Crash into You (Pushing the Limits, #3)(102)

Mom slides her finger along the bottom of her lip to wipe off the excess makeup. She’s perfection to a T, but she’s never seen me. What type of love is that? Better, is that a love worth having? “If I needed money, would you give it to me?”

The words fall out as if I’m on autopilot, and maybe I am. I need five thousand dollars, Mom. I need to save the guy I love. Beside me, Mom pushes her hair into place. “Of course. What do you need?”

As I open my mouth, preparing to ask, the door opens, and the country club’s manager steps in. “Mrs. Young, your presence is requested in the kitchen.”

Mom pats my shoulder. “We’ll talk after dinner.”

After my speech. After Isaiah becomes a criminal. Before I can ask her to stay, she leaves. My phone vibrates and my finger trembles as I awaken the screen.

Isaiah: Don’t b. I love u.

Me: Please don’t do it.

Isaiah: I have no choice.

The clock ticks time away and each second that passes feels like a step toward death row. Outside of that door looms either West or Ethan. Neither of them will permit me to leave. I have two choices. Give the speech and have the attack or tell the truth and disappoint my family.

Isaiah said I need help. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do.




Me: I’ll get help if you do. I’ll let my family in on my nightmare if you let me help you. You have to decide. Now.




I will my phone to ring; pray for it to vibrate. Too much time passes and there’s a knock on the door.

“Rachel,” Ethan says with sad eyes. “Mom said that it’s time for us to be seated for dinner.”

And after the dinner will be the speech. I rest the phone on the table and gather the skirt of my dress. Ethan places a hand on my back as I walk past him. “It’ll be okay, Rach. I swear. Just breathe through the speech, and West and I will get you out unnoticed. We’ll protect you.”

I say nothing. I’m tired of being protected.





Chapter 67

Isaiah

PEOPLE BELIEVE THAT CARS ARE stolen in the dead of night, while the entire world sleeps. While that may be true, there are simpler ways. Later tonight, if it comes down to it, I’ll become the cliché. Otherwise, I’m opting for easy.

I stand in the shadows of the alley outside a liquor store waiting for the moron who hates cold weather yet yearns for a drink. Someone will abandon their car with it still running. Since it’s early in the evening, I have the time to wait.

Rachel’s text weighs on me. I’ll get help if you do. I’ll let my family in on my nightmare if you let me help you. You have to decide. Now.

For four days, Rachel and I have ignored each other, and when she breaks the silence she offers an ultimatum that cracks open my heart. Help her or protect her. Rachel needs help or she’ll end up in the hospital. But I have to steal the cars to protect her. She doesn’t understand.

Rachel’s wrong on this. She said I never let her in. My head falls back against the cold brick of the building. I told her things I never told anyone. Yet her words have become a mantra in my mind...you never let me in.

I inhale, trying to erase the thoughts. I’ve got a job to do and distractions can cause danger. A Saturn pulls into the lot right as a pizza delivery guy walks out of the store. The Saturn owner emerges from his car and my heart pumps strongly. The motor still runs as he closes the door to his empty car.

The delivery guy asks, “Do you know Elmont?”

My head jerks back—that’s my mom’s street.

“Yeah,” says the driver. “It’s the side street to the right.”

They say a few more things and the delivery guy takes off and the other man enters the store. My eyes trail after the delivery guy.

Protection—Mom used the same word with me.

“She’s my mom,” I told Rachel.

“You’ll see her when you’re ready.”

For some reason, I’m ready now.

*

If it is at all possible, the house is smaller than Shirley and Dale’s. It’s a shotgun house, meaning it shoots straight back. The living room is first, the next room is typically the bedroom, followed by a makeshift bathroom and kitchen.

On an uneven sidewalk, I assess the house with my thumbs hitched in my pocket. Behind a bedraggled lace curtain, a dim light shines and the flashing of a blue screen indicates a television. The crumbling front stoop shelves an old mason jar full of cigarette butts and a small green ceramic frog. Mom liked frogs.

The metal screen door rattles as I knock. The floor creaks on the other side. There’s hesitation for what I assume is a glance through the peephole, and the door swings open.

Mom’s eyes are wide and color touches her cheeks. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The same big hoop earrings move when she tucks her short dark hair behind her ears. “Isaiah. Come on in.”

Her living room consists of a couch, end tables, a recliner and a television. She’s been out for two years so she’s had time to collect. “Can you come out?”

“Sure.” She steps into the cool night with bare feet, leaving the wooden door open. From the living room, the final round of Jeopardy begins.

Mom retrieves the pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter from behind the glass jar. “Do you mind?”