Burnout (Jack 'Em Up Book 0) Read online

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  To those who believe in the power of first love.

  Dear Reader,

  I am over-the-moon excited to be starting this new, sexy series! I hope you’ll enjoy every story in Jack ‘Em Up. Burnout is a story of first love . . . true love . . . and the pain and struggles that threaten it. I hope you fall in love with Blake and Delilah, just like I did, and will continue to follow them in Book One of this series, Crank, coming this winter.

  I thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking a chance on me and reading. Any and all honest reviews are always appreciated. I’d also love for you to follow me on social media, and please feel free to sign up for my Angel Kisses Newsletter for all the latest news on my books and some fun giveaways!

  Happy Reading!

  ~Shauna

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  My YA alter-ego

  The Cupid Chronicles

  Inked by an Angel: Book I

  The Halo Effect: Book II

  Wounded Wings: Book III

  Cupid’s Last Stand: Book IV

  Charlie’s Angel: A Novella

  Standalones

  Elvis is a Keeper

  Circle of Redemption: A Tre Donne Anthology

  Coming Soon in the Jack ‘Em Up Series

  Crank: Book I (Blake and Delilah Continued)

  Torque: Book II (Jesse and Rachel)

  Throttle: Book III (Trace and Tori)

  Rev: Book IV (Micah and Jewel)

  Blake

  I slapped at my relentlessly buzzing alarm clock and rolled over with a groan, tugging the pillow over my head. One week left until Christmas break. I could do it.

  But I hated my life. School sucked. My mom was dead. My dad was a complete fucking asshole.

  Not to be dramatic, or anything.

  Maybe if my buddy, Micah, hadn’t talked me into joining the Marines with him after graduation, I’d have already blown this shitty town. Baybridge, Texas was nothing but a pit stop anyway. A dot on the freakin’ map, that’s it.

  “Blake!” my dad pounded on the door, his words a bit slurred. “Get your lazy ass up for school!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I hollered back. “I’m up.”

  My bedroom door swung open and I rolled to face my father—stringy hair, bags under his eyes, the distinct scent of cheap alcohol rolling off him. “Sure you are,” he deadpanned. “Get the hell up and don’t be late for school. We can’t have them calling the cops again.”

  Of course not.

  “I said I’m up.” With a sigh, I sat up and swiped a hand down my face. Would I have time to shave?

  Dad huffed and shuffled away, wearing the same wrinkled clothes he had on last night. Had he even slept?

  My feet hit the thread-bare, worn carpet of my small room just as a shiver rolled up my spine. Shit. Was the heating out again?

  God. Graduation couldn’t come soon enough.

  I rolled up into the Baybridge High School parking lot two minutes before the tardy bell. I parked my pride and joy, my ’69 electric blue Chevy Camaro SS, between Micah’s POS Nissan and a shiny BMW, then loped into school and down the hall to Government.

  I shot Mrs. Dunbar a smug grin as I took my seat just as the bell rang. She rolled her eyes and started the lesson while I settled in for a nap.

  A couple minutes later, the door to the classroom squeaked open and Mrs. Dunbar stopped talking.

  “Sorry,” a small voice said. “I just came from the office and they’ve switched me to this class.”

  I slid my heavy eyes open and took in Delilah Jackson showing the teacher her schedule. Hot damn. Deep, dark brown hair that curled nearly down to her ass. Big blue eyes. Smokin’ body. She was the perfect little rich girl with the perfect little everything.

  And she was the Sheriff’s daughter. The same sheriff who had just announced his candidacy for Justice of the Peace in the next election.

  Yeah, she had ‘untouchable’ written all over her pretty porcelain face.

  But looking wouldn’t hurt, right?

  I kept my face passive, taking her in as she took back her papers, hiked her backpack up on her shoulder, and made her way down the aisle toward the only empty seat . . . across from me.

  She didn’t make eye contact as she slid into her chair and pulled out a notepad. Of course she’d take notes. She probably made straight A’s.

  As my eyes raked over her, and her sweet, almost cinnamony scent reached across the aisle, I couldn’t help but appreciate her mile-long legs wrapped in denim.

  She glanced over and caught me staring. I smiled the one-sided grin that most girls liked. Apparently not her. She quickly looked away and hunched over her notes.

  Whatever.

  Delilah Jackson was way out of my league.

  In Auto Shop, the last period of the day, I thought about bringing in my Camaro for an oil change, but in the end, I stuck with the assigned brake job. I could do this stuff in my sleep, and I was tired.

