Burnout (Jack 'Em Up Book 0) (5 page)

He indicated my sweater, but I felt the blush staining my cheeks. “Thank you.”

He stood, his eyes never leaving me, as if he was wary I’d run away. “Ready to go?”

I nodded and followed him to the passenger side of his car, where he opened the door for me. He leaned in close as I slid in, making my body brush his and his scent wafted up. Clean, spicy, all man. “You smell just as delicious as you look,” he said, his eyes twinkling down at me.

I wanted to say ‘You, too,’ but I bit my tongue and focused on my seatbelt as he shut the door and moved to his side.

I had to get these hyperactive butterflies in my stomach under control, or this would be one long night.

“Mario’s okay?” he asked as he slid into the driver’s seat. He faced me, his gaze hot, sliding over me in a way I’d never experienced before. I wasn’t sure if I loved it or feared it.

I nodded dumbly, wishing I could be cool and sophisticated like my mom, the judge, right now. “Sure.”

I watched his hands as he worked the steering wheel, backed out of the parking space, and started maneuvering like he had been doing it for years. My eyes strayed up to his square jaw dusted with stubble that made him look so adult, so intimidating. And that’s when I realized how much older he seemed. Like he’d lived a lot of life in his eighteen years . . . survived things that most people never experience.

The muscle in his jaw ticked, tightened, loosened, like he was chewing on difficult words.

“I’ve never been to Mario’s,” I finally admitted in a breathless whisper, hoping to ease our growing tension.

His dark eyes caught mine momentarily, briefly lit up by a passing light, before his face was in shadow again. “Seriously?”

I thought of my family’s dining preferences. Five-star restaurants in the city or home-cooked meals by the chef. Small, family-owned Mario’s definitely wasn’t on the list. “Seriously.”

He grinned, making my stomach plummet. “Then you’re in for a treat. It’s awesome.” He studied the road for a few moments. “My mom used to take me there,” he added in a voice so low, it didn’t seem like he meant for me to hear.

Before I could respond, he turned into the driveway of the small restaurant. Dozens of cars and trucks filled the parking lot. Even an 18-wheeler sat in the far back against the tall wooden fence.

He killed the engine and popped out, rounding to my door and opening it. “Ready?”

I looked up into his face. So open, so sweet. Nothing like the Blake he showed most of the time. Gripping his hand, I stood, our bodies aligning, our eyes locked. “I’m ready.”

But was I? Was I really?

He lifted my hand and pressed a gentle kiss to my knuckles, his gaze searing into mine and communicating a thousand things I wish I could interpret. And suddenly I knew, without a doubt, that this thing between us was more than fixing a car. More than a date. But what? My experience with boys was limited. Blake was a force of nature, bound by no rules but his own. How could I withstand that and not get broken?

Blake

I
took her to Mario’s. My special place, where memories of my mother permeated the space almost as strong as the garlic and oregano in the air.

I don’t know why I did it. Nobody knew how I felt about that place, and I didn’t take anyone there, ever.

But, there I sat, with Delilah Jackson across from me, her perfect porcelain face glowing in the soft light.

She sipped her water and smiled. “So, you come here with your mom?”

Innocent question. But it ripped at my scabbed heart. I swallowed and glanced away. “Used to.” I met her questioning eyes. “She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Obvious discomfort made her body tense and I hated that the openness was gone from her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

I don’t think she realized that she’d reached across the table and was gripping my hand. “Still. You must miss her.” She glanced around the restaurant as if trying to see my mother there.

I didn’t have to look anymore. I had the place memorized. The multi-colored decanters decorating the back wall, the white tablecloths that mom used to ooh over, wondering how they got them so white, the outdated photos of Italy, the music, the smell of homemade Italian food . . . of home as I wanted to remember it.

“Yeah,” I said lamely. Missed her was the understatement of the ages. My mother had been the lone bright spot in my world. And now she was gone, and so was all the light.

Thankfully, the waitress interrupted us before I made a fool of myself and started blubbering or something equally as embarrassing. “Hey, Blake.” She smiled sweetly at me before her gaze wandered to Delilah with obvious curiosity.

“Hi, Sofia.” I indicated across the table. “Sof, this is Delilah Jackson. Delilah, this is Sofia Russo. Her grandfather, Mario, opened this restaurant and she’s been here as long as I can remember.”

Delilah nodded a greeting and we ordered our drinks.

“You want your usual?” Sofia asked, her deep brown eyes open and kind. Like Mom’s.

I grinned. “Yeah. Sure. Delilah, you need a minute to look at the menu?”

She glanced at the one I hadn’t bothered to open. “What’s your usual?”

“Spaghetti.”

“Spaghetti?”

I checked my smile at her disbelief. “With meatballs.”

“Ah.” She slapped her menu closed and smiled up at Sofia. “I’ll have the same.”

