Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (28 page)

These letters represent the gap in everything from my life before to now.

With a hard swallow, I tear into the one on top.

The past floods my insides, overtaking me completely. The envelopes still in my hand feel hot to touch, and I drop them on the bedspread beside me, spreading them out like a deck of cards, the one letter I began to read still on top.

He’s sorry.

After what he did for me, the first thing he wrote me was
sorry.

I slide one out from the middle, tugging the loosely-sealed edge open, and I pull the letter free. This one is only a single page. I notice that the letters are less thick the closer to the bottom of the spread-out stack I go.

I tear quickly into more letters, each one giving me another piece of Andrew’s heart, a piece of his soul. He pours out feelings in some letters, talking about how afraid he is of Lake Crest, and in others he’s almost resolved to what his life is there, offering me nothing at all, almost as if he’s protecting me from what he’s going through. The more I read, the sadder he becomes, and the less of Andrew I see. I pull one near the end, not ready—and maybe also not willing—to read his final letter.

I can barely see through the tears that stream down my face. My breath is stuttering, and my chest hurts. On instinct, I hold my palm flat over the center, over my scar, counting as I breathe in and breathe out.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The calm that usually follows is short—the mixture of anger, regret, and heartbreak flooding me again and again.

Andrew was mine. I was his reason for everything. And when he needed me most, I wasn’t there—because I never knew. And now…now that he’s here…all I’m doing is pushing him away more. My skin turns red, and my body feels hot. My fist clenched, I bring my other arm down on the bed, slamming it hard enough to make the letters jump from the force. I slam my fist down again, then swipe the letters in all directions, sending them to the floor as I collapse onto my bed, my face deep in my sheets. I open my mouth wanting to scream, but I’m aware enough to know that I can’t. Not here, not where anyone can hear me.

I scream inside, to myself, wishing I could turn back time.

“Em?” Lindsey knocks at my door. I push myself up, rushing to the floor to gather my letters, to protect them and save them.

“Just a second. I’m fixing something…on my dress,” I breathe out in a panic, scooping the letters back into the envelope and tucking it into my backpack on my desk to hide them.

“It’s okay. I just wanted you to know Andrew’s here,” she says. My eyes grow wide, and my body freezes, my fingers about to clutch my door. I pull my hand away and hold it against me.

Andrew’s here. Just on the other side of this door. I can’t see him—not now. I’m not ready. I want him. I don’t want him with Lindsey. I’m greedy and selfish and these letters…his letters, they’ve completely swept away all reason. And it’s going to hurt my best friend. I don’t know what to do.

“Oh,” I say, my mouth holding the
O
as I wait to think of what comes next. Nothing does.

“Are you leaving soon?”

She wants to be alone with him. I get that. And I have to leave to meet Graham and Miranda for dinner. I need to be there in twenty minutes, with my mentor and her son—whom I feel nothing for, who if it weren’t for timing and circumstance, I probably wouldn’t even like. This isn’t how any of this should be. How can I look Graham in the face after reading what’s in Andrew’s heart? How can I live this lie knowing he once felt so much for me. He still does. I know it…I believe it.

“Yeah, just…just a sec,” I choke out. I turn to the side where my backpack rests next to my purse, and I pull my purse into my hands, my eyes staying on the letters I want to carry with me too. I never want to leave them alone. I need to memorize them, feel them—no matter how badly they hurt to read.

Instead, I pull my mirror from my purse and check my face, powdering my cheeks and wiping away the blurred eyeliner from my cry seconds before. I can paint myself as much as I want—it will never erase how I feel right now. My heart is a steady rhythm, a warning that I should stay in this room, feign an illness. I can’t go out there, I can’t see him, and I cannot be anything with Graham.

“Emma?”

Lindsey sounds desperate. I should pull her in here, tell her everything, take the lashing she will give me—that I will deserve. I should.

“I’m ready,” I say with the last breath that leaves my body in this room.

I push my door open and immediately meet Lindsey’s eyes. They’re wide. Why are they wide?

“I think he’s drunk,” she winces, pursing her lips and nodding her head down the hallway. I see part of his body, his legs leaning out as he leans against a wall in our kitchen. His dark jeans gather around his feet, his black shoes, his hands hanging from his thumbs looped in his pockets. I see enough to know that seeing the rest will break me open again.

“Oh,” I say, just as I said before. I’m weak.

“It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head. “You have to go; you’re going to be late. I’ll sober him up. Who knows, maybe this will break the ice that he’s had surrounding him lately.”

Ice. Andrew’s had…ice. Because of me.

