over at her.
She glanced up from her desk. “Hey.”
I opened my mouth to deliver some witty, flirty remark, but Mrs. Dunbar lowered the lights and moved to the TV in the front of the room, saying something about a film on foreign policy. Groan.
About five minutes in, I was bored to tears. I glanced over at Delilah, her profile outlined by shadows in the dark room. I saw her bite her lip, but she refused to look at me.
Grinning, I picked up my pen and wrote her a note.
Hit any more cars lately?
I waited until Mrs. Dunbar was engrossed in something at her desk, then I folded up the note and passed it across the aisle, letting it flutter onto Delilah’s desk. Her eyes peeked down at the paper then over to me.
I grinned.
She shook her head and opened the note, a broad smile blossoming as she read. She grabbed her own pen, wrote something and passed it back. I made sure our hands brushed and her eyes pinged up to mine.
I unfolded the paper. Nope. I’m a one car kinda girl.
Burnout (Jack 'Em Up Book 0) Page 3
