Burnout (Jack 'Em Up Book 0) Read online

  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

  Was 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.”

  Rising, she smiled softly. “Well, you’re not on your own. Are you?”

  I shuffled, hating how this girl was suddenly making me uncomfortable. “I guess not.”

  “So, you’ll let me help? Or try to?” She laughed at herself and I noticed the dusting of freckles across her nose for the first time. She was adorable all natural and approachable like this.

  I shrugged. “Sure. If you really want to.”

  “I do.” She glanced back at the car. “So . . . what is that thing?”

  I huffed out a loud laugh. “It’s the quarter panel.”

  Her smiling eyes met mine again. “And it’s bad, huh?”

  My gaze darted away. “Yeah. Kinda.”

  “I’m so sorry, Blake.”

  I heaved in a breath at the way my name rolled off her tongue. “Well, it’s done, so don’t worry about it.”

  For just a second, it seemed our hearts spoke to each other through our eyes. Hers filled with something that looked like longing and sadness, mine . . . I had no idea as I tried my best to shield myself. “Okay,” she finally said, a bit breathlessly. “Show me what to do.”

  Later, after they finally rolled their lazy asses out of bed, Micah and Jesse ambled in, thei
r sleepy faces snapping to in surprise when they spotted Delilah sanding away on the replacement quarter panel.

  “Dude,” Micah whispered under his breath, “what’s she doing here?”

  I glanced at her and stifled a smile. She was totally cute. Yanking Micah and Jesse aside, I mumbled, “Shut it. She’s helping.”

  Jesse’s eyes darted back and forth as she noticed them and stopped sanding. He offered her a little wave and she tentatively smiled back. “Hey,” she said, obviously not sure about their presence. Over the past few hours, we’d formed a tentative peace, even managing to laugh together a couple times. But even I knew our easiness could be popped like a soap bubble with these two goons.

  Micah strolled over and smiled widely at her. “’Sup, Delilah?”

  “Not much.” Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Just trying to help fix the damage I did.” Her big blue eyes skated over Micah’s shoulder and met my gaze, and I was sure we were both remembering our stupid little jokes from earlier about her driving ability. Or lack thereof.

  “Blake, man . . . are you crazy?” Jesse’s urgent tone yanked me back to reality.

  My stomach plummeted. I knew what he meant . . . and he was absolutely right. There was no need to remind me of my place in the social order of Baybridge. And it was way below Miss Delilah Jackson.

  Trouble was, my heart was not listening one bit, as it beat feverishly in her presence as if I had a shot in Hell with her.

  Micah made his way back to us, his eyes wide. Almost impressed. “She’s cute. Not a snob at all,” he murmured.

  My brows thundered down. No, she wasn’t anything like we’d assumed. At least, not that I could see yet.

  “He still shouldn’t get mixed up with her,” Jesse said. “With her daddy, the Sheriff, it’s got trouble written all over it.”

  Yeah. It did. I just couldn’t say so. Not when she stared at me with eyes that reflected back the hopelessness I saw in the mirror every day.

  I finally got rid of Micah and Jesse with promises of pizza later, and faced Delilah from the bay door, the sunshine warm on my back. The place smelled of oil and degreaser and sweat, but somehow she’d already infused the stagnant air with her fruity scent. Berries, I thought—like one of my mom’s long forgotten black raspberry pies.

  “They don’t like me, do they?” she said, frozen on her stool, sandpaper limp in her hand.

  “It’s not that.”

  She tilted her head. “Then what is it? Because it was obvious something was off the minute they got here.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and randomly searched the parking lot. Anything but look at her and admit the truth. I ignored her when I heard her rise from her seat and approach. Swallowing hard, I kept my gaze pinned on the empty spot where Micah’s car had been.

  Her warmth bathed my side as she stood next to me, staring out to the lot as well.

  She was just here to be nice. Repaying a debt. It had nothing to do with me. But I was an idiot who didn’t want to believe that. Still, I couldn’t erase a lifetime of knowing . . . I was a low-bred punk from the wrong side of the tracks who had nothing good to offer her. Nothing good to offer anyone.

  But I couldn’t help myself. Not as I peered into those big eyes with every ounce of her innocence shining back at me. “You wanna go out sometime?”

  Her mouth sagged a tad. “Uh . . . what?”

  A mirthless laugh escaped me. “Nothing. It was dumb.”

  She blinked, not taking her gaze from me. “No. It wasn’t dumb. Just unexpected. I mean—”

  “You mean why on earth would Blake Travers, the worthless punk with no future, dare to ask you out?” I spit out before I could stop myself.

