Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (12 page)

Gone!

And now he’s here.

After an hour, I manage to calm myself enough to move into my room, to my bed, where I pull my covers up to my chin so I can throw my ruined shirt on the floor. When I squeeze my eyes shut, Andrew is all I see. Sometimes, it’s the young version, the innocent one. Other times, it’s tonight—the smile, the hard line, his eyes.

My entire body is throbbing with the beat of my heart, and my chest hurts so much I start to count along with every thump.

“Emmmmm? Are you in your room?” Lindsey calls from the doorway. All I can do is leave my arm over my face, blocking my view of anything, while I lie here in bed and pray she’s come home alone.

Please have hated him. Please, god. Please, please, please.

“There you are,” she says, opening my door completely, but thankfully leaving my light off. “Are you sick?”

“Migraine,” I answer. My head hurts like it does when I get them, but this…it’s way worse than a migraine. My migraines go away eventually. I fear this is just beginning.

“Oh, damn. You haven’t had one of those for a long time. I’m sorry, Em. You need me to get you anything?”

Lindsey is the kindest, sweetest girl I’ve ever known. She’s a true friend, and I’m so lucky that I found her. She’s been my rock through pre-med, through mountains of academic stress, through life’s growing pains—through my mother’s death. And all I can think of is how much I resent her for spending the night getting to know
him.

“No, I’m okay. Just a little tired. It hit me as soon as I got home,” I say, my voice breaking with a cry. I clear my throat to mask it.

“Here, let me get you a washcloth at least,” she says, stepping out of my room and into our bathroom. I breathe heavy, trying to clear out everything else while she’s gone, and I manage to smile at her when she steps back into my room.

“Thanks,” I say as she presses the cool cloth to my forehead. It soothes me some, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m here where I always wanted to be—reminding me of what’s important. I can feel this coldness, and that is a blessing.

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” she says, and I can sense the girlfriend part of her begging for me. She’s happy, and she wants to share.

I slide the rag down to cover my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the force of my grip tighten as I speak.

“Did you have a nice time?” I ask.

Her sigh crushes me. I feel the bed shake as she sits next to me, taking over pressing the cloth on my head, as she shares. “Oh my god, Em. He’s like so…gah! I don’t even know. He just…he’s so fucking sexy!”

She laughs, and I let my mouth smile even though my eyes tear.

“Yes, he’s pretty good looking,” I swallow, turning from her to roll to my side. When she flinches I hold my hand up. “Just trying a different position, to see if that helps,” I say, wanting to hide my face from her, knowing I won’t be able to plaster the smile on the entire time.

“He’s a hockey player. For Tech? He said he isn’t very good, but he gets to play.” She sounds so excited when she talks about him. She sounds exactly like I did when I lay in bed next to my mom after skating with Andrew the first time and told her about this cute boy who plays hockey who isn’t anything like the neighbor said he was. She sounds so happy.

“That’s cool,” I manage to eek out.

“I know, isn’t it? I’m going to watch him play Friday. They’re home. Oh my god, he was just so…so real, you know? Like a normal, real guy,” she pauses, pulling her feet up on the bed now and kicking her shoes off. I feel her weight slide down next to me and her arm come up to sweep under her neck on the pillow.

“Yeah…” I start, my eyes fluttering to a close again. “Normal. That’s…that’s great, Linds.”

So terribly, awfully, nightmarishly great.

“You know, it’s true what they say,” she says through a yawn. I let out a short breath and laugh in response—no clue where she could be taking this conversation. I can’t believe this night is happening to me. “You know. About not looking?”

“Sorry, I’m lost,” I respond, not able to sound enthused any more. My eyes are staring at the numbers on my clock, watching the dot count seconds, waiting for this to be over.

“The good ones always show up when you stop looking for them,” she says, my mind finishing before her words enough to let a single tear slide from my eye to my pillow.

“Yeah,” I say, biting my lip and drawing as much air as I can get through my nose. “It’s true. They always come…right…when you…stop looking.”

“Thanks for losing your license,” she says, reaching her hand over to grasp my arm once and give it a squeeze. I want her to leave. I want to be alone. I want to cry.

