Crash into You (Pushing the Limits #3)(65)

“That’s no f**king headache,” I growl.

She sucks in air through her nose. “Migraine. I get them occasionally, but I’ll be okay.”

Fuck this. I bend my knees and have Rachel up in my arms before she can protest. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Her mouth falls completely open.

“You need sleep. I can come with you or I can put you down and I’ll leave. Your choice.”

“Isaiah,” she protests.

“Rachel.” I use the same tone back.

“Fine. Upstairs on the left.” Giving in, she weaves her arms around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. I can’t help but note that she fits perfectly.

Taking two steps at a time, I climb the stairs, cut to the left and pause when I come to two open doors. One room is painted pink. The other purple. Both look very girly and very perfect. The pink room looks younger, but neither fit my image of Rachel. “Which one?”

She points to the purple room. “That’s mine.”

I do a double take at the pink room before entering Rachel’s and gently place her on the mattress of the four-poster bed. The sheets and blanket are twisted in ways that suggest a restless sleep. Five pillows lie on the floor and three remain on the bed. Rachel eases over and pats the empty space beside her. “Do you mind?”

The question is, does she mind? I look over my shoulder, half expecting her father or the cops to show and when I spot nothing, I sit on the bed beside her, leaving my booted feet hanging off. If I keep my shoes on, I’ll remember not to go too far with a girl I’ve only kissed twice and who’s in pain with a migraine.

Rachel messes with her fingernail and steals glances at me every few seconds. Girls are normally forward with me. The type that mess with me know what they want, what I’ll give, and they’re prepared to act so they can get it. This change of pace makes me almost as nervous as her.

I stretch my arm so that it goes around her back, but leave my hand extended so that she knows if she wants me to hold her, she’s going to have to move in my direction. Rachel immediately slides over, places her head on my chest and wraps herself around me. I tuck her closer and nuzzle the top of her head.

Everything inside of me relaxes, and I didn’t even know I was tense. Remembering she has a headache, my hand drifts up and I begin to rub her temple. I don’t like the idea of her being in pain.

“I didn’t know you had a younger sister,” I say softly.

“I don’t. That’s Colleen’s room. She died before I was born.”

My fingers freeze. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know it’s going to sound like an awful thing, but it doesn’t bother me. I mean, it does, because my parents and my oldest brothers are seriously torn up about it, but I didn’t know her. Mom wants me to miss her, but I can’t. Especially not when Mom’s shoving her in my face every five minutes.”

There’s an edge in Rachel’s tone I’ve never heard before. “What happened with your mom today?”

Rachel picks lint off my T-shirt and the small pinches of her nails nip my stomach. I close my eyes and slightly shift to keep from thinking about the fact that she’s touching my stomach, even though it’s through a thin piece of material.

After she’s found every fuzz ball of avoidance, Rachel finally answers, “My sister died of cancer so my mom raises money for the Leukemia Foundation.”

“Admirable.” Though I feel an impending derailment to the good deed. I’ve seen that shit plenty of times with rich people. They sweep in, do their one good deed for the year to cleanse their soul of all the f**ked-up things they do the other three hundred and sixty-four days. And most of the time, they jack up that one day, as well. “But you still haven’t told me what happened with your mom today.”

Rachel releases a strangled “Humph.”

I begin to massage her head again, except this time I give in to temptation and run my hand through her hair between rubs. Rachel’s shoulders relax and she melts further against me. The sweet scent of jasmine reaches my nose, and I only want to lie like this forever.

“Waiting, Rachel.”

“My mom has me make speeches on Colleen’s behalf.”

Rachel gets uncomfortable if I stare at her longer than ten seconds. I can’t imagine her in front of a crowd. “Do you want to?”

Her head rocks a no against my chest.

“They why do you?”

“Because I want to make her happy.”

Not having had a mom to want to make happy since I was six, I’m at a loss over what to say so instead I run my hand up and down her spine. I may not understand, but I care.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

A weighted silence builds between us, and I begin to count the unspoken beats. One. Two. Three. Four.

“Sometimes I hate Colleen,” she whispers like she’s in a confessional. “Does that make me an awful person?”

I think of seeing my mom today and of the anger still festering deep inside. If someone had told me she died four years ago when she was in prison, would I have honestly missed her? If someone told me the dad I never knew croaked, I could guarantee there wouldn’t be any tears. If Rachel’s an awful person then I must be related to Satan. “No, it doesn’t.”