Lindsey walks back down the hall, and I notice Andrew push off from the wall and sway on his feet, his expression meaningless—blank. His eyes haze as he paints her body with his gaze, but on his way back up, his focus is solely on me, and suddenly his expression changes. We’re the same. We are hurting the same. And the way he looks right now—it’s as desperate as I feel. Those words he wrote years ago, they’re still so very relevant now; I see it in his eyes. I see it in his soul.

He remains several feet away from me, his fingers reaching for Lindsey’s hand while he watches me pull my coat from the hook near the door.

“Call me if you need anything. We’ll be up late,” Lindsey says. The smile on her face makes everything hurt worse. I notice it, but only briefly. For the rest of the time, my eyes stay on Andrew.

“That’s some guy,” he says, his voice monotone and his eyes flat. “He can’t even come to your door to pick you up.”

“Andrew!” Lindsey chides him, grimacing. I can tell she’s right—he is a little drunk. But I also think he’s more sober than she realizes, too. I think this Andrew is on the other side of a binge, on his way out, coming through the pain, but bringing it with him. It never leaves him, really.

“It’s okay,” I smile at my friend. My eyes find him again, and when Lindsey turns away, I mouth, “I’m so sorry.”

His face falls the second my lips send the message. I don’t know why I said it, other than I had to—I need to say so much more. I need to read those letters.

I pull the door open and step into the hall, breathing deeply to survive one more night, to be a pleasant dinner guest, to impress my mentor and not to offend her son. I just need a personality for a few more hours, and then I can figure things out.

When I turn to lock the door behind me, Andrew is holding it open, just enough for my face to be square with his. His eyes hold mine hostage, drifting to my mouth then down my entire body. My scar burns on my chest even though he can’t see it, and I clutch my purse to me tightly to cover it up even more.

“I have to go,” I say.

“I’m telling Lindsey,” he says, his lips parted and open, his teeth holding his tongue. His breathing is deep, his chest rising with the pressure of everything. He’s not telling me this to tease me. He’s telling me because it’s what he plans to do, because he’s determined. Those words are the gate to a whole hell of a lot he has to say. I can tell. And I wish our time were different; I wish it were right for him to say it and me to hear it. But it’s not…it’s just…not.

“Don’t,” I say, a small shake of my head.

“I have to, Emma. You know I do,” he says, closing the door behind him. I place my hand on it and will myself to open it again, to come up with an excuse, to protest what he’s about to do—to stop him from hurting my friend. But I hurt her too. And carrying this on any longer, that’s not right either.

I back away slowly until I turn to the elevator, and I never look back again, washing away the thoughts of what Andrew could possibly be saying right now and reminding myself to be pleasant and not to screw up my relationship with Miranda Wheaton.

I
t seems
that Lindsey was a high school all-star softball player. This would have been a good thing to know when she picked up the glass paperweight and hurled it at my face. I dodged it in time, but not fast enough for the follow-up of the metal photo frame. The sharp edge caught my chin, slicing it open deep enough that it bled huge droplets on her living room floor.

I deserved it.

I probably should have waited for Trent to show up at the bar, to help me work out my very loosely-planned plan. I also probably should have waited until I was
really
sober, not just the pretend
I think I’m sober
that I was when I told Lindsey “We need to talk.”

My buzz was good, and it felt like my mind was clear finally—like I had the courage to do the difficult thing, the thing that Emma couldn’t do. It was my fault that Lindsey was even involved in the first place.

However, she probably deserved a lucid version of me explaining things.

“I’m in love with Emma,” was the first thing I said. I didn’t open easy. No. I’d thought this through at the bar—again, probably not the best idea—and every time I played this out in my head, just stating the truth, and getting it out quickly, always felt right.

It was probably wrong.

Lindsey’s first reaction was to laugh. She thought this was a joke. But then she realized she was laughing, while I was leaning against the wall, my hands deep in my pockets, sweating, my heart throbbing, my head aching, my mind remembering the look on Emma’s face as the door closed behind her. My past would always be tangled with Emma Burke, and so would my heart.

Lindsey slapped me then. Hard. I nodded
yes
, almost wishing for more.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My face still somber—brutally honest. I was sorry. I am sorry.

She hit me again, this time her palm cupped as it came at me. The force jerked my head to the side, and I took a few steps back. As much as I like a good battle in the ring, I was always completely sober for it. And it wasn’t a woman whom I’d lied to kicking my ass. As much as my instincts balled my fists to fight back, my head knew better. I’d let her have this—she could take all she wanted.

“You…
love her
?” she’d asked. She didn’t understand. I knew there was no way to explain this simply. All that mattered was protecting Emma—protect
her
relationship with Lindsey.

I told her that I’d loved her since we were kids; something tragic had happened between us, her parents had kept us apart, but I didn’t know—so I had always blamed Emma. I tried to explain why Emma went along with my deception, that she wanted Lindsey to have me—but I belonged with Emma.