But I can’t do any of that. I’m hell bent on pretending that the past isn’t real, just like Andrew. Maybe that’s how it hurts him less. And if it works for him, maybe it will work for me, too.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper, playing the part of a liar. That’s what I am, after all—a liar.

Lindsey yawns again, and soon her breathing starts to fall into a regular pattern. She’s on her way to dreams, and I’m sure they’ll be wonderful. She deserves them, but I’m jealous all the same.

It’s nine at night, and we’re both usually exhausted. It comes with our schedule, with the amount of extra everything we both put in just to be med students. Lindsey is an amazing friend—an amazing girl.

And she found him.

Maybe…maybe I give him this.

“
K
ind
of an early night for you…for a date night…no?” Trent says to me the second I step through the door. His crap is piled on the counter again. I just laugh this time and ignore it. I’m not in the mood to be pissed off at my friend for no reason. I’m too pissed at myself.

“Yeah, I guess,” I shrug, passing through the kitchen and grabbing each of us a beer, then handing him one.

I sit on the opposite end of the couch and kick my feet up on the coffee table. He’s watching a bunch of guys debate on ESPN over the latest drug scandal in baseball. Actually, right now he’s watching me. I can see his face pointed in my direction, his bottle tipping my way so his eyes stay on me. He’s waiting for me to open up. Trent…he’s a
feelings
kind of guy. We are one of those sets of opposite-types of friends—his feelings are complimented by my complete lack there of.

“License girl not what you expect?”

I keep my breathing normal, stifling my desire to huff and sigh. I shake my head as if I didn’t hear him. “Huh, sorry. Was lost in the show,” I say. There’s a commercial on right now, and he looks at me in a way that says
bullshit.

“License girl?” he asks again, shit-eating grin and all. He senses there’s something off with me about this.

I shrug and turn my attention forward again, taking a short drink from my beer. “It was her roommate I went out with. She’s the one that answered the door the other day. She’s cute. Just…I don’t know,” I let the rest of my words linger, never finishing.

We watch about ten more minutes of TV. The entire time, all I see are Emma’s eyes—her goddamned heartbreaking eyes.

I don’t know what I expected, how I thought any of this would go. I know I wasn’t expecting to see her though, and maybe that was stupid. It’s clear that Lindsey is her best friend. And unless I planned on ditching Lindsey and never calling her again, changing my number and avoiding her at all costs, there wasn’t much of a chance that I would never see Emma.

I knew it was her the second I stepped into the restaurant. Her hair color is unmistakable. I’m sure to anyone else, there’s nothing about it that’s unique or rare. But I can see it. It’s familiar. It’s part of me.

I know how it feels in my hands.

My first reaction was anger. That’s what urged me forward. Something inside got excited at the idea of messing with her, making her feel uncomfortable and out of place. Fuck—if I’m being honest with myself, I
wanted
to see her cry.

And then she looked at me.

I didn’t want to make her cry any more. But it was there. She looked sick, and shocked. And the next ten minutes were this pendulum of hate and pity, and I wanted to punish her and save her at the same time. I’m still swaying now.

“Dude, what are these?” Trent gets my attention from the kitchen. I stand up to see him lifting the lid off the cookies.

“Oh, yeah. The chick whose license it was made me cookies. I had one; they’re good. Go ahead,” I say, walking toward him.

Of course she made cookies. And then I made the cookies into something sinister. I taunted her, twisted the guilt knife I imagined in her gut, and it felt good and terrible all at once. I couldn’t stop, though. I just couldn’t stop.

“Oh shit, these are good,” Trent says, inhaling the rest of the cookie he started and picking up another one. “Oh…hey. I think there’s a note in here for you,” he adds, crumbs falling from his mouth as he chews and slips a paper from the edge of the tin and begins to open it.

My chest seizes a little, and I reach for it quickly, taking the folded paper from his hand. He looks at me like I’m crazy for a second, but rolls his eyes eventually and just gives over to his second cookie. I unfold it and hold it in my hand in such a way that he can’t read it. Trent knows the name Emma. He doesn’t know she’s
the
girl, but he knows she’s one I don’t care to see again. Apparently, I got really lit one night at a team party and made up an entire rap about her. It wasn’t flattering. Trent isn’t stupid, and I know he’d put this moment and that one together quickly. I don’t want to have to lie and say it’s just a coincidence—so I graze over the words without really reading then shove the note into my pocket.

