A Want So Wicked (11 page)

CHAPTER 17

L
ucy?” I call when I open the front door. The house is quiet in response, and I glance back at Harlin. “No idea where my sister is,” I say.

“Nice place,” Harlin says as he walks in. “It's big.”

“Really? It's only three bedrooms.” Our house in Colorado had four, plus an office. But once my mother was gone, it always seemed too big without her in it. I swallow down the memory.

“You should see the apartment I live in,” Harlin says, examining a picture of me from middle school hanging on the wall. “Two bedrooms, three guys. It's a disaster.”

I try to picture where Harlin comes from. I wonder what his bedroom is like, if he has paintings hanging on his wall. Portraits of girls he met in restaurants.

Harlin slips off his leather jacket, laying it over the arm of the sofa. He's wearing a black T-shirt, the muscles of his arms filling out the sleeves. “I live with my older brothers,” he explains. “They're slobs.”

I smile, thinking it's sweet that he lives with his brothers. I'm curious about his parents, but it seems rude to ask. So instead I motion toward the kitchen. “Drink?”

He agrees and follows me, taking it all in as if truly curious about every aspect of my life. When I hand him a soda, our fingers touching once again, the smile that makes me melt returns to his lips. “So,” Harlin says, leaning against the tiled counter. “Where do you want to do it?”

 

Kitchen scissors are probably not the best choice for cutting hair, but they're all I can find. I set up a chair in the middle of the room and wrap a striped towel over Harlin's shoulders. I read once that it's best to cut dry hair, so I stand behind him and use my comb to smooth a section. I hold it between my fingers and then trim off the ends without incident. Okay, so far so good.

I move to his side, my hip brushing his arm as I try to level the hair above his ear, but decide that's too short and opt to keep it longer.

“How you doing up there?” Harlin asks, sounding amused. “You're awfully quiet.”

“Shh, I'm trying to concentrate.”

He laughs and I run the scissors over his sideburns, my fingers grazing his cheek. His eyes flutter closed and it sends a rush over me, that I can affect him like that. My breathing starts to deepen; my hands shake.

I round the front of him, brushing back his hair with my fingers and admiring how handsome his face is. He keeps his eyes shut, his lips slightly parted like he's enjoying every touch.

I nudge his knee aside, sliding my thigh in between his as I lean over him, gently combing through his hair. His hands reach to hold either side of my hip. It's barely a touch, but it sends vibrations over my entire body.

I want him.

I'm cutting, sort of, when his fingers graze the bare skin above my jeans, just under my T-shirt. I make a soft sound, willing him to do more.

Harlin tilts his face up toward mine, his eyes still closed as he pulls our bodies together. He licks his bottom lip and I lean down, ready to finally press my mouth to his. At the last second, he looks at me—a mix of emotions in his eyes.

“Whoa. I'm sorry.”

I jump at the sound of my sister's voice and turn quickly, the scissors falling from my hand to the tile floor. Lucy is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, barely concealing her smile.

“I am
so
sorry, Elise,” she says again. “I didn't know you, um, had company.” I can only imagine how I look—the flush still on my skin. I can't even bring myself to glance back at Harlin, not when I'd so nearly kissed him. Again.

“This . . .” My voice is raspy and I clear my throat. “This is Harlin,” I tell Lucy. “Harlin, this is my sister.”

Lucy holds out her hand in a stop motion. “Don't get up,” she says. “In fact, pretend I'm not even here.” She glances over her shoulder as she walks out of the room. “It was very nice to meet you, Harlin.”

Harlin watches Lucy go, his brow creased with concern as he sits silently. When I touch his shoulder he snaps out of it, apologizing quickly. “Sorry, yes, it was nice to meet you too,” he calls after her.

There's no answer, and I turn to Harlin, my cheeks still warm. “Why were you so quiet?” I ask.

Harlin meets my eyes and smiles. “My mind was on other things.”

I laugh, thinking about his fingers on my skin, his face turned up toward mine. “Oh, yes,” I say. “I noticed.”

Harlin chuckles and shakes his head. “My hair is messed up now, huh?”

“No,” I say, like that's a ridiculous statement. I lean to grab the scissors from the floor and walk behind him. “But I should even it up.”

His hair is, in fact,
really
messed up, one side longer than the other. I end up having to cut it shorter than I planned, but at the same time, it shows off more of his face—which I happen to find gorgeous anyway.