Have me. As if I’m a prize.

Lindsey’s mind clearly had the same thought, because that’s when she hurled the heavy glass globe at me, shattering it into thousands of pieces. She was a little manic—and my eyes went wide in surprise, my entire body flinching from it. I wasn’t ready for her next blow.

She was kind enough to stitch me up. She tugged hard, and I’m pretty sure I caught her lip curled in a devil’s smirk every time she stuck the needle through me. I think she gave me more stitches than necessary, and I can tell it’s a sloppy job—also sure she did
that
on purpose. It’s fine. I have plenty of scars. At least I provoked this one.

Lindsey cut the threads on my chin, then told me to get out. She yelled it three more times, throwing my phone and keys into the hallway behind me, my stuff ricocheting off my back. I glanced at Sam on my way out, holding up a hand as he shook his head and chuckled. He mumbled something about karma catching up to me. He has no idea.

Lindsey passed me as she left her building with a duffle bag, pausing long enough to tell me I was pathetic and to ask me to tell Emma to move out.

I started to protest, to defend Emma, but she only held up a hand and seethed “Don’t.” Lindsey’s angry and hurt, and I get that. But I won’t give up on making things right between the two of them. That’s a promise I’m making to Emma.

I’ve been sitting out here on the stoop of her building ever since her roommate left. I’ve been waiting for hours—my hangover already seeping into every cell in my body. I was clearly not sober for any of that.

Trent texted me an hour ago, saying he came to meet me at Majerle’s, but it looked like I left. I told him he had “no idea.” He sent a question mark, so I told him I can no longer be left unattended. He sent a string of smart-ass remarks after that, which I never answered back. He’s going to be disappointed in me when I see him, as it is—no need to start the lecture on a text string.

The ice pack Sam tossed to me an hour ago has completely melted. I don’t know why he took pity on me, but the notion that the old man likes me feels nice. I get the feeling he and I might be a little alike—or at least we were when he was my age.

Most of the lights in Emma’s building have gone dark. It’s well past midnight, and the longer I sit here, the more my mind runs rampant with thoughts of her and that Graham dude doing things. I’ve fucked my life up so badly, it’s bordering on a Shakespearean tragedy. But I’m done losing out in life. I’m done not going for what I want, for being on the shit end of people’s opinions and what everyone else thinks is best.

I want Emma Burke. I always have. And I’m going to fight like hell to make her mine. I know a thing or two about fighting.

The quiet night air and the rasp of the crickets forms a constant hum that almost lulls me to sleep. The sudden rumble of the taxi pulling along her street jolts me awake though. And when Emma steps through the back door, tears pouring from her eyes, her face red and upset, her body convulsing with emotion, I’m rushed with adrenaline.

I sprint to her, and the closer I get, the worse I realize it is. Her cheek is bruised, her dress is torn, the strap on her purse is dangling by a thread.

I want to kill someone.

“Emma!” A breathy shout leaves my chest, and my legs feel like they want to fold under me. Someone hurt her—someone hurt her badly. Her lip quivering, she finally collapses against me, completely falling to pieces against my chest. I hold one arm around her, dig into my pocket, and fish out a crumpled twenty that I throw at the cab driver.

“That’s not enough,” he says, leaning out the window. I flinch toward him, and Emma startles. Thankfully, that move and the look on my face is enough.

“Mother fucker,” he grumbles, twisting his steering wheel and pulling away fast.

Emma’s still shaking in my arms, and I take this short moment to survey the rest of her. Scratches line her bare arms, and I realize just now that she’s also barefoot.

“Did he do this to you?” I ask.

She’s quiet, her eyes barely open, her tears still coming down like rain.

“Emma, did that Graham guy touch you?” I repeat. I’m trying so hard to keep my voice calm, but I know I sound like a lunatic.

I open my mouth to ask her again, but she finally nods slightly, stuffing her knuckles into her teeth as she lets out an enormous scream that echoes down the street. Sam hears from inside and rushes out to us.

“Miss Burke? Are you all right?”

He eyes me like a protective father, and I like him even more because of it.

“She’s hurt, Sam. We need to call nine-one-one…” I start, but Emma interrupts.

“No!” she screams, clutching my shirt and twisting her head to look at me, shaking her head
no.
She begs, and I feel like I’m free falling, my stomach sick and my head not sure what’s right or wrong right now.

Emma is all that matters.

“Miss Burke?” Sam asks again, his eyes flitting from her to me.

“No,” she coughs out. “No…please don’t call. I’m…I’m all right. It’s a misunderstanding, and that…that would make things worse. Please…take me inside.”