“What’d it say?”

Nosey fucker.

“Just thanks, you saved me, you’re my hero, I want you, take me…” I make a joke out of it, and Trent flips me off then grabs another cookie.

“You going to study hall tomorrow?” he asks, and I’m unusually grateful for the change in subject—even if the new subject is also a pain in my ass. Part of being in the university’s athletics department is making mandatory grade checks. It’s never a problem for me, but everyone has to log so many hours a week at the study room near the athletic department whether they really need to go or not. I’m always making up my hours at the last minute, and I’m five behind for the month.

I sigh in response, looking up at the ceiling before leveling my gaze back at my friend.

“Dude, don’t take it out on me. It’s not my fault you’re smart and don’t need to sit in a library with the rest of us dumbshits,” he says. “You better go tomorrow though. You know they’re checking hours before the game Friday.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go,” I say over my shoulder. I leave Trent with the rest of the cookies and shut my bedroom door behind me. I pull Emma’s note from my pocket the second I’m alone, sitting on my bed and flattening out the paper against my leg. She wrote a lot. Maybe it’s a lot. I wouldn’t know—this would be the first letter I’ve ever gotten from her.

I read the letter six times, each time flipping it over, expecting more, expecting…I don’t know…a joke maybe? What the fuck? This…
this
is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for her? A complete stranger?

After my last read, I crumple the note and throw it on my desk, then grab my jacket and keys. I pace a few times, my hand twitching and wanting to hit something, my body craving adrenaline. By the time I step from my room, I must look like an amped up bull given the way Trent reacts to me.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asks, sitting up a little straighter on the sofa, squaring his legs as if he’s considering tackling me or holding me down.

“Nothing, just…just some shit I found out,” I say, not wanting to give him more.

“Owen? Your ma?” he asks, one eyebrow up. Trent hears me argue with my mom over not visiting enough, over making sure I’m following rules, driving safe—she and I argue over everything. She thinks I’m a fuck up and that I’m going to blow it now that I’ve climbed back this far. And Owen just calls to echo everything she says. I take a deep breath and remind myself to act rational.

“Sort of,” I say, simultaneously thinking of the number of lies I’ve told my friend in the last two days. I’ll never be able to keep up, so I stick with half answers that never satisfy, but at least aren’t totally wrong.

“Wanna go shoot some pool?” Trent asks. I don’t make eye contact and do my best to think if that would help. What I’d really like to do is find Pitch Black and go a few rounds with him, but Harley usually likes to schedule fights on Wednesdays, so I’m pretty sure the gym is closed.

I grip the back of my neck and stare at Trent’s feet for a beat before nodding. He doesn’t pause at all, just moves to the door, leaving the TV on in the room behind us. He slips on his shoes and the sweatshirt he left hanging on the back of a nearby stool. He locks up as I start down the walkway to the main road.

We live on the first floor of a two-story building. No need for elevators. No doorman greeting me as I come and go. No one doing amazingly nice things for me that would make me want to bake them cookies. I fume over the words in Emma’s note the entire way, sometimes talking to myself. Trent can sense I’m pissed, so he doesn’t question me. He’s used to seeing me get worked up over a bad game or a weekend with my mom and stepdad. Usually, I’m frustrated at having to defend myself, prove that I’ve grown up. The only sound he makes tonight is the occasional huff of breath in his hands to keep them warm. Winter is coming in Northern Illinois.

Majerle’s is warm, and I don’t waste any time ordering up two shots of Jack and commandeering a pool table in the back corner. This is a common scene for Trent and me—honestly, this is what we do for dinner most nights during the off-season. Trent is easy going, and I like to look for trouble. He keeps me in line—usually—and Majerle’s accommodates us both nicely. I rack quickly and toss a stick to Trent. He grabs it in the air.

“I’ll break,” I say, positioning myself and bending forward to line up my stick without waiting to hear his answer.

“Do you have to be a bossy fuck, too?”

I lean forward with my hands on the edge of the table, my stick leaning against it too, between my palms. I’ve gotten myself so worked up that I’ve lost sight of reason—and being reasonable. I let my head sling forward more as I exhale, then tilt my head up to look at my friend leaning against the wall across from me.

