Crash into You (Pushing the Limits, #3)(34)

“Echo,” I say as soon as she’s close. “What’s wrong?”

My mind races through the possibilities. She mentioned her baby brother showed some signs of allergies. Is he sick? Is it her f*cked-up mom? Did she try to hurt Echo again?

Echo brushes her hair away and exposes bloodshot eyes. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. Why didn’t you go home?”

I look at Noah again. My staying out all night has never been an issue. Noah’s my best friend, not my babysitter. “I worked late then crashed at the garage.” All in a vain effort to drain Rachel from my mind.

Echo’s foot taps the blacktop as she runs her hands over her arms. “I tried your cell.”

“It’s dead.” Because I wanted to kill the temptation of calling Rachel.

Echo’s head falls back and she sucks in a deep breath. “I screwed up and I’m sorry. So sorry. But she can’t tell anyone. I made sure of it. I slipped during my session yesterday, and what’s said during a session is privileged. I threatened her—if she tells anyone I’ll turn her in.”

My stomach begins a downward spiral. I hate where this is heading. “Told who what?”

“I accidently told Mrs. Collins that you’re living with Noah. I’m so sorry, Isaiah.”

The slap of her words makes me take a step back. Fuck. Echo told her therapist, a guidance counselor at my school, that I don’t live with my assigned foster family. Every muscle I possess seizes with anger.

Her voice breaks and she wipes a hand over her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I swear to God I’ll turn her in if she says one word. I swear it.”

Another tear rolls down her face. Echo means what she says even though Mrs. Collins is the one person who can help her deal with her issues. I’m pissed. No doubt. But families have each other’s backs.

“It’ll work out,” I tell her, though I have no idea if that statement is true. Forgiving her doesn’t erase the fact that she may have ruined my life. “And if it doesn’t, then I’ll fix it.”

Because Echo is a touchy-feely girl, she hugs me. I hug her back while meeting Noah’s stare. He gets that his girl and I love each other in a brother-sister type of way. Noah nods his appreciation and I nod back. How the hell am I going to get out of this?





Chapter 20

Rachel

“YOU KNOW WHAT I NEED?” I lean away from the hood of West’s SUV and wipe my greasy fingers on a rag, careful not to touch my clothing. West snuck me out here to the massive “children’s” garage after dinner, claiming a near-death emergency.

“A life?” West, my older brother by less than a year, slouches against my Mustang. With his baggy jeans and designer black T-shirt, he fits suburban ghetto wannabe to a T.

“Get off my baby.”

“It’s a car, Freak-a-sauraus. You realize most dudes aren’t as obsessed as you are.” Because he knows I’m serious, West moves away from her.

I drop the rag and slam his hood. “I didn’t come out here to be insulted. Go inside, crawl to Dad, and tell him you forgot to change your oil again and let’s see how this plays out.”

West pulls his baseball cap off his head and pounds it against his leg. “Shit. The oil. I forgot to change the oil. That’s why the light came on.”

I snatch my jacket and am reaching to open the door when West steps in my path. “I was playing. You know it. I tease, you take it. It’s the game we play.”

I slide to the right. “I’m done playing.”

He mirrors me. “No, you can’t leave. Dad will be pissed if he finds out I didn’t change the oil again. You’ve seen how he is with me. Come on, Rach. Have a heart. You know you’re my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister.” Well, the only one alive, that is.

“Gavin’s a little girly.”

I laugh. “No, he’s not.”

West releases a sly grin. I laughed, therefore he knows he’s winning. “Come on, have you seen the dude’s eyebrows? Unnatural for a guy. I’ll bet you ten dollars he has them waxed.”

Not quite willing to bend, I sigh and cross my arms over my chest.

West drops to one knee. “Please, Rach. Please. I’m begging here.”

“Fine.”

“Great.” He hops up, steals my coat from me and slips his hat on his head backward.

“On one condition,” I say.

“Name it.”

“Change the oil. Regularly. You don’t wait until a light flashes on your console and you don’t wait until you’re near bone-dry. It’s not that complicated. Every three thousand miles or every three months. They put a reminder sticker at the top of your windshield.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” And we’re both aware we’ll be having this same conversation again in a couple of months.

I open the cabinet and shuffle through some boxes to find the extra oil filters I bought for West’s SUV. “If I had a diagnostic code scanner I could tell you if there’s another reason why the maintenance light came on.”

West seats himself on the hood of my car and I throw a rag at him. “For the love of God, get off my car. Touch it again and I’ll crack the head of your engine.”