“Yeah.” He taps his finger against the table. “I guess it does.”

Cool. I release the napkin and turn my head toward the stage. The drummer wraps up “My Kinda Party” and the guitar player rips right into “Sweet Home Alabama.” “I like this song.”

The people crowded near the stage throw their arms in the air and sway with the beat that vibrates not only the floor beneath me, but also the table and my seat. So much so that my entire body trembles with the sound. There’s an energy surrounding the stage that illuminates the once-dark bar. What was moments ago brooding and overwhelming now appears light and hypnotic.

“Do you dance?” I ask, with a smile on my face that even surprises me.

Isaiah stares at me for a second, appearing as still as a statue. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Not a fan of crowds.”

No one would call me a crowd enthusiast, yet I glance over my shoulder again at the swarm of bodies rocking their fists in time with the lead singer as everyone belts out the chorus. “It looks like fun. As long as you’re not onstage no one would be watching you.”

“Too many variables in a crowd that size.”

I’m lost. “What do you mean by variables?”

As if searching for patience, he releases a small frustrated breath. “Drunk assholes looking for a fight. Sober assholes looking for a fight. Pickpockets. I can’t control what goes on out there.”

“I don’t think anyone would mess with you.” And my stomach automatically sinks. That was a crappy thing to say. “Not that you’re scary or anything.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not?”

“No,” I say quickly, and grow hesitant as I spy a playful spark in his eyes. Even though every sane part of me screams to drop the conversation, I decide to follow the small amount of amusement in his face. “Now if you drove a Camaro, I’d have to reevaluate the situation.”

And he laughs. Not the heavy laughter from before. It’s a great laugh. A deep laugh. One that makes my lips lift. Isaiah, the guy who an hour ago carried himself like a jungle predator, now has the content aura of a lazy cat bathing in the sun.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Just turned seventeen.”

“Senior?”

I shake my head. “I’m a junior at Worthington Private.”

Reminding me he’s still lethal, a hint of the panther reappears when he pops his neck to the right. Guess he’s heard of my school.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Seventeen.”

Air catches in my throat and I choke, coughing into my hand like I’m dying of the plague. Not that I thought he was ancient, but how he acts, talks and moves...I thought he had to be older than... “You’re seventeen?”

“Yeah.”

For a brief, startling few seconds, his forever-roaming gray eyes meet mine and I see it—seventeen. Within them is a small shred of the same vulnerability that consumes and strangles me. Just as fast as it appears, it’s gone, and he’s searching once again for some unseen threat.

I like that we’re the same age, at least physically. Something tells me his soul is much older.

The lack of conversation creates awkwardness so I force us forward. “And?”

“And what?”

“You are a...” Is he going to make me draw every answer out of him? I motion with my hand in the air for him to continue. “This is where you fill in the blank with your year in high school.”

“Senior,” he finishes. “And I don’t go to Worthington Private.”

“You don’t say.” I let the sarcasm flow. “I thought for sure you had run for student body president last year.”

He scratches the stubble on his jaw and I swear he’s covering a grin. “You’re too brave for your own good.”

My eyes widen. Did he call me brave?

Isaiah leans in my direction, laces his hands together on the table and does that thing again where he stares straight into my eyes. I want to break the hypnotic trance, but it’s honestly as if his gaze imprisons me. “Was one of those college boys with you your boyfriend?”

A slight bit of heat creeps onto my cheeks. Not from panic this time, but from...from... “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

And the answer makes me shy, and the shyness gives me the power to look away. To think he called me brave. I wish I was brave. I wish that every person I’d meet would think of me that way. Not as the coward I really am.

“Good. Those guys were losers. Stay clear of them.”

“You’re sort of bossy.” I’m teasing. Isaiah’s way too serious to find time to be bossy. But the main point is that he’s totally unlike my brothers, who demand everything from me by plain bullying.

“I’m not bossy,” he says and I get a little thrill that he’s playing along.

This isn’t me. In my day-to-day life, I could never find the courage to talk to guys, much less tease them, yet here I am. “No, I have four older brothers. Technically three older brothers and a twin, but Ethan claims he’s older by a minute. The point is I know what bossy is—and you’re it.”

“Think of it as strongly encouraged tips for survival.”

I laugh, and the dark shadow on his face moves as he cracks a grin. Even though this isn’t his first smile tonight, it’s the first one to touch his eyes, and from the wary way the smile flickers on and off his face, it appears to surprise him. Maybe he’s out of practice, which is a shame. He has a drop-dead stunning smile.

I don’t want the game to end. I don’t want this rush to end. I want to stay right here in this booth for as long as possible. “So, my first tip is to stay away from my brother’s friends?”

“No. Your first tip is to stay the hell away from street racing.”

“And my second?”

“To become better aware of your surroundings. You focus too much on what’s in front of you and not what’s lurking on the sides. Avoiding your brother’s friends is the third. And if your brother’s anything like them, avoid him, too.”

“We’re up to four tips. Any more?”

“A ton.”

“Lay them on me.”

It’s only then that I realize that we’re both angled across the table. We’re mirrors of each other and we are shockingly close. So close our foreheads almost touch and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Our heads tilt in the same direction and, in the center of the table, our hands are a breath’s distance from a caress.

The energy and the warmth surrounding us...butterflies swarm in my stomach and take flight. This isn’t me. None of it. I’m not the girl who hangs in a bar. I’m not the girl who is comfortable talking to guys. And I’m sure not the girl who leans over the table to be close to anyone.

Yet I’m doing all those things and I’m loving every freaking second.

Chapter 11

Isaiah

A LOCK OF HER LONG golden bangs falls forward and highlights the sexy curve of her chin and her thick eyelashes. I’ll do anything to keep her talking as the sound of her voice creates a contact high. Rachel’s this brilliant flame blazing in the darkness. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’ve always been the kind of guy that likes a fire.

She asked for another tip for survival. Like at the end of any good buzz, I experience the first drop into reality. If I were honest with her, I’d inform her the next tip is to stay clear of me. A punk who could never fit into the world of a girl who wears the type of jewelry she does, drives her car or goes to her school. A punk raised by the system, by the streets.

“Isaiah,” she says with a dazzling smile, “are you going to tell me the next tip, or what?”

Be a man. Tell her you’re bad news.

Or take her home and enjoy the night.

I could, but maybe I shouldn’t. While I have undressed her several times in my head, each time slowly and methodically, and imagined that blond hair sprawled out over the pillow in my bed, the girl’s naive.

But naive about the streets doesn’t mean naive about the world. Beautiful girl, confident enough to tease me...she’s probably played her share of games. After all, she was the one looking for the drag race—a thrill.