“Sorry,” I sigh.

“You know you’re miserable when you get like this?” He picks up the white ball in front of me, tossing it in his hand a few times before motioning for me to step to the side.

“I know,” I say, taking two steps back.

“Okay, as long as you know,” he says, leaving his eyes on mine for a few seconds, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll explode some more or actually calm the fuck down this time. I hold up a thumb and nod, mouthing
I’m good.

“You wanna tell me what this is all about?” he says, leaning forward and lining up his break. He slides his stick twice before sending balls in all directions on the table, sinking both a stripe and a solid. He works his second shot, sinking a solid again. “You’re stripes.”

Our waitress drops off two shots, and I take mine fast, setting the glass back on her tray before she’s more than a step away. I hold up my fingers for two more, and Trent tells her to make it only one.

“Pussy,” I call him.

“I have a test in the morning. And then we’re going to the tutoring lab. You show up hung over, and I guarantee you that’ll be worse than telling coach you’re two hours short on your time,” Trent says.

I keep my eyes level with his, reach for his shot on the tray, and drink it.

“Two more,” I tell the girl. She smiles at me uncomfortably and heads back to the bar.

“Fuck,” Trent breathes, shaking his head in disappointment.

I sit back on my stool while he works most of his balls from the table, missing with only two left. I take over and sink three before missing—just in time for my next two shots to arrive. Trent reaches for one of them.

“Hey, hands off, bitch!” I say, smacking the top of his hand. He flips me off and drinks it down, leaving me with only one to grab and follow suit. “Two more!” I shout, holding up two fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“Drinking.” I don’t look at him, instead circling the table like an animal.

Nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

Is she fucking serious? I bet someone lent her a penny once when she was short. Is that guy higher on the list, too? I guess I shouldn’t complain, at least she thanked me for returning her missing ID.

Emma wouldn’t have had to go to a place like Lake Crest.

“Are you going to shoot or what?” Trent asks. I’m irritating him. Good. Melissa, our waitress—whose name I got from the nametag pressed against her tits—has brought more Jack. I think I’ll drink these two first.

I grip the first glass between my finger and thumb. Trent takes my stick from my hand when I do.

“Andrew,” he says, leveling me with the kind of look I should only get from my father. If I had one. I have Dwayne. Fuck Dwayne. And fuck Owen.

I push his chest so hard he stumbles backward, knocking over one of the high-top tables. The bar isn’t crowded, but the dozen or so people around us get quiet, and one of the security guys walks over.

“It’s fine,” I say, raising my hand up. “Go on, get back to the front door with your stupid tight black T-shirt and flashlight, like that really helps you spot fake IDs.”

Trent’s face falls into a look of disgust, and he sighs, shaking his head and tossing both of our sticks on the pool table before walking away.

“Come on,” the bouncer says, his arms folded in front of his body as he steps into my personal space. “You’re done for the night, kid.”

I hate being called
kid
. I haven’t been a kid in years, since I ran after an ice cream truck with a crumpled dollar bill. I spit on the floor, and for a brief second, I consider taking a swing at him. Luckily, I’m not drunk enough for that yet. This place—it’s my favorite bar. Trent and I come here after games and tough practices. I’d hate myself more than I already do if I fucked that up, too.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, pulling my beanie from my back pocket and sliding it on my head. I toss two twenties on the pool table, then shove my hands into my jacket pockets when I leave, stopping a few steps from the bar’s front door. Trent didn’t wait for me; he’s already a block away. I let him go, because if I caught up with him I’d only keep being an asshole, and he didn’t do anything wrong.

He’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m lost. I was barely with it before, but then I saw her. Now I’m done.

I lean to the side and spit again before looking up into the eyes of the dickhead who kicked me out. I thrust my chest toward him, juking him with my arms out wide. He doesn’t flinch.

“Fuck this place,” I say…to no one.

I walk the long way home, circling through campus, by the lake. A few students are out running, and others are walking quickly from the library in the center of campus out to cars or to their dorms. I bet they’re walking fast because they’re afraid of me. I pause at a bench that’s shadowed by the only tree around that seems to still have its leaves. I sit down and pull my phone out to check the time. I notice a few texts from Owen.