by Tracy Wolff
The kitchen light flips on and Lena walks in, looking about as awake as I am. Looks like I’m not the only one whose brain is going too fast tonight.
“Want some hot chocolate?” she asks, walking over to the refrigerator and pulling out the milk.
“It’s that kind of night, huh?” I say, moving to the pantry to get out the Swiss chocolate she keeps just for this.
“It’s four in the morning and we’re both wide awake. So yeah, I’d say it was that kind of night.”
She grabs a pan out of the cupboard, plops it on the stove, and pours the milk into it. I grab the vanilla and then put it, and the chocolate, on the counter next to the stove so she has them when she’s ready for them. Then I dump the rest of my beer down the sink. Hot chocolate seems like the better choice right about now.
“You know I’m not going to let anything happen to you or Benji, right?”
“I know.” But she doesn’t look up from where she’s stirring the milk.
“Hey, Lena.” I wrap my hand around her upper arm. “Hey. Look at me.”
She shakes her head.
“I know you’re crying. Pretending you aren’t isn’t going to change that fact.”
She gives a loud sniff, then scrubs a hand across her eyes and cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? This is all my fault. As usual.”
“That’s not true, Nic.” She does look at me then, and her green eyes are still shimmering with tears. It breaks my fucking heart to see her like this, to know that I’m responsible for it. I’ve already done so much damage—to her, to Joe, to Benji. I refuse to be the cause of any more.
“I know I let you down before,” I tell her. “I fucked around and fucked up and I left you alone to take care of yourself. That’s not going to happen again. I’m not going to fuck up again and I’m sure as shit not going to leave you to take care of Benji and Joe alone.”
“You didn’t fuck up, Nic. You were railroaded into jail by a dirty cop.”
“I gave him the ammunition.”
“That’s such bullshit. Did you make some mistakes when you were eighteen years old? Yeah, you did. But you fixed those mistakes. You moved past them. And then Anderson came along and messed everything up because he could. Because he needed someone to take the fall and you had a big enough name in the street racing community to fit the bill. That’s not on you, Nic. That’s on him.”
She grabs the chocolate bar and unwraps it with jerky movements. Then breaks it into pieces and drops the pieces, one at a time, into the steaming hot milk as she stirs and stirs and stirs.
The kitchen is silent for long minutes as she waits for the chocolate to melt.
As she adds the vanilla and a quick dash of dried chipotle powder.
As she ladles the hot chocolate into mugs and sprays whipped cream around and around the top of them.
It’s not until after we’re seated at the kitchen table, mugs of cocoa in our hands, that she finally speaks again. “You know, I’m not crying because I’m afraid you won’t take care of Benji and Joe and me. I’m crying because I know you will, even if it means you go to jail again. Even if it means you die trying.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Lena. I’ve got this.”
“That’s the problem—you always think you’ve got it.”
“And don’t I?” I demand, brows raised. “Since I got out of jail, I’ve toed the line, taken care of what needed to be taken care of. Hotwired’s on track, so are all of our friends. Joe’s the only thing I still have to straighten out and if you think I’m going run the risk of going back to jail before I get his ass in line, you are absolutely mistaken.”
“I know all that…”
“Then what are you worried about? I swear to you, I won’t let anything happen to Benji. Even if something does go wrong, even if Anderson finds a way to fuck me up, Jace and the others will take care of you guys. They’ll make sure Benji’s okay—”
“What about you? Who makes sure you’re okay, Nic?”
“I’m fine. I know what I’m doing—or at least I will once Jace gets that damn code unencrypted. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Don’t you see? That’s why I do worry. Why we all worry. Because you’re so busy taking care of everyone else, making sure nobody you care about gets hurt, that you forget to take care of yourself. And now you’ve added Jordan to the list—”
“Whoa! I never said anything about taking care of Jordan.”
The look she gives me is so much like the one my mom used to give me when she knew I was up to something that for a moment I feel like I’m fifteen again and scrambling to piece together just enough of the truth not to get my ass kicked.
“Maybe you didn’t. But I’m not stupid. None of us are. We know what you’re planning.”
“I’m not planning anything.” When she continues to look at me, lips pursed and eyebrows raised, I continue, “I swear, I don’t have a plan.”
“Yet. You don’t have a plan yet.” She drains the rest of her hot chocolate in one long sip, then walks over and puts her cup in the sink.
This time I don’t bother to contradict her.
Then again, I don’t have to. She already knows everything she needs to about what’s going to happen next, even if she doesn’t know the particulars—whether I want her to or not.
“Be careful,” she tells me, dropping a kiss on my cheek before heading for the kitchen doorway. “And don’t do anything stupid. Or I’ll kick your ass.”
I laugh then. “Wow, little sister all grown up. You really think you’ve got it in you to kick my ass?”
“Oh, I’ve got it in me,” she says. “And if you don’t ask for help when you need it, you’re going to find out just what it feels like to have my highest-heeled boot where you want it least.”
