Juliet Immortal

lips.
    My eyes flick to the rearview mirror in time to catch Romeo’s grin in the reflection. And then he’s gone, reappearing seconds later at the driver’s window, his face hovering inches from the glass. My heart surges into my throat as I slide lower in the boy’s lap, pounding the floor with my feet, searching for the gas. Romeo jerks on the door hard enough to make the metal groan before he realizes it’s locked. He pulls his fist back—preparing to strike—and the boy finally joins me in the search for the accelerator.
    He finds it just in time.
    “¡Ay mierda!”
he shouts as the car zips forward and Romeo’s fist collides with the rear window instead of the front. Glass shatters, sending fragments tinkling into the backseat and a cold wind whipping through the car as we gain speed down the empty road.
    My hair flies into my face. I trap it with one hand, hoping the boy can see well enough to steer, my entire body buzzing from the narrowness of our escape.
    “Jesus!” He sucks in a deep breath, his left hand tightening on the wheel. “What the hell was that?”
    “Sorry. I’m so sorry, I—”
    “You could’ve told me your boyfriend was
insane.
” He glares into the side mirror, where Romeo is becoming a speck in the darkness. The boy looks older with anger tightening his face, darker, almost … dangerous. But the arm around my waist is still gentle, careful, as if he’s very aware me.
    “He’s not my boyfriend.” I’m suddenly very aware of him,as well, of his front warming my back, his thighs shifting beneath mine. I clear my throat, blushing for the first time in so long the strangeness of hot cheeks makes me blink.
    And cough. And clear my throat again.
    “You okay?” His fingers curl, digging into my waist. The warmth spreads, thickens, and something sparks inside me, a hint of longing even stranger than the blush.
    I scowl. Blushing is one thing, but longing I can’t afford. This is Ariel’s life, not mine. Longing is futile, even if I had time to spend on pretty boys with dark eyes and gentle hands. Which I don’t.
    “I’m fine.” I lean to the right, carefully untangling my legs as I fall into the passenger’s seat, ignoring the strange clenching in my chest.
    The boy keeps his gaze on the road, only glancing over when I’ve clicked on my seat belt. “So he’s not your boyfriend.”
    “No.”
    “
Ex
-boyfriend?”
    “Just a bad date.”
    He snorts, shoots me a vaguely amused look. “Yeah. I’d say.” He shakes his head, amusement fading. “That freak is
crazy
. He probably just broke half the bones in his hand. Did he do that to your head?”
    My fingers brush my temple. The wound has nearly healed, but blood still glues my hair to the side of my head and clings—sticky and damp—to my face. “No. We had a car accident, but I’ll be fine.”
    I make a mental note to find someplace to clean up before I go home. Otherwise, Ariel’s mom will certainly take me to the hospital where she works, and the last place I want to spend the night is the ER.
    “How bad an accident? You need to go to the hospital?”
    “No. Really. I hate hospitals.”
    “Then what about the cops? I know good cops, not the kind who don’t listen,” the boy says. “My brother works for the sheriff’s department in Solvang. He’s not on duty, but I can call him. I know he’d—”
    “No. I’m fine. It was just a little accident, a little fight.”
    “A
little
accident and a
little
fight.” He grunts. “Your head is covered in blood and you were running from that guy like he was carrying a chain saw. Not to call you out or anything—”
    “Okay, it was a big fight. But I don’t want to go to the police.”
    “Why not?” The boy divides his attention between the road and the passenger’s seat as he takes the right turn into Los Olivos.
    By the light of antique streetlamps, his features come into clearer view—brown eyes a shade paler than his skin, a strong, square jaw, and full lips that would make any woman jealous. If it weren’t for the imperfection of his nose—which veers slightly to the left, as if it’s been broken and reset poorly—he would be breathtaking.
    Would be?
    All right. He
is
breathtaking. I stare at him and can’t seem to look away, but it’s not because he’s beautiful. It’s something more, something in his eyes, a spark so familiar it’s almost as if … as if I
know
him.
    “You don’t have to be scared,” he says, and I shiver