Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (27 page)

I roll my shoulders and take his condemnation. I nod slowly, my lips forcing themselves into a defensive smile and eventually a chuckle. I look down to the side as I reach into my pocket for my keys.

“Says the Woodstock Town Police report,” I seethe.

“They convicted you, Andrew. A year in detention…”

“Ah…reform school,” I correct smugly, holding one finger up. I shake my head at him, my insides feeling as if I’ve just gone a round in the ring. I open my mouth, but I’m smart enough to know that whatever I say next, if I speak right now, it won’t be nice. So I close my lips instead and hold up my water to him. “I’m gonna take this with me, for the road, if that’s okay?”

I turn and move to the door, not expecting his steps behind me. He’s several paces back, and I know he’s relieved to know I’m leaving. My thoughts dart to so many possibilities—racing one minute to the lost opportunities I had with Emma then quickly to everything she was probably told. The questions boil fast, and before I reach for the latch on the screen, I stop.

“I just need to know…did you tell Emma that I was drunk and high? Or did you keep that to yourself, too?” His face is ghost white, a mix of shame and indignant self-righteousness. “You know what? Never mind…I’ll ask her myself.”

I see him lurch toward me just before I close the door behind me. I don’t know if he followed me. My pace was swift back to my car, and I never once glanced back at the broken house and broken man I was leaving.

I
cashed
in one more sick day for my trip to Emma’s dad’s this morning. But my face was already returning to normal. My only class today was mathematic theory, and I’ve already completed the practice work and reading, so I gave myself permission to skip that, too. I haven’t missed one yet this semester, so it shouldn’t raise any flags with coach. It’s our off day, but I’ve been itching for the ice. Trent has a full schedule today, though, and he won’t be home until well after five. My boiling blood won’t wait that long, so after an hour pacing our apartment and throwing a racquetball against the wall to the point that one of our senior neighbors came over to ask me to “stop the partying,” I head to Harley’s gym.

The place is hopping for the middle of the day, so I work in with one of the regulars. I spend an hour not talking, only rushing my taped fists into another guy’s gloves and chest. He pops me in the jaw a few times, but the familiar heat that usually accompanies it never comes. It seems I’ve been hit so much that I’m finally immune. Or maybe, I’m so angry that it’s going to take more than what this featherweight can serve up to help me.

“Harp, I’m out,” my partner says, slicing his glove in front of his face at his neck. He’s calling it. I frown at him. “Dude, we’ve been going an hour. I come here for the workout, man. But I also have to get my ass to class.”

I nod at him, my hard breathing catching up to me as I lean on the ropes. I pull the tape from one hand and reach my palm out to shake his, pulling the other hand free of tape as he grabs his bag and leaves the gym.

My heart rate feels faster than normal—spikes of adrenaline still pushing through it. I force myself to breathe long and deep, dropping my head into my hands so I can focus and really listen to my rhythm. What a simple thing—a heartbeat.

Emma’s heart…it didn’t do this. Or not…quite like this. I looked up her condition as soon as I got home. I read about the surgeries she probably had when she was young, and then I thought back to how her skin felt the only time I touched it. It was over her bra, and in a dark car—the stolen moments of two teens in lust. I never felt a scar.

My mind is lost in the past, and that’s why I don’t see him coming. But his words yank me right out of the puzzle I’m trying to solve, and they drop me into hostile territory.

“Nick Meyers said you were a fighter,” he says. My head jerks up at the mention of his name, my hands forming fists instantly, my breathing picking up its pace, like an engine revving. Graham, Emma’s
just some guy,
stands on the floor in front of me, two feet lower than the ring. He’s wearing cut-off sweatpants and a tank top that squeezes his large frame.

“Nice to see you again, Graham,” I practically choke on his name. “I didn’t know they were letting assholes in here now.”

He laughs at my response, but he doesn’t think I’m funny. He doesn’t think I’m funny at all. His eyes fall to his feet as he kicks at an old, dried piece of gum stuck to the floor.

“Harley, you’re really letting this place fall to shit. You need to get an intern or something, someone to come through here and clean every once and a while,” he shouts, then glances up at me, his eyes slits as they take me in. “Maybe this guy can be your intern.”