Sofia nodded once and spun for the kitchen.

“So . . .” Delilah started, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as if she was hiding her amusement.

“So.”

“Spaghetti, it is.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just that in an authentic Italian restaurant, where we could have anything, we’re having—?”

A deep laugh slipped from me before I could stop it. “Spaghetti. Yeah, we are. What can I say? I’ve eaten it since I was a kid and it’s my favorite.” My gaze skated across her mouth. “You could’ve ordered something else.”

She shook her head. “Nah. You’ve been here a lot, and if you say it’s good, I trust you.”

I thanked Sofia when she dropped off our sodas and watched as Delilah sipped like she was parched.

Suddenly, I was nervous. Stupid. It’s just, if I was being honest with myself, I felt
something
for Delilah Jackson. I didn’t know what it was, and it was obviously futile, but she was like this perfect untouched orchid plopped into my grungy world. I needed to taste her. Have her.

But no.

This was probably just a pity date. She was sorry for hitting my car. This had nothing to do with me.

She fiddled with her napkin, her aqua eyes darting between me and the table. “So, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

I sat back, surprised, making the wooden chair creak. Was she going to treat this like a real date? Try to know something about me? I swallowed, not sure if this was a good idea . . . as much as I wanted someone—her—to know me. “One. An older brother.”

“What’s his name?”

I yanked off a hunk of bread. “Brent.”

She was quiet a moment and I realized I’d been abrupt. My feelings toward my family had nothing to do with her. “He’s in prison. In Oklahoma.” I waited to see how she’d take this news. She didn’t respond, so I pushed on. “Aggravated assault.”

“Oh.”

With a sigh, I told her the whole stupid story. How my brother was just as angry as our father, and after our mom died, he went off the reservation. Brent got the maximum sentence after beating his then girlfriend so brutally that she was admitted to the hospital a mangled mess. It was something I was so ashamed of, so sure it stained me somehow, that I’d seldom told anyone the truth.

Yet, here I was, spouting it off to Princess Jackson like she was my therapist.

In a move that was becoming routine for her, she stretched her arm across the table and gripped my hand. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

She shrugged. “I just am.”

I studied our interlinked fingers. Was still staring when Sofia brought our dinner. I drew away reluctantly and picked up my fork. “What about you?”

She took a bite of meatball. “What about me?”

“Brothers? Sisters? Only child?”

“One younger sister, Danielle. She’s a freshman this year. And she’s perfect.”

She went on eating as if she hadn’t just said that. “Perfect?”

Her tormented gaze met mine. “Yeah.”

Didn’t she know
she
was the perfect one? It was so freakin’ obvious. Beyond her beauty, she was kind. Smart. Spunky enough to try and learn to fix a car. “How so?”

She rolled some noodles onto her fork, her gaze thoughtful. “In every way, I guess. She gets perfect grades, has perfect behavior, never talks back. You know . . . perfect.”

“Sounds boring to me.”

She looked up, a soft smile hovering on her full lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” This time I reached over for her hand that was loose next to her plate. “I happen to think girls who work on cars are much more fun.”

That got the storm-busting smile I’d been craving.

Delilah

H
oly freakin’ smoke. I was in trouble.

All it took was one measly day together and one dinner to find myself more than willing to fall in line with the hundred other girls lusting for Blake Travers.

He was obviously so much more than the bad boy player I thought he was. He ate spaghetti and meatballs with the abandon of a child. Belly laughed at my jokes. He even asked me what I wanted to do after graduation, and I told him about my dream to do some kind of physical therapy, something I hadn’t told anybody else. He had no big reaction, other than a smile . . . like he thought it was perfectly attainable. He obviously didn’t know enough about my family.

We changed the subject and he told me more about his memories of his mother in that restaurant, and about his older brother, and how he was planning to join the Marine Corp after graduation. And I got the impression he didn’t share that part of himself with many people.

So why me?

I glanced over at his profile, cast in the muted light of the street, as he drove me back to my car after dinner. My heart began thumping. What would happen now? Would we go out again? Would he let me keep helping with the car?

He looked over and a half-smile tilted his lips. I tried to smile back, but I’m pretty sure it looked stupid and forced. I just couldn’t fathom what was going on between us. Inside of me. I’d never felt like this before.

We were silent as we pulled into the Whataburger lot and he parked next to my car. He shifted in his seat. “Thanks. I had fun.”

“Me, too.” My voice was a rushed whisper. I was desperate for him to ask me out again. To find out what this was pinging back and forth between us. His eyes simply pinned mine. “Okay,” I finally said, reaching for the door handle. “See ya later, I guess?”

I popped open the door, letting in a cool gust of December air. I shivered and stepped out. Just before I shut the door, he stretched across the seat and caught my gaze. “Wanna go out again sometime?”

My stomach seized and I wanted to jump up and down. But I kept it cool. “Yeah. I’d like that.”