As I'm finishing, Harlin's laugh breaks the silence in the room. I stop, loving the sound of it. “What?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing,” he says innocently. “Except to note that you are now my all-time favorite hairstylist.”

“Maybe I should open my own salon,” I say, grinning ear to ear.

“Pencil me in for every day at three.”

I slap his shoulder, telling him to shut up, and soon the moment begins to settle into something normal. Something peaceful. When I'm done, I comb the front of Harlin's hair to the side with my fingers, brushing all the loose hair from his temples. He's silent, his eyes never leaving mine.

Then I drop my arm, stepping back to admire my work. “So,” I say to him finally. “Want to stay for dinner?”

 

“You have a motorcycle?” my father asks Harlin from the head of the dinner table. We don't normally use the dining room, but when my father came home to discover a guy here, he suddenly became very formal. Well, besides the pizza box in the middle of the table.

“I do,” Harlin says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “It's a Harley-Davidson, very safe. And I never ride it when it's raining. Which seems to be every day around here.”

My father nods. “Wettest summer on record.”

I bite my thumbnail, watching nervously as my father continues to interrogate Harlin. Next to me Lucy picks the pepperoni off her slice, keeping her head lowered. During a lull in the conversation, Harlin asks me to pass him the Coke. When I do, he winks, as if letting me know I shouldn't be nervous.

“And you're from Portland?” my dad continues. “I was just there to help set up a mission downtown. Beautiful city.”

“It is gorgeous. I'm originally from California, but my family moved to the Northwest a few years back. I was traveling there when I ended up taking a detour through Thistle. Decided to stay awhile.”

“It's not a bad place to stop,” my father says. “What do your parents do?”

“Dad,” I warn, not liking the game of twenty questions that he's playing. I'd think Lucy would make a joke, but she hasn't said a word. I'm guessing she's tired from staying up all night, which is the only rational explanation for her not admiring Harlin right now.

Harlin takes a sip from his drink before glancing sideways at my father. “I don't really talk to my mother anymore,” he says quietly. “I live with my older brothers.”

My father immediately shoots me a look and then folds his hands in front of him, as if fascinated. “What about your father?”

Something in my chest suddenly aches, and I reach under the table to put my palm on Harlin's knee. He doesn't flinch, but instead presses his lips into a sad smile. “My father was a police officer, killed on duty,” he says. “Gone three years now.”

Lucy looks up as my father's expression falters. Yet somehow it's almost as if I knew what Harlin was going to say. Confused, I pull my hand back into my lap, but Harlin reaches to gently run his fingers over mine, intertwining them. It gives me comfort, and it's clear it does the same for him.

“I'm so sorry to hear about your father,” my dad murmurs sincerely. “I work closely with the police department here. Very honorable folks.”

“Thanks,” Harlin responds. Tears gather in his eyes before he blinks them away. “My father was a solid guy,” he says. “It's been a really difficult time, especially since they hadn't caught the perp. But last year . . .” He pauses, fighting back the emotion in his voice. “Last year they found him, brought him to trial, and sentenced him. Everyone said it was a miracle.”

“I'm glad you finally found justice,” I say. “Your family needed that.”

When the dinner conversation picks up again, my father asking Lucy about her upcoming semester, Harlin leans his arm against mine, his voice just a whisper in my ear. “I think you're amazing,” he says. And then, without waiting for a response, he goes back to his pizza.

CHAPTER 18

A
fter dinner I tell my father I'll be back later and drive Harlin to his motel. It's a run-down place off Route 5 with a light out in their vacancy sign. I wonder how long he's been living here.

When I park in front of his room, there is a tug of sadness. I don't want this day to end. I don't want Harlin to go. As if sensing my mood, he turns to me and smiles.

“Did you want to come in?” he asks. My heart kicks up its beats.

“Well,” I say. “You've already seen my place.”

He waits as I turn off the car and climb out. I almost reach for his hand but stop myself—surprised by how comfortable I am with him.

The room is small, but immaculate. There are two beds, although one has a sleeping bag on top of it. In the corner is a small desk, and I notice the sketch pad lying there.

“You're very neat,” I say, walking toward the desk. “Were you a well-behaved child?”

Harlin grins. “No.”