Harley walks over slowly, and I study him, watching every nuance as I try to decide if he and Graham are friends. He never smiles, and when he stops in front of us both—equal distance between us—he folds his arms and frowns. I’m not sure what Graham is to Harley or how he knows him, but he isn’t a friend. More than that—what does Graham have to do with Nick Meyers?

“I said I’d talk to him, Graham. Let the kid cool off. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Harley grumbles.

Graham’s smile slides wider as he nods.

“A’right,” he says. I cough down a laugh when he speaks and Harley shoots me a look to keep my mouth shut. I can’t help it—this dude sounds like a poser trying to talk all tough and shit. I’ll give him this; he’s bigger than me, and he looks like he knows how to throw a punch. But he also wore pink pants the last time I saw him.

“Hey, I’ll say
hi
to Emma for you,” he winks before walking away. My entire body flexes. Harley notices, and he holds his hand up to stop me.

Once Graham rounds the door, I turn my focus to Harley, who’s staring back at me with equal intensity.

“You wanna tell me how you know Graham Wheaton?” he asks, chewing at the inside of his mouth. Harley looks like a Marine—what he lacks in height he makes up for in bulk. He’s always been into fitness and boxing, and when you combine his build with his smarts, he’s perfect for this business.

“I just met the guy. We don’t…gel,” I say.

“I can see that,” he says, lifting the ropes for me to slide through. I climb out and turn a chair around, straddling it and resting my arms on the back.

“How do
you
know Graham Wheaton?” I ask, not liking the fact that this asshole has now ruined two things that make me happy—my gym, and Emma.

“He’s my biggest investor. Well, his father is, at least. His dad’s into real estate. We have a deal. He comes here to work out. He’s got some skills,” Harley says, downplaying that last part. I can tell he’s not giving Graham the fighting credit he probably deserves, and I think it’s because on a personal level, Harley likes me better.

“I see,” I say, my insides still trying to process the name that Graham threw out to get at me. Could he really know Nick Meyers? Fuck me if that ghost from my past is an investor here, too.

“He wants to fight you,” Harley says, and I spit out a spray of water as soon as his voice hits my ears.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say.

“He’s offering five grand. All you have to do is go down in four. That’s five grand…just for you, Drew. This wouldn’t be like Pitch. Graham’s good, but he’s not big like that—it would be fair, and you’d come out all right—and five grand richer. I won’t be able to line something like that up for you again in months. He’s looking at a small event in a week or two.”

I stare at him while he speaks, trying to sort through the crazy shit coming out of his mouth.

“I don’t know, Har,” I say, looking down and kicking my foot. “That guy…I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, holding up a check for me to see. “He gave me the deposit. I hold the money.”

I breathe in slowly. Any other name on that check with that number and I’d be sold. But something about this feels
not
right. Even so, I would love to have an excuse to slam my fist through his face. I take the check in my hand, rub it between my fingers and look at it for several long seconds before I begin nodding.

“So, you’re in?” Harley asks.

“Yeah, I’m in,” I say, not liking the taste in my mouth.

Harley takes the check back with a nod. He never smiles. I don’t think he has a good taste either. But he likes money, and I know that the five thousand that goes to my pocket isn’t what he’s in this for.

I leave the gym at three, knowing I have hours until Trent is home, and my feet carry me to Majerle’s. I text him to join me, but I’m gone hours before he says he can make it. Chuck quit serving me after my fifth Jack, so I stumbled into the liquor store at the end of the block, leaving my car safe along the roadside outside the tavern.

And then I called Lindsey and told her I wanted to come over tonight so we could talk. I’m going to end the lies, and I’m going to punch
Graham cracker
in the face. And I’m also going to go home and drink. I’m going to drink a lot. In the middle of the day. Just like the fuck-up loser I am.

“We haven’t had a girl’s night in forever,” Lindsey says, pouting a little. She just got off the phone with Andrew. He told her he was coming over, and she got excited. They haven’t spent much time together over the last couple days. I know why, and it’s killing me to know so much.

It’s also killing me that he’s coming here, to be with her. He’s only doing that to hurt me. I can’t let it hurt me. I’ll leave early, meet Graham at the restaurant—whatever it takes to avoid him.

