Burnout (Jack 'Em Up Book 0) (3 page)

“Dude, what happened?”

Damn. I spun around after locking her up and met Jesse’s concerned gaze. “Just a little accident.”

“Man . . .” He crouched and inspected the dent much like I had, grease already under his fingernails. “This sucks.” He glanced up at me. “You hit someone?”

“More like she hit me.”

“She?”

“Yeah. None other than Delilah Jackson.”

Whistling through his teeth, he stood to his full height. “No shit?”

I shook my head as we started toward the work bay, the smells of oil and brake dust hitting me right away.

“Well, at least she’s got plenty of money. She gonna get it fixed for you?”

“No.”

“No?” He paused.

I faced him. “No. I’ll fix it myself.”

“But, Blake—”

“It’s all good, man. Seriously.” I strode away, not wanting to discuss it further. I would fix it myself. Maybe I should take her money, but something in my stomach tightened at the idea. I’d earned the cash for that car and every repair by busting my ass here at the Super Lube. I wouldn’t take anything from anyone, much less Princess Jackson . . . even if it was her fault. Call me stubborn.

Delilah

I
pasted on a pretty smile and went home after smashing Blake Travers’ car. Jeez, what a klutz I was, even as a driver! I could tell he was furious, but he’d been nice about it. I just wish he would’ve taken my money or insurance information instead of being so stubborn.

And was it bad that I was ogling him?

“There you are,” my dad boomed as I came in the door. “Where’ve you been? I texted you to come home right away.”

I hit the stairs to go up and change. “Just got held up for a few minutes at school.” I didn’t make eye contact, knowing he’d sniff out the lie.

“Well, hurry up. Our guests will be here soon,” my mom added, already dressed impeccably in a navy suit and heels, much like she wore to court.

Guests. As if. She really meant hoity-toity campaign contributors. I rushed to my room to dress and threw my hair up in a quick bun, conservative being the name of this fake game. The doorbell rang, and I slid on shoes and dashed into the hall. I bumped into my little sister on the way out.

“Watch it, will ya?” Danielle snapped.

“Sorry.”

We raced each other down the stairs and she won. As usual. Little suck up.

My parents were all smiles, greeting their company, as Danielle and I stood by obediently, me feeling like an imposter.

My father turned and spotted us. “Ah. Here are my daughters, Delilah and Danielle. Girls, this is Senator Greenwald and his wife.” He indicated an older man and his much younger wife, who was wearing lipstick that was too red and perfume that was too strong. We smiled our greetings then he faced the rest of the group and pointed them out. “This is Judge Martin . . . and Councilman Hughes and his son, John.”

We shook hands politely before they made their way to the formal living room for cocktails, my mom’s heels clicking on the shiny bamboo floors. But I didn’t miss the way young John Hughes kept sliding glances toward me and my sister as he followed. He was about our age, maybe a little older, with platinum blond hair and piercing green eyes. Kinda cute if you liked the clean-cut, choir boy type.

Danielle seemed to be eating it up, but in that moment, I realized that Blake hadn’t left my mind. That messy, too-long hair, those mysterious eyes, that long, lean body . . . what the heck?

God, Daddy would have a fit if he knew I was fantasizing about Blake Travers.

I guess that’s why I was so tempted.

The rest of the week passed mostly uneventfully after my dad’s meeting. Other than having to sit next to Blake every day in Government and pretend not to notice him. And seeing his dented up car every single day in the parking lot. Guilt was really eating at me.

I overheard him talking in the hall with a couple of his friends, and froze. He was with another good looking blond guy and a darker one with raven hair and eyes nearly as sad as Blake’s—Micah Christian I think.

“Man,” Micah said, his expression somber. “Your car is fucked!”

I ducked to the side of the hall, behind a row of lockers to stay out of view, bumping into another girl on the way. I mumbled an apology and kept listening.

“Yeah,” Blake agreed, resting his weight back on one hip, hands tucked in his pockets. “But it’s not as bad as it looks.”

The blond one murmured something I couldn’t make out and Blake cringed.

“Seriously.” Micah smiled, his eyes tracking a cheerleader as she passed. “Why don’t you just ask her for the money? She’s just a girl, and she hit your Camaro . . . why are you intimidated by a spoiled little rich girl? She’s probably got the cash in her piggy bank or something.”