I touch the edge of the sketch pad and look over my shoulder at him. “Can I?” I ask.

He hesitates, but then nods before going to sit on the bed. I open to the first page: a landscape of a beach, the ocean at low tide.

“That's where I grew up,” Harlin says quietly from behind me. “Near Oceanside, California.”

“It's pretty,” I say, turning to the next picture. It's another landscape, this time a bridge in the background. “Portland?” I ask. He agrees, and I continue turning the pages until the images start to change altogether. There's a sinking feeling when I get to the pictures of a girl. Something about her is familiar.

Harlin stands and looks over my shoulder. He's so close that I no longer care about this other girl. I feel the warmth from his body as he reaches to take the pad from me. “Let me show you something,” he says, flipping to the back. I realize then that the entire book is filled with pictures of this other girl as he skips past them.

I turn sideways, my face close to his as he concentrates. I want him to notice me the way he obviously noticed her. Her every curve. Her every feature.

“Here,” he says, setting the book down and tapping the page. “I did this after that first day at Santo's. It's not great, but I was drafting from memory.”

I look down, startled to see a picture of me. The edges are blurred where he rubbed off the pencil several times, but the likeness is there, and it's flattering. He reaches to turn the page. “I thought about you a lot,” he says quietly.

There's another picture of me, laughing. I'm struck with an emotion I've never had before, or at least, not like this. I'm completely and totally in love with Harlin—even though I hardly know much about him at all.

He reaches for the book, but I turn to him, putting my hand on his chest. He tenses before slowly lowering his gaze to mine. By his expression, I think we've gone well past mutual attraction. And I don't think I can wait anymore.

I lean up to put my lips to his, testing his reaction. He doesn't move at first—as if he's scared to touch me. I kiss his top lip. His bottom lip. I slide my hands until they wrap behind his neck, pulling myself closer to him.

There's the slightest touch of his tongue and I make a soft sound, renewing my kisses. He's so gentle, so careful—but all I want is for him to grab me, hold me. “Harlin,” I murmur between his lips. “Kiss me.”

He moves his hands to my waist, drawing me tighter against him. But he turns to rest his cheek against mine. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, his breath hot on my ear. My eyelids flutter closed. “But I can't,” he adds.

“I want you to,” I say, my fingers threading through his hair.

“I know.” He leans his forehead against mine, looking into my eyes. “Please believe me when I say it's taking every ounce of my willpower to do this: But I think you should leave.”

I'm frozen at first, but when I realize he's serious, I back out of his arms—humiliated. I feel utterly rejected and it stings, especially since he's the first guy I've ever tried to kiss. He winces when he sees the hurt on my face.

“It's not what you think, Elise,” he says quickly, reaching for me. But I push his hand away.

“And what do I think?”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, well. That makes me feel so much better, Harlin. Thanks for the explanation.” I walk quickly around the bed, mortified and shaking. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I could have misread him completely.

I open the motel room door, the first bit of tears stinging my eyes. Harlin steps in front of me, backing me against the wall. He stares until I look at him. When I do, I'm surprised to see the tears gathered in his eyes. “I'm in love with someone else,” he says. “But she's gone. And I—”

I push him then, nearly slapping him. If he's in love with someone, then why did he come to my house? Why talk with my
dad
?

I move past Harlin, walking through the door, when he takes my elbow to stop me. “Elise, please—”

“Don't,” I say, pulling my arm from his. “Just . . . don't.”

With fresh hurt on his face, Harlin nods and steps away.

 

* * *

 

My dad is asleep when I arrive home, and the day's dishes are still in the sink. I didn't let myself cry on the way back, refusing to let a guy—one I just met—so thoroughly wreck my self-esteem. And as I start in on the bowls and plates with soapy water, I keep myself calm, even though I'm devastated. What's most troubling is that beyond embarrassment, it shouldn't be this painful. How can someone I just met hurt me so much?

I'm nearly done when my father comes out of his room, his blue eyes concerned when he finds me in the kitchen. “You're cleaning?” he asks. “Is it that bad?” He comes to kiss the top of my head, spurring on my sudden urge to cry, but I fight it back.

“I wish you'd buy a dishwasher,” I say instead, turning off the water. I grab the red towel to dry my hands and stare out into the dark night.

“Why would I need a dishwasher when I have you?” my father replies, going to the fridge to pull out a foil-covered plate.