“I know. I miss my Emma-Lindsey time,” I say, sinking down next to her on the sofa. I’m half dressed, a long, silky black shirt hanging over my underwear.

“You better finish getting dressed. Unless you’re trying to get something going with this Graham guy,” Lindsey teases. I stand and sigh, looking down at my bare legs and feet.

“You think I can go in jeans?” I joke.

“Uhm…to Polo’s? No,” she laughs. “I am pretty sure when the restaurant quits putting prices on the menu that they require their guests come in something a grade fancier than flip-flops and leggings.”

“Ugh,” I sigh. “Fine.”

I stomp my feet playfully back to my room, returning to my closet, to the rows of boring formal wear and pantsuits. I pull out the silk pants and decide those will be good enough.

“Hey, Em?” Lindsey calls down the hall. “I forgot to give you something. Your dad…he came by. He left something for you. He said it was important.”

“My dad came by? He knows my schedule,” I say, my brow pulled in and my mouth twisted while I try to both figure out why my father came when I wasn’t here and how to work the tight band of my pants over my hips. I haven’t worn these in a year, and it seems my hips are not willing to work with me tonight. I discard them and reach for the cocktail dress I bought on sale over the summer and have never had a chance to wear.

“Yeah, I thought it was weird too. He said something about having to take your brother somewhere or something. I don’t know. But he left this,” she says as she enters my room. She tosses a large manila envelope on my bed as I spin to face her. I glance at it, but don’t recognize it. It must be my mail from home. Sometimes I get magazines.

“What do you think?” I ask, bending down to pull on my silver strappy heals. These shoes make me taller than anyone in the room—always. I think the only person who could possibly stand taller than me in these shoes…is Andrew.

I huff and right my posture, shaking my curls from my shoulders, then spinning to one side so Lindsey can properly evaluate my outfit, a slender-fitting gray dress with a back that dips low. She smiles, but tilts her head to the side. She glances to my dresser top, her eyes lighting up when she spots a pin. “Here, let me just try something,” she says, pulling the pin in her hand, opening it and taking a small strand of my hair between her fingers. She twists it into a tight line, pulling it to the back of my head where she fastens it in place. “There,” she says, standing back with her arms crossed. “Now he can see your eyes.”

My shoulders relax as I smile back at her. With a simple gesture, Lindsey has made me feel beautiful.

“Thanks,” I say, taking one more deep breath.

“Relax,” she says. “He already likes you.”

I nod and keep my happy expression in place, never letting her know that what I’m really worried about is
me
liking
him.

Lindsey retreats to her room, probably to get ready for Andrew’s visit, and for a moment, I think about walking to her room and telling her everything. My feet never leave their comfortable roots in my carpet though. I tell myself that it’s because I just don’t want to ruin my friend’s happiness. And that’s definitely
part
of my reason. But I’m also scared. I’m afraid of how she’ll react, afraid it will ruin something between us, and maybe…maybe a little afraid that it will solidify the path for Andrew and me. Lindsey and I wouldn’t survive that. I’d have to pick. And my heart is so very selfish.

Graham will be here soon, so I look over my dress once more, making sure everything that
should
be hidden, is. This is a dinner with important people, so I decide to pull out the thin black sweater just to be safe. I look over myself once more in the mirror to see how the sweater lies in the back, and I catch a glimpse of the envelope on my bed behind me. I step over to it and lift it in one hand, a little surprised at how heavy it feels.

Sitting on my bed, I listen to the sound of our apartment. Nothing.

I pull the envelope into my lap and slide my finger along the poorly-sealed edge, reaching in. My fingers find a stack of thick-feeling paper, and when I pull what’s inside out, my eyes catch up to what I think my soul already knew, and time stops. Even the handwriting cuts to the core, the way he took care to write my name, the look of his own name on paper. Every single envelope is sealed. Never opened.

“Your words went into oblivion,” I whisper to myself, the tears pooling up quickly. I glance up to my door, my feet following my gaze to the lock on my door, and I click it, rushing back to the envelopes that were all meant for me—the words I should have read years ago.