Crash into You (Pushing the Limits #3)(47)

The small sickly garage appears different during the day. Oddly enough, that night, this place became a beacon of light, a haven. Now, with the gray clouds hovering low in the sky and the cracks in the exterior wall, I’m reminded that I’m out of my element.

I pull on the heavy door and enter. Heat belonging to a jungle suffocates me and defrosts my cold fingers. My hair blows across my face as a surge of cold air encircles me when the door shuts. A radio plays music that is loud and angry and full of electric guitars. With no shirt on, Isaiah hovers over the open hood of his Mustang. Both of his hands deep within her body.

The flaming tail of the dragon I noticed on his biceps the night I first met him continues up his shoulder and curls around to his back. The green eyes of the wicked red creature peer at me like a sentry protecting his master. Near Isaiah’s shoulder blade, fire snakes out of the dragon’s mouth. With a socket in his hand, Isaiah works on the car in a fluid motion. The broad strong muscles in his back become more pronounced the faster he labors.

Isaiah shifts, getting a better grip on whatever he’s working on. My mouth goes dry and alien sensations warm my body. Isaiah is absolutely beautiful.

My purse slips out of my hand and lands on the floor in an embarrassing thump. His head jerks up and he spots me gaping. A knowing smile slides across his lips, causing heat to creep along my cheeks. If only I could die.

He straightens, and I try not to stare at the liquid way he moves. I grab my purse, drop it again, then snag it back off the floor. Why am I always such a mess?

“Hey, Rachel,” he says easily in that deep voice that causes my heart to skip more beats than it should. He didn’t call. He didn’t call, I repeat. He doesn’t want me. I’m a debt.

“Hi,” I respond, proud I didn’t stutter the small word.

Snatching his black T-shirt off the bench, Isaiah shrugs it on and indicates that I should walk in farther. “Sorry about the heat. It’s either the tropics or the arctic. Take your pick.”

“Tropics,” I say. “I hate the cold.”

“Me, too,” he agrees. So we have at least one thing in common, besides cars and the drag race and Eric....

I pause on the other side of the open hood and openly appreciate the machinery embedded in the frame. He was right on one thing: that’s not the original engine of a ’94 Mustang GT. “You upgraded.”

“Rebuilt.” Isaiah studies the car with an intensity that suggests deep thought. “Found the trashed body in a junkyard when I was fourteen then spent the past couple of years smoothing out the frame and piecing together parts until I could make her run. On paper, I should be running more torque and horsepower, but too many of the parts are past their prime.”

My hands sweat, not from the heat, and I clutch the strap of my purse. I swing it a little so that it hits my knees. I miss the way the two of us acted that night. I miss the idea of him liking me. “I’m sorry,” I say.

His eyes snap to mine. “For what?”

For not being someone you could really like. “For all of it.” I lower my head and watch my purse smack my legs over and over again. “I know you think you owe me, but you don’t. This is my problem. I’ll figure it out.” Though I have no idea how.

His eyes darken back into the serious charcoal I remember when he swore his promise to me. “This is our problem.”

I’m a debt. He said I meant nothing. I gave Isaiah my first kiss, he never called and I’m a debt. Eric called me a f**k and Isaiah silently agreed. I’ve got lots of problems, and the last thing I want is to force a guy to help me because he thinks he owes me something. Not when I have feelings for him and he has none for me. Not when seeing him will continue to crush my soul. “Isaiah...”

He cuts me off. “One thing you should learn about me—I don’t argue.”

The purse stops swinging. “What?”

His eyes fade into a beautiful shade of silver. “This isn’t your problem. It’s our problem. And I know how we’re going to solve it.”

“You do?” I ask a little breathlessly. Oh, those eyes are gorgeous. Too much heat curls along my body and with one finger, I tug at the collar of my coat.

His eyes follow the movement. “You should take off your coat,” he says and my heart jumps in my chest at the thought of taking anything off in front of him. “It’s warm in here.”

Warm. The screwed-up heater. Right. Clearing my throat, I unbutton my jacket and slide it off. Isaiah takes it from me and I feel suddenly alone and na**d as he crosses the room to place it on a hook on the wall. “We’re going to drag race,” he announces.

I snort. “Because that worked out so well the first time.”

He flashes that breathtaking smile, then it disappears so quickly I’m not sure it was there to begin with. “Street racing was a mistake I don’t plan on repeating, and neither will you.”

Isaiah pauses as if he’s waiting for me to protest. I’m not. Lesson learned: no street racing. He continues, “Have you ever heard of The Motor Yard?”

“No.”

“It’s a one-eighth of a mile dragway in the southwestern part of the county.”

“Is it legal?”

“Yeah. And that’s where I’m going to win us the money we need to pay off Eric.” Standing in the middle of the garage, Isaiah radiates confidence. I envy him.