“That joke never gets old, does it?”

“Not to me.”

I sit at the kitchen table, and my father sets the plate of chocolate cake in front of me, leaving a fork at my side. When he sits next to me, I take a bite of cake, slowly chewing as the silence drags on. I'm not sure if I have the guts to tell him what happened tonight. It occurs to me that I've been lying a lot—and I hate the thought of it.

“Harlin's not interested in me,” I say quietly, setting down the fork. Embarrassed, I feel prickles of heat break over my face and neck.

“What?” my father asks. “I don't believe that. He looked completely smitten.”

“Yeah, well. He just told me he's in love with someone else. So he's apparently not smitten with me.”

“Oh, kid,” my father says, putting his arm over my shoulders. “I'm not convinced this is true, but I'm sorry. He seemed like a very genuine person at dinner. Maybe he's confused. I'm glad he was honest with you, though.”

I scoff. “He could have been honest before having dinner with us. Before agreeing to come to church with me. I feel ridiculous.”

“He agreed to come to a service?” my father asks, sounding impressed.

“Yeah. But he's a heathen, so who cares.”

He chuckles. “There is that possibility, but I don't think you should write Harlin off just yet. I have a feeling we'll be seeing him around.”

I push the plate away, unwilling to have another bite of cake when I'm too depressed to enjoy it. Just then Lucy walks in, wearing her pajamas—something I haven't seen her wear in a while. They're polka-dotted and long-sleeved, and all at once I think that she appears younger. Well, except for the heavy foundation that seems too tan for her skin.

“You're still home?” I ask. “It's not even curfew.”

“Thought I'd grace you all with my presence.” She pauses to smile. “I can occasionally be the responsible child, especially when my little sister is off riding around with a strange guy. And besides,” she says, pushing my shoulder, “I've missed you.”

I'm slightly taken aback by Lucy's words, but at the same time, I want to hug her. I haven't seen her this vulnerable since . . . well, since our mother died. My father must notice too, because he comes to put his arms around both of us, resting his chin on the top of Lucy's head.

“I love you girls,” he says. “You make me proud every day.” Lucy and I start to groan, ready to tell him to stop being so sappy, when he laughs. “And I'm most proud when you're home by curfew without any boys around.”

Lucy pulls back and rolls her eyes. “If you ever tire of being a pastor, I think you have a real chance at stand-up comedy.” She reaches past me for my fork, scooping up a bite of cake before popping it into her mouth. “And yes,” she says to my father. “We love you too.”

 

Lucy and I stare at the TV in the dim living room after she finishes the cake. She rests her head on my shoulder as the sink runs in the kitchen, my father rinsing off the plate.

“Elise,” my sister says in a low voice, barely audible over the movie. “Do you remember when Mom died?”

I tear my eyes from the television to look down at her, her face hidden from view. “Yeah?”

Lucy starts playing with a loose string in the couch blanket, twisting it around her finger. “There was that night,” she says. “The night before she died, when we laid in bed while Dad was at the hospital. Praying.”

A lump forms in my throat. “They wouldn't let us in anymore,” I add. “It was against their policy.” It hurts to think about it, my mom in that hospital bed, unconscious. During her last week, she stopped waking up, drugs coursing through her system. They said it was better that way, but I've always wondered. What would she have said to us in those moments? Had we robbed her of them?

“That night,” Lucy continues, “when we were curled up and you were crying, I told you that I had a secret. Do you remember that?”

It's a little foggy at first, but I do vaguely recall the conversation. I pull back then, looking at my sister as tears glisten in her eyes. “Lucy, what's wrong?”

“How come you never asked?” she whispers, her voice cracking. “How come you never asked what my secret was?”

The question is so loaded with accusation and pain, I wrap my arms around my sister and pull her to me. “I don't know,” I say. “I guess I thought you'd tell me when you were ready.”

Lucy sniffles, brushing at the back of my hair with her fingers, shuddering once as she holds back her cry. Then she straightens, touching my cheek lovingly. Like it's the last time she'll ever see me.

“What was it?” I ask, seeing the desperation in her eyes. “What was your secret?”

Lucy smiles sadly, tilting her head as if apologizing. “It doesn't matter now,” she whispers. “I guess nothing ever really did.” Then she stands and goes to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.