  Mr. Dixon ambled up behind me and inspected my work over my shoulder. I knew he was there, I could smell his ever-present coffee, but I didn’t turn around. I just kept my head down and my hands busy. Mr. Dixon was the one teacher I didn’t want to make angry . . . honestly, this was my favorite class. The only one that wasn’t a chore. It also didn’t hurt that my other buddy, Jesse, was in the class, too.

  “Travers,” Mr. Dixon said.

  “Sir?” I shifted on the rolling creeper I was sitting on and faced the older man, my eyes darting to Jesse, who had his head under a hood, serpentine belt in hand.

  Mr. Dixon knelt down and inspected my work. “Good job.”

  “Thanks.” I wiped my fingers on a blue rag, not reading too much into the compliment. It was just a brake job.

  “A bit too easy for you though, I reckon.”

  I met his sincere eyes and shrugged. “I guess.”

  Mr. Dixon’s eyes crinkled as he studied me. Eyes that occasionally reminded me of my dad’s back when he didn’t drink so much. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “Travers, don’t tell me you doubt your ability as far as this class is concerned?”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I doubted a lot about myself.

  “You’re pulling an A, and you’re my best student. It’s like you were born to work on cars.”

  “Uh, thanks, sir,” I mumbled, not sure what else to say. No one had ever, and I mean ever, said a kind word about me like this. Well, other than my mom. But that was long past.

  Since then, I’ve simply been Blake Travers, rebel son of Dean Travers, the drunk. Sometimes, if I let myself delve deep enough, I wonder if I’m meant for the same fate . . . is it possible to outrun genetics? Did I have a right to hope for more?

  Mr. Dixon eyed me a moment longer, then brushed a finger across the newly applied rotor. “No thanking me, Travers. You’re a talented kid. If you apply yourself, you can do anything you want. Be whoever you want.”

  My heart began to thump, reading between the lines. Mr. Dixon knew my dad. They’d gone to high school together. There was no doubt he knew what my father had become. And he thought I had the chance to be something else?

  I blinked against a hot burn behind my eyelids as doubt kicked me in the gut and glanced away. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Delilah

  I hated my life. Sure, by all appearances, I had the “perfect” life with perfect parents, a perfect home, even a perfect freakin’ dog. But no one knew the truth.

  I was so squished into the mold of the “perfect daughter,” that I was
absolutely suffocating. With my mom the County Judge, my dad the Sheriff, and my little sister, Danielle, who didn’t have any trouble being the stellar daughter, it was all just too much. Especially this year. Everyone was hounding me to pick a college and declare some scholarly major.

  I couldn’t do it.

  So, today, I got up the nerve to go to the counselor’s office and drop all of my advanced placement classes with my mom’s signature forged on the forms. Well, accept Anatomy & Physiology. That was my favorite, and I was thinking of maybe going into therapy or sports medicine after high school. Though my parents didn’t know . . . they’d have a coronary.

  I couldn’t wait until May. I’d be turning eighteen and school would finally be over. Graduation couldn’t come fast enough.

  I was second guessing myself by the time I slunk into first period Government just after the tardy bell. Awkward was an understatement for how I felt. I was the new kid in class in the middle of the year, and everyone’s stares had my stomach seizing. How was I going to pull this off without my parents finding out? Thank God it was only a few more months.

  As I made my way to my seat, I saw him.

  Blake Travers.

  Of course, I knew who he was. Everyone in school did. Rebel without a cause. Dark blond hair, too long for the dress code. Earring. Black leather jacket. Resident bad boy with a fast car and even faster reputation.

  His dark chocolate eyes seared me, studied me, not letting go, making my heart clench as I sat. I knew he was trouble. My dad had talked about his father several times, and what a menace to society he was . . . claimed apples never fell far from the tree. Though I’ve noticed the blond-haired devil, I’ve heeded Dad’s subtle warnings and avoided him for the past few years. But up close and personal, he was so obviously nothing like the jocks I’ve dated in the past. He was . . . hot.

  Too hot.

  I could feel his eyes on me as I fidgeted in my seat. Goosebumps broke out all over my skin and my stomach clamped down with nerves.

  Still, he stared. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore and glanced over. His eyes slowly rose, all the way up my legs, to my face. Then he smiled. Dimple and all. Good God.