Blake’s gaze snapped up, defiance rippling off of him. “I will
not
ask Delilah Jackson for a dime. And I’m not intimidated. I don’t need her money.”

His friends stared at him with the same shock I was feeling. What? Why wouldn’t he . . .?

“I just don’t, okay?” Blake reiterated, his firm, nearly angry tone daring anyone to contradict him.

“But you can’t afford it, dude,” his other friend said in a soft, nearly sympathetic tone.

Blake shook his head and spun away without a word, the look of defeat on his face nearly breaking my heart.

And right then, I made a decision. If he wouldn’t accept my money, he’d have to accept my help.

Early that Saturday morning, I yanked on an old pair of jeans, one of my dad’s Yale sweatshirts, and tennis shoes, and beat a path toward the high school after telling my mom I was meeting a friend. I wasn’t going to correct her if she happened to assume it was Rachel.

I cruised around the back of the main building, and sure enough, I found the auto shop bay doors open, a bright blue Camaro pulled inside. I didn’t see Blake, but I knew he had to be there.

My heart pounding against my ribs, I parked and gave myself one last cursory glance in my visor mirror. No makeup, but it didn’t matter, hair in a quick ponytail. Perfect for a day working on a car, I supposed.

Before I could chicken out, I jumped out of the car and strode toward the shop. As I neared, a noise to the side stopped me.

Blake was in the far corner, a backwards baseball cap perched on his head, bent over something at a workbench as he quietly sang along with the classic rock playing on the radio next to him.

I stopped and simply watched. His T-shirt was stretched along his back and his forearm muscles moved with strength as he twisted and rubbed on some kind of shiny metal thing. Alone and unaware of me, he appeared relaxed; his usual rigid stance and cockiness gone. He seemed calm, approachable. Sexy.

He must’ve sensed my presence, because he stopped singing and slowly pivoted to face me.

My face blazed with embarrassment. I probably looked like an idiot standing there, no idea what was involved in car repair, much less how to deal with someone as overpowering as Blake Travers. But I was bound and determined to try.

His eyes narrowed as he took me in. “What’re you doing here?”

I swallowed. “I came to help you.” My eyes darted to the car with its hood wide open. “Since you won’t take any money.”

He seemed taken aback. And frustrated. “No. Thanks.” He spun away and began rubbing with vigor on the same piece he’d been working on.

I stayed silent for several moments, not sure why he was so against having anything to do with me. I hadn’t done anything to him that I knew of.

“Why?” I finally asked, my voice quiet.

He sighed, but didn’t face me. “Because. I don’t need you.”

I walked over to him and stared him down until he looked me in the eye. “Everyone needs someone, Blake.”

His deep, dark eyes studied mine, showing a glimpse into some deeper emotion I didn’t recognize. His full mouth opened to say something, then he pressed it closed as he squeezed his eyes shut. “You don’t have to.” His voice was nearly a whisper.

Unable to resist, I touched his forearm, making his gaze fly open. “It’s the least I can do.”

He said nothing. He seemed to be thinking it through . . . maybe battling his pride, I had no idea. But I’d decided I needed to do this. For myself as much as him. “Please,” I said.

He faced me again, indecision written on every feature.

I smiled and squeezed his arm tighter. “Though I can’t promise I’ll know a bumper from a . . . well, I’ll do my best to be helpful.”

Still silent, his face softened a little. I took that as a victory and spun to face his car. “So, tell me, what is that thingy called that I hit?”

Blake

W
as she freakin’ insane? Strolling in here looking as tasty as a hot fudge sundae in her tight jeans and worn out sweatshirt, practically begging to help. Wonders never ceased.

I watched as Delilah slowly sauntered over to my car and crouched down to inspect the dent she’d made. Her ass was nicely showcased in that position and I couldn’t look away. Hey, I’m just a guy.

She pivoted and caught me looking, a cute blush staining her cheeks. “So, where’s your teacher?”

I nodded over my shoulder toward the main building. “In his office working on something.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the car again. “How can I help?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. I couldn’t get the dent out cleanly, so I decided to just replace it. I managed to find a replacement at the junk yard, but it needs to be sanded and repainted. I haven’t decided what to do about the bumper. On my own, it’ll probably take a few weeks to fix it all.”