Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(26)

They round a corner and I give them a sec. If I approach      before they light up, they’ll try to act cool like they aren’t doing anything.      Then there will be nothing I can say to convince them I won’t snitch.

Hell, I wouldn’t believe me. The new girl in a white      button-down shirt.

I’ve given them long enough. I turn the corner, prepared to      tell them to chill, but the words catch in my mouth. They aren’t there.

It’s a short hallway with double doors leading out. I hurry      to the window and watch as the two guys duck and weave through the parking lot.      My head smacks the door. Damn. I never thought they’d skip. First day. That’s      hard-core.

At the sound of a knock, my heart kicks out of my chest and      with one glance out the window it melts. It’s him. My body sags with relief.      It’s really him. I press the door open and the moment the warm summer sun      caresses my face, Isaiah gathers me into his arms. Normally, I wouldn’t do      this—touch him so aware. Today, I don’t mind. In fact, I bury myself in him.

“It’s okay.” Isaiah kisses my hair and his hand cradles the      back of my head, keeping me close. He kissed me. This embrace should bother me      and I should push him away. We don’t connect like this. Not sober. Today, his      touch entices me to hold him tighter.

“How did you know?” I mumble against the material of his      shirt.

“Figured you’d come out for a smoke at some point. This is      the only place anyone has been doing it.”

His heart has a strong, steady rhythm. There were times, in      my search for weightlessness, that I pushed too hard. Drank too much. Inhaled      more than I should. Became physical with guys who were no good for me. I would      go beyond weightlessness as a balloon on a string that had been snapped—left      alone in a frightening abyss. With one touch, Isaiah could ground me. Keep me      from floating away with his arms as my anchor. His steady beating heart the      reminder he would never let go.

With reluctance, I put space between us. “How did you know      I’d be at this school?”

“I’ll explain it to you later. Let’s go before we get      caught.” He holds his hand out to me.

“Where?” I play along, knowing what my answer will be. I      want the fantasy—if only for a second.

“Wherever you want. You once said that you wanted to see the      ocean. Let’s go to the ocean, Beth. We can live there.”

The ocean. The scene comes alive in my mind. Me in a pair of      old faded jeans and a tank top. My hair blowing wildly in the breeze. Isaiah      with his hair buzzed short and shirt off, his tattoos frightening the tourists      as they stroll by. I’ll sit barefoot on the warm sand and watch the crashing      waves while he watches me. Isaiah always keeps his eye on me.

I wrap my arms around myself and clutch the hem of my shirt      to prevent myself from grasping him. “I can’t.”

He keeps his arm extended, but the weight of my words causes      it to waver. “Why not?”

“Because if I run away, if I break Scott’s rules, he’ll send      my mom to jail.”

Isaiah’s hand clenches into a fist and his arm drops to his      side. “Fuck him.”

“My mom!”

“Fuck her too. In fact, why were you even with her Friday      night? You promised me you’d stay away from her. She hurts you.”

“No, it was her boyfriend. Mom would never hurt me.”

“She let you take the fall for her bullshit and she sat back      while he used you as a f*cking pi?ata. Your mom is a nightmare.”

A car door slams in the parking lot, and we slink to      opposite corners by the door.

“We need to talk, Beth.”

I agree. We do. I nod toward the pinewoods. “Let’s go over      there.”

Isaiah pokes his head out and scans the area. He waves his      hand for me to go. We don’t run. We walk in absolute silence. Once we’re deep      enough in, I turn, waiting for the question that has to be tearing him      apart.

“You lied to me.” Isaiah shoves his hands into his jeans      pocket and stares at the brown pine needles on the ground. “You told me you      never knew your dad.”

Okay. Not a question, but an accusation. One I deserve. “I      know.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to talk about my dad.”