Crash into You by Katie McGarry - Juvenile Fiction
From acclaimed author Katie McGarry comes an explosive new tale of a romance forged in the fast lane
The girl with straight A's and the perfect life--that's who people expect Rachel Young to be. So the private school junior keeps secrets from her wealthy family...and she's just added two more to the list. One involves racing strangers down dark country roads in her Mustang GT. The other? Seventeen-year-old Isaiah Walker--a guy she has no business even talking to. But after the foster kid with the tattoos and intense gray eyes comes to her rescue, she can't get him out of her mind.
The last thing Isaiah needs is to get tangled up with a rich girl who wants to slum it on the south side for kicks. But when their shared love of street racing puts their lives in jeopardy, Isaiah and Rachel will have six weeks to come up with a way out. Six weeks to discover just how far they'll go to save each other.
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ELEVEN YEARS, TWO MONTHS, SEVEN DAYS.
The last time I had physical contact with a blood relative.
The fingers of my left hand drum against the steering wheel and my right hand grips the stick shift. The urge to shift into First, slam the gas and hightail it out of the dismal gray parking lot pulses through my veins.
I force my stiff fingers to release the gear stick. Music could take the edge off, but the bass from the speakers vibrates in a way that could draw attention to my car hiding in the employee-only lot. From here, I can watch the visitors enter and exit the social services building.
Ninety minutes ago, my mother walked in. Now I need to see her walk out. With each intake of cold air, the itch to leave grows. So does the itch to meet her.
The heater died a half hour ago, and the engine stalled twice. A few more things to fix on the growing list. In need of a new resistor, the heater will be a cheap fix.
My cell rings. Without checking the caller ID, I know who it is, yet I answer anyway. "Yeah."
"I see you." Annoyance thickens my social worker's Southern accent. "She's waiting."
My eyes flicker to the corner windows close to her cubicle and six feet from my car. Courtney draws the shades and places a hand on her hip. Her ponytail swings from side to side like she's a pissed-off racehorse. Fresh out of college, she was assigned my case back in June. I guess her boss figured she couldn't jack me up more than I already am.
"I told you not to schedule a visitation." I stare at her as if we were in the same room. What I like about Courtney? She stares back. She's one of three people who have the guts to hold eye contact with an inked seventeen-year-old with a shaved head and earrings. The second one is my best friend. The third...well, the third was the girl I loved.
Courtney sighs and the ponytail stills. "It's Christmas Eve, Isaiah. She showed early and brought you presents. She's waited patiently for a thirty-minute visitation that should have ended forty minutes ago."
Waited. Patiently. My neck tightens and I roll it from side to side to keep from blowing steam at the wrong person.
I throw those two words at her every time she mentions my mother. Courtney drops her chin to her throat. "Don't do this. She had her reasons, and she wants to talk to you."
I raise my voice and pound my hand against the steering wheel. "Ten years!"
"It could have been fifteen, but she was a model prisoner," she says, as if that was a concession on Mom's part. "She wrote you once a week."
I glare at Courtney through the windshield. "Then be her social worker if you're up her damn ass so much. She's been out for over a year and she's just now coming to visit."
"Isaiah," she says with defeat. "Come in. Give her a chance."
I place one foot on the clutch and the other on the gas. My engine roars with anger and the car's frame vibrates with the need to run. Third Street ends at the social services building and my parking spot gives me a straight shot to the clear strip of road. Give Mom a chance? Why should I? When have I been given one?
"You have no idea what she did," I say.
"I do." Courtney softens her voice.
"I'm not talking about why she went to prison." I shake my head as if the action can dispel the memory playing in my mind. "You have no idea what she did to me."
"Yes, I do." A pause. "Come in. We can work this out."
No. It can never be...