She turns the kitchen light off on her way out, leaving me sitting alone in the dark for the first, and what I hope is the last, time.
Chapter 9
Jordan
I am so screwed.
I spent most of the night tossing and turning and then when I finally did fall asleep, my alarm didn’t go off—or if it did, I didn’t hear it. Which has made the last five minutes super fun because now I’m running late for the bus. I checked the schedule last night to make sure I was remembering it right and if I’m going to make it to the diner for my ten o’clock shift this morning (that is, if I still have a job after disappearing in the middle of the busiest part of the day because I was, oh yeah, kidnapped), I have to catch the bus by eight. The only problem: it is currently seven-fifty-five and I’m simultaneously brushing my teeth and trying to get my jeans on.
And I still haven’t called the insurance company to report my car missing.
To be honest, I don’t know why I haven’t, except I guess I wanted to make sure it was definitely out of Nic’s shop before I did. Maybe it’s stupid considering I barely know him or the rest of his friends, but the last thing I want is for the police to somehow trace the theft back to him. Not when he was so decent to me when he didn’t have to be. And not when—if I believe him—it was a cop who forced him to steal it in the first place.
And I do believe him.
But believing him and trying to protect him sure as hell haven’t made the rest of my life very easy.
A quick glance at my phone has me grabbing my backpack and making a run for the front door with my shoes still in my hand. The bus should be across the street in exactly one minute and this driver doesn’t wait for anyone—I learned that the last time I didn’t have a car. Which was less than two weeks ago. Ugh. I can’t believe I’m back to this. Again.
Stopping only to lock my front door, I race along the breezeway in front of my apartment, down two flights of stairs and across the parking lot—just in time to watch the bus pull away without me.
Seriously? Damn it! He was early! Shit. Shit. Shit.
I throw my backpack on the ground in front of me and then kick it a few times
out of total and complete frustration. Of course, it doesn’t help, particularly since I’m still barefoot and I can’t be sure I didn’t just break a toe on my biology book.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
With a groan, I bend down to put on my favorite pair of purple Chucks as I contemplate my current options.
Or, more precisely, my lack of options.
I could call Vi, but she bartends at night, so she probably isn’t even awake yet.
I could call Uber and pretend the cost of a trip to the diner won’t eat up a significant portion of my food budget for the week.
Or I could call Doreen, explain the situation, and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can.
That’s definitely the best option of the three and the one I normally wouldn’t hesitate to choose. But doing that requires me to explain why I no longer have a car—and why I disappeared yesterday. Which would then be followed by questions about what, if anything, the police are doing. And since I’d counted on the next two hours to get my story straight, right now I’ve got nothing.
Damn it.
Is it too much to ask that I catch one little break? Just one, in the surrealistic shitstorm that is my life? That’s not too much to ask, is it?
Then again, I guess I already caught one big break, didn’t I? Because the whole kidnapping thing yesterday could have gone so much worse if Nic hadn’t been such a decent guy. If anyone knows that, I do.
The reminder that things could be—and have been—so much worse than they are now, is exactly what I need to get me out of my funk. Uber it is.
I grab my abused backpack off the ground, then reach for my phone.
“Hey, do you need a ride?”
The voice comes from behind me and is almost drowned out by the sound of passing traffic. I roll my eyes as I start to turn down whoever it is—this is not quite what I meant when I petitioned the universe for a break—at least until I get my first good look at who’s asking.
Nic freaking Medina.
Waiting in my parking lot.
Looking fantastic.
Of course.
He’s dressed in a green V-neck T-shirt the same color as his eyes and ripped jeans so faded that they’re almost white. His dreads are gathered in a loose ponytail high on his head and he’s wearing a couple hipster necklaces that should look ridiculous on him but somehow only manage to make him look more masculine.
He looks good, really good, and that’s only a little bit because of the bright orange sports car he’s currently leaning against. I don’t know what it is, but it’s a very different kind of sleek and sexy than the black Hemi ’Cuda I saw him driving Saturday night.
“Just how many cars do you have?” I ask as I walk toward him.
He grins, and it shows off that ridiculous dimple of his again. Of course it does. I have to say, when the universe decides to fuck with me, it certainly does it in style, doesn’t it?
Because I have a sudden urge to run my finger—or God forbid, my tongue—over that damn dimple, I shove my hands in my pockets and keep a little bit more distance between us than is strictly necessary.
Nic’s grin fades as he notices what I’ve done and I blush wildly while I try to figure out a way to tell him that it’s not him, it’s me.
Except it is him, isn’t it? Because I go to school with and work around men all the time and I’ve never once felt the need to lick any of them. Not until now. Not until Nic.
He doesn’t say anything and for long seconds we just stare at each other as the silence grows awkward around us. When I can’t take it anymore, I tell him, “You didn’t answer my question.”
He lifts a brow in that way he has that makes him look way so, so hot. And also like he’s laughing at a joke only he knows. “You didn’t answer mine. And I asked first.”