  Pain raced across her face. “You’re not a worthless punk.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “No, I don’t. But it doesn’t take a genius to see you’ve got a chip on your shoulder.” Her eyes were blazing as she jutted a finger into my chest. “But you’re not the only one who feels less than . . . just less than. So, don’t give me that ‘worthless punk’ bullshit when it’s obvious you’re special.”

  I wasn’t sure what shocked me more. Her vehemence, that she saw through me so clearly, or the word ‘bullshit’ coming from that pretty little mouth. “You think I’m special?” I shot back, sure she’d say she meant something else.

  She paused for a moment, her eyes wide. I didn’t think she was going to answer, so I spun away and marched over to continue my work.

  “Yes,” she finally said, her voice low and unsure.

  I faced her again.

  “I’m not sure why,” she continued. “I don’t know a thing about you really, other than your reputation. But somehow, after today, I think you’re much more than that.”

  I couldn’t believe her. I wouldn’t. “Do you know who my father is?”

  She stared at me, unblinking. “Yes,” she finally answered. “Do you know who my father is?”

  I ripped off my hat and ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “Exactly!” I slammed the cap back on and turned away. “Forget I said anything.”

  Silence descended, heavy and choking. Maybe now she’d finally leave me alone. No such luck. Suddenly, she was beside me again. “I shouldn’t like you . . . but I do,” she said, as I studied the sprinkle of freckles on her face. “And I don’t care if your daddy is the homeless guy on the corner or the President of the United States.” I opened my mouth to speak, but she kept on, “He’s not you, just like my father isn’t me. And I think we should agree to not hold our families against each other. Okay?”

  I didn’t know how to interpret the fire blazing in her eyes; her burst of emotion. “What do you mean? What do you want?”

  She sighed and leaned against the workbench, her gaze on me, liquid blue. “I don’t know. I just . . .”

  “You don’t want anything to do with me.” I couldn’t look her in the eye as my shame bubbled up. She might say we’re nothing like our parents, but really, who doesn’t carry around some vestiges of their heredity? A piece of crumbled DNA?

  “Well,” she waited until I glanced up. “That remains to be seen. But, in the meantime, sure, I’ll go out with you.”

  Staring at her, I couldn’t comprehend this. Delilah Jackson, Princess of Baybridge High School, was agreeing to a date . . . with me?

  “But, Blake?” Her gaze spilled out hundreds of emotions. “Don’t make me live to regret it.”

  Delilah

  I don’t know what possessed me to agree to a date with Blake. There was just something irresistible about him. In the several hours we worked together this morning on his car (well, he did most of the work and I got in the way,) I saw underneath that badass, tough façade he puts on. Once he got over himself and said I could stay, he was patient in explaining things, quiet, nearly soft-spoken, and obviously intelligent. All that, along with his body and boy-band-worthy face, was a deadly combination, and some rebellious part of me wanted a tiny taste.

  I just had to keep my heart out of his line of fire and just enjoy being with him, soaking up his strong energy that infused me with a spark of light I hadn’t felt in years.

  Face it, he was exciting. Period.

  And we were going out tonight.

  I studied myself in the mirror as I got ready, trying to decide just how I wanted to treat this date. Keep it casual, no makeup? Dress it up a little? Dress it up a lot? It was a date, after all. But I definitely didn’t want to give him the impression that I was like all the other girls at school who’d drop at his feet in a puddle of lust. I may have found myself sucked into his gravitational pull, but I still had my dignity.

  In the end, I decided on a combination of casual and dressed to kill. My best jeans and suede boots, along with my favorite deep red top would do the trick. That, and a hint of makeup, a dab of perfume, and my hair down, free and loose.

  I grabbed my keys and purse to head out a little before seven to meet him—I wasn’t stupid enough to ha
ve him come to my house and risk running into my judgmental parents. No way.

  “Where are you going?” Danielle caught me in the hall.

  “Out.” I brushed past her and down the stairs.

  “On a date?” she called down.

  I ignored her and slammed out the front door before my parents got involved in the conversation. As far as they knew, I was meeting my friend, Rachel, to study or something. As long as I was back by curfew, I was golden.

  I hustled to my Beamer and let it warm up for a few minutes against the December air, then hurried to the Whataburger down the street from the high school where we’d agreed to meet.

  Even though I was early, he’d beat me. I pulled in, trying to still my galloping heart, as he leaned against his driver’s side door, watching me with no expression. I was so glad when he told me his Camaro was still drivable, but him, paired with that car, had the potential to crack my defenses.

  I parked next to him and slid out. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said, his voice low and gritty like he’d just woken up.

  I rounded my hood toward him, and his gaze raked me up and down with obvious interest. “You look . . . nice.”

  I smiled, taking in his black jeans and flannel button-up. “Nice?”

  He smiled back. “Yeah. Really nice. Beautiful, in fact. Red’s your color.”

  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.