Page 97 of Rescue Me (Forget the Past 1)

“Martin.” I speak the name before she can, knowing on some instinctive level.

Paige nods. “Yeah. Martin. We were hanging out together all night, and at one point, a group of us were in the kitchen, and someone mentioned what my mom did for work. All the guys got stars in their eyes when I talked about her cars. In particular the ’68 Camaro a local sports agent had just asked her to tune-up. She’d finished the work and was set to deliver it back to him that Monday.” Paige lets go of my arm to twist her hands in her lap. “At school I was a bit of a loner. I had Charlie as my best friend, and some girls I hung out with at lunch and in between classes. But other than that, I kinda flew under the radar. I wasn’t used to the rabid amount of attention these guys were paying me. It made me stupid.”

I wish I could travel back in time, take young Paige in my arms, and glare at those idiot boys that thought they deserved any of her time or attention. The idiots didn’t know what they had.

“When Martin said he’d love to see the car, I had a ridiculous idea. Of course, at the time I thought it was genius, and Charlie was traveling with his parents, so he wasn’t there to keep me grounded.” Her smile looks more like a grimace. “See, my mom had always asked me to help her out in the garage. Sometimes that meant driving a car, so she could listen to how it ran from the outside. I knew exactly where she kept the keys. I got my friends to drop me off at my house, then I drove the Camaro back to the party.” Paige laughs in a hollow self-deprecating way. “When I rolled up, all the guys were practically shitting their pants. I even let Martin sit in the driver’s seat.”

As Paige continues with her story, a shadow envelopes her voice. “Then he asked if he could drive it. And when he said that, all the guys crowded around the car started begging me for a turn. That’s when I realized just how stupid I was. Somehow, I’d convinced myself that taking that car, someone else’s property, was fine. That messing around with my Mom’s business was fine. That because I was a good girl, that any decision I made somehow wasn’t a big deal. But thinking about all those strangers in that Camaro shocked my brain back onto the right track. I told Martin to get out of the car and ignored all of them as I peeled out towards home.” Paige wraps her hands around the steering wheel as if she’s back in that car again. “I was panicked, frantic to get back. Worried that my parents would return from their trip a day early to find not only me gone, but the car with me. I started speeding. Then something jumped out in front of the car. A dog, maybe. I don’t remember. When I think back to that moment, there’s the memory of jerking the wheel. And then nothing.”

We sit in silence, and it takes more effort than I expected to keep from begging for the end of the story. What helps is having her here, next to me, safe and sound.

“A week later I woke up in the hospital. Broken bones, aching head, and two parents staring down at me like I was some kind of miracle.” She rubs her thigh, and I remember her telling me the cause of her massive scar was a car accident. “Even though I was awake, my brain was a mess, and I kept asking about the Camaro and telling them I was sorry. They said not to worry about it, that everything would be fine, but I was sure I was going to jail the minute I got out of that hospital bed. I mean, it was a sixty-thousand-dollar car that I stole and destroyed. You don’t just walk away from that.”

Her voice cracks, and my heart hurts to hear her still so upset about something that happened close to a decade ago. I reach over to run a soothing hand down her thigh. She flinches in response and leans away from my hand, drawing her knees up and curling into her chest, glaring over at me.

“I don’t deserve your comfort, Dash. Don’t you understand? It took me a while to get it out of him, but my Dad eventually copped to everything. How they paid Mom’s client off, with money and a promise of a new Camaro. And they lied to the cops, telling them I was supposed to be driving the car. A final test run. After everything, I just got a ticket for reckless driving. Didn’t even lose my license.”

If she expects me to be surprised by the outcome, I’m not. “That’s good.”

“Good? What the hell, Dash?” Paige rakes her fingers through her buttery yellow hair, as her wild eyes flick over my face. “I stole a car. I did exactly what you did, but the only consequences I got were a fine and a few scars. You went to jail. How do you not hate me?”

Understanding dawns, and with it, I feel a frown tugging at my mouth. “I could never hate you, Paige. Did you really think I’d wish you’d gone to jail?” I lean across the consul to cup her despairing face in my hands, pressing my forehead to hers. “I want to drop to my knees and thank your dad that he didn’t let you end up in that hell hole. Fuck,” I mutter, my gaze catching on the delicate slash through her eyebrow. “You don’t know what it’s like in there. How hard you need to be to get by. And the daughter of a judge? I can’t imagine what would’ve happened to you.”

Just the thought has panicked anger heating my neck and face. Sweet, quirky Paige would’ve lost herself under the pressure of being incarcerated.

“But it wasmymistake. I should’ve paid for it,” she whispers, the soft puff of her breath brushing over my lips like a kiss as tears collect on her lower lashes.

“You paid for it in the hospital. Now you’re healed, and you know better. You can move on.” I let my thumbs trail over the crests of her cheeks, catching the moisture before it can fall.

“Why am I supposed to move on, but you have to keep paying? When do you get to move on from your mistakes?”

Her words sneak past my ribcage and pummel my chest.

I don’t have an answer. Instead, I lean the last few inches to fuse our mouths together, letting the taste of perfection drown out the knowledge that I still don’t deserve a flavor this sweet.

Chapter Thirty-Four

PAIGE

“And this is Betsy. She works in the office just beside yours. Well, yours if we hire you, of course.” Mr. Stanford lets out a chuckle and gives me a friendly wink as I wave at the smiling Betsy.

Betsy looks nice. Mr. Stanford is nice. Everyone I’ve met so far has been…nice.

And I get the same sense that ‘nice’ is the exact word I’d use to describe this job.

Nothing spectacularly good or bad about it.

Stanford Publishing deals primarily with textbooks. Definitely important pieces of work that require talented editors. So, I would be editing. The material might be slightly drier than I’m used to. But it’s a job, in my field, in New Orleans.

And who knows, this might broaden my horizons in new and interesting ways. Maybe I just think the material will be dry when in actuality I’ll find it fascinating.

Plus, money. My savings have taken a hit over these past few months. Not the massive hit that I would’ve been dealt if my parents refused to take me in. But still, I’ve got bills.

With a steady paycheck, I can pay those bills and move into my own place. Pumpkin and me, taking over New Orleans. Dash as our helpful, sexy guide.

My own place means privacy.

Just the memory of our excursions in Penelope has my thighs tingling and my nipples tightening. But rolling around with him in a bed all night has a different sort of appeal.

---