“Okay, then, yes. I overslept and missed the bus, so I would really appreciate a ride to work.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He opens the passenger door of the sleek orange beast and then gestures for me to climb in.
As I do, I brush against him. And this time—even though it’s just for a moment—I notice all the things I didn’t pay attention to the last time my body was pressed against his.
Like how warm he is.
How firm his chest is.
How good he smells.
And God, does he smell good, like amber and oranges, bergamot and sage. It’s a compelling scent—or more likely, he’s a compelling man. Either way, there’s a part of me that wants to wrap myself in the smell, wrap myself in him as long as he’ll let me. I’ve never felt that way about any guy before and the rarity of it only makes him more fascinating to me.
He stiffens as my breasts brush against his side, and his eyes meet mine even as his hand settles on my waist. His mouth is inches from me now—his head tilted down, my head tilted up—and our breaths mingle for one brief, electric moment.
And then I’m seated in Nic’s car and the moment is gone as quickly as it came. He circles around the front, climbs in the driver’s seat. Then glances at me as he starts the engine. “To answer your question, I have quite a few cars.”
“How many is quite a few?”
“Seven.”
“Seven? You own seven cars?” I’m so shocked I can’t do anything but sit there and gawk at him.
“Well, six now, I think.”
“You think? You mean you don’t know?”
Instead of answering my question, he leans toward me. Panic starts deep inside of me as his body looms inches from my own, has my heart slamming against my ribs and my breath coming in fast, tortured gasps.
This is Nic, I tell myself as terror begins beating its drums in the back of my head. Nic, who has been nothing but kind to me from the moment I met him yesterday. Nic, who has given me no reason to fear him at all.
Reminding myself of that a few dozen times is good for me. It gives the fear a chance to recede, gives my body a chance to remember all the reasons I don’t have to be afraid of Nic.
I don’t know if he recognizes my momentary freak-out for what it is or if he just thinks I’ve got PTSD from the ride yesterday. Either way, he doesn’t make a big deal of it. But then he doesn’t kiss me, either, which is what I totally thought was about to happen.
And now that it hasn’t, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. In myself. In Nic. In the whole stupid situation that has me here, cowering in the passenger seat of his very hot sports car instead of shoving my hands into his dreads and pulling his mouth to mine.
Nic smiles slowly at me, like he can tell what I’m thinking. Then he hooks his fingers in my seatbelt and pulls it over my chest and down my hip, where he slides it into the buckle. All while I stare at him with my heart in my throat.
“Safety first,” he says with a wicked grin that only makes me want to lick him more.
And then we’re pulling away from the curb in front of my building, turning right into traffic. As soon as we’re on the main road, he guns the engine a little and slides in and out of traffic.
In the end, the drive that would normally take me thirty minutes in morning traffic ends up taking Nic less than fifteen.
“What time do you have to work?” he asks as he moves into the right lane so he can turn into the diner’s parking lot.
“Not until ten.”
“Ten?” he asks as he switches back to the left lane and drives right past the diner. “What were you doing downstairs so early, then?”
“The bus route to get here pretty much stinks. It takes close to an hour and a half so…”
“Why’d you get a job so far away from your apartment? I mean, there are a bunch of restaurants closer to you than that old greasy spoon.”
“Yeah, but campus is halfway between my place and the diner. I got my apartment because it was fifteen minutes away from UCSD—which is the closest I could afford. Then, when I started looking for work, the diner wasn’t that far from campus. Plus the owner, Doreen, and I really
hit it off. She’s old and on her own and I try to help her out however I can. In exchange, she feeds me way more meals than she needs to and pesters me to go out on dates.”
He grins, nodding along like what I’m saying makes perfect sense even though I know it doesn’t. The truth is I probably should get a job closer to my apartment, but Doreen was the first person to take a chance on me when I moved here from Ohio and was pretty much scared of my own shadow.
She helped me work on that, pushing me a little bit at a time until I stopped jumping every time a male customer sat alone at one of my tables or one of the guys who worked at the diner accidentally brushed against me at the pick-up window. Her steady faith in me means a lot and I know leaving the diner is going to hurt when I finally graduate and find a “real” job.
“Where are we going?” I ask, as we cruise onto the 52.
“You like the beach?”
“I love the beach, even though I don’t manage to get there very often.”
“Me, neither. Too busy working on cars most of the time.”
“That’s a good thing, though, right? You’ve made your garage a total success.”
“My friends have had a lot to do with that,” he says as he pulls off the freeway and onto Prospect Place. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just along for the ride.”
“I don’t believe that for one second. Your stamp is all over Hotwired.”
“You got that after only being there a couple hours?” We’re stopped at a red light now and he’s looking at me, his bottle-glass green eyes making me feel way too much. I’ve spent the last three years trying not to feel anything and I’ve gotten pretty good at it—at least until Nic snatched me out of the parking lot yesterday. Now all those emotions I’ve spent so long living without are rushing back into me and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“It’s not like you can hide it. I mean, look at you.” I wave a hand that kind of encompasses him from head to toe.