  I quickly spun away, swallowing. I would not fall in line with the hundreds of girls who lusted after Blake Travers. Who had probably slept with him.

  Never more thankful for a class to be over, I hightailed it out of Government and practically ran to Physics the minute the bell rang.

  It took my heart several minutes to calm down, though I had no idea why. Or why Blake’s smiling face seemed to be branded on my brain.

  My new schedule was all right. Even if I felt like the new kid in every class. When the incredibly long day was over, I found some solace in A&P, the last class of my day.

  At least until my cell vibrated with a text from my dad.

  Hurry home immediately after school. Campaign fundraiser dinner with colleagues.

  Ugh. I would have to put on a happy face and make nice with my parents’ uptight friends. But this campaign was important to my dad. Being elected to JP had begun to consume his whole world.

  Preoccupied with dread, I rushed out to the parking lot, shivering a bit in the chilled Texas air. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I revved the car to a start, texted my dad back, then began to back out . . . just as my phone dinged with another text.

  Glancing down, I tossed the phone into the passenger seat, not wanting to read Dad’s reply, just as a terrible screeching sound filled the car and I was jolted in my seat.

  My heart slamming in my throat, I jammed on the brake as my eyes flew up.

  “Oh my God!” I moaned miserably. “No, no, no . . .”

  I shifted to park and jumped out to assess the damage. Well, good news was my car was reasonably unharmed. But the older model blue car next to me . . . not so much. A huge dent on their rear passenger area was filled with gray paint scrapes from my car. I may have even scraped the bumper. “Shit!”

  “I didn’t know those kinds of words could come out of that pretty mouth,” a smooth, deep voice said just behind me.

  I spun around, eyes wide. Shit was right.

  Blake Travers was standing too close for comfort, his bulk intimidating, his gaze assessing the damage.

  My palms began to sweat. I thought I was going to be sick. “Is this—?”

  “My car?” His deep eyes blazed. “Yeah.”

  Blake

  “Oh, gosh! I’m so, so sorry!” Delilah gasped.

  I studied Princess a second. She looked so upset, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She’d hit my baby.

  Trying to contain myself, I stepped around her and crouched down, running my fingertips over the rear quarter panel, which she’d fucked up pretty bad.

  “I’ve got insurance,” she continued. “Or I could just pay you cash.”

  I pivoted on my haunches and looked up at her. Who had that kind of cash lying around? Her face was scrunched in worry and tears were flooding her baby blues. Her nervousness was making me jittery.

  “Whatever you want,” she continued, her voice pleading for my forgiveness. “I’m really sorry.”

  I sucked it up . . . I’ve never been good with tearful women. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix it.”

  She blinked her gigantic watery eyes my way. “How?”

  I stood and forced my gaze away from the damage. What good would it do anyway? “I think Mr. Dixon is here on Saturdays. He might let me bring it in and work on it for free.” He liked me, trusted me. Who knows, maybe it would be extra credit.

  “Mr. Dixon?”

  “Auto Shop.”

  “Ah.” She eyed the dent again. “This is a very pretty car.”

  Pretty? Pretty? “Thanks,” I mumbled, recognizing that she was just a girl. She obviously knew nothing about the muscle under this hood and that calling her ‘pretty’ was an insult.

  “Well . . .” Her eyes met mine again. “I still feel horrible. Won’t you at least need some money for parts or supplies or whatever?”

  Probably. But I didn’t want anything to do with Princess if I didn’t have to. I shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ll see what I can do for free in the shop. We’ve just started auto body work, so I think I’ve got it.” I shuffled and shifted away, having a hard time looking at her adorably stressed face anymore. I made my way around the rear of the car and headed for the driver’s side. As I opened the door, I shot her one last glance. She was standing exactly as she had been, hands fisted, arms crossed across her chest, eyes wide and sorta sad looking.

  “See ya,” I said, as I moved to slide in.

  “Wait.”

  I stood and peered over the roof.

  “If you change your mind, or need money or anything, will you let me know?”

  “Sure.”

  She nodded and watched me as I sat, started the engine and backed out. In my rearview mirror, she was still standing there, staring, as I drove away.

  Yeah, I’ll call you, Princess. Sure thing.

  I drove on to work at the Super Lube, trying my best to not think about my baby’s injuries. I’d see what I could do on Saturday.

  I pulled in next to Jesse’s motorcycle, kinda glad he’d beat me to work so I wouldn’t have to explain—

  “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.”