I breathe in slow, painful air, my lungs burning against the motion because home is the one place Emma needs to go, and I’ve gone and ruined that, too.

“I’m taking you home with me,” I say, her eyes wide on mine. She’s so frightened and in shock. “I don’t want you to be alone, and we can’t…we can’t stay here.”

I swallow hard, not wanting to give her details right now, not wanting to pile on her nightmare with more. She doesn’t ask, but instead lets her head fall forward, nodding in agreement. She’s letting me take control.

“Let’s go inside and get some of your things,” I glance to Sam, silently asking him to let me help with this. Our eyes meet, and I know he’s in my corner.

Sam holds the door open for us, and I walk with her weight against me, my eyes meeting his once more. We follow Sam to the elevator, and he calls a car down for us to step inside. I nod to him once more as the doors slam to a close between us. Emma’s breathing is steady, but every breath is deep and labored, almost like she’s trying to self-soothe, but failing miserably.

“Emma,” I hum her name, cradling her to me. She shivers when I speak, and I shut my eyes wishing I could do more, wishing we were past so many things so I could give her the love she needs right now.

I follow her into her apartment, pausing at the door to her bedroom as her body slips away from mine long enough to grab a small bag. She stuffs handfuls of clothing in, not really paying much attention. I step inside her room finally and push her hands down, holding them still.

“Go get your things in the bathroom. Let me do this. I’ll do it right. I swear,” I say, looking at the stack of thin shirts she’s packed while the weather outside is in the low fifties. She shakes her head
okay
then moves to the bathroom.

I work quickly, grabbing a few sweaters from her closet, pulling jeans from shelves and emptying her underwear drawer without looking. I don’t know what she wants or needs to be comfortable, so I take a little bit of everything; I can give her my things to stay warm, too.

Knowing Emma, I also grab her backpack, pulling the zipper fully open to slide the books strewn about her desk inside. I stop suddenly though at a familiar sight. My letters are scattered in her bag, some of them in a large envelope, others pushed far into the bag, bent and folded as if she hid them in a hurry. I listen for her in the bathroom and decide to brave a glance at the large envelope containing most of them.

My body rushes with a wave of panic, but the sound of Emma shutting the medicine cabinet across the hallway jolts me from the numbness that I want to swim in. My letters. Carl—he brought them to her. Emma—she read them. At least…some of them. I stuff her books on top quickly, knowing that when she can, she’ll realize that I saw them.

“Here, make sure I got what you need,” I say, distracting her with the other bag. Her eyes widen at the sight of her backpack, but I turn my attention away so she doesn’t give it more thought than she can afford to now. “I’m getting us a ride.”

She nods once, then lowers herself to sit on her bed, her overnight bag in her lap so she can stare into it. I don’t think she’s really looking at anything, but I feel pretty sure that I put enough of everything inside for her to be all right for a few days.

My phone rings in my ear while I watch her.

“Yo, what-up with the cryptic texts you jerk?” Trent asks, his laughter light. I need him to be serious now, and I also can’t work through his logic and reason and the million ways that this is a bad idea and how so much of it is probably my fault.

“Trent, I need you. It’s Emma. She’s—” I glance to her and step into the hallway. “That fucker did something to her, hurt her, Trent. She’s here, and Lindsey’s gone. And I know I have a shit-ton to fill you in on, but Emma’s hurt. I need you to come get us.”

There’s a brief silence.

“I’ll be right there,” he says. “Text me the address.”

“Thank you, Trent. Jesus…just…thank you,” I say, relaxing a little knowing he’s coming. I hang up and send him the address to Emma’s building then return my focus to Emma, who is still an ice statue on the edge of her bed.

“Trent’s coming. Let’s get you downstairs,” I say, lowering enough to thread my arm around her and lift her gently along with me.

We take slow steps out of her apartment, and I take her key to lock up behind us. Sam greets us at the end of the hall, the elevator held open. I’m not sure if he did that to keep an eye on me or to help us move Emma smoothly downstairs. Right now, it doesn’t really matter.

Trent pulls up outside within minutes, and one look at Emma stops any questions he’s dying to ask me. He steps from the car, leaving the motor running, and opens the back door for Emma to step inside. I follow her, nodding
no
when he looks at me like it’s a bad idea for me to be this close to her. Think what you want about me, dude—there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her side tonight.

Trent pulls her two small bags into the front seat next to him, and minutes later we’re unloading at our apartment. I tug Emma’s arm gently as we exit the car, and she follows so I can guide her inside.

Her feet are still barefoot—
shit!
I forgot her shoes. I grimace to myself, but keep moving forward. My arm never leaves its cradle around her body. She fits against me so well, if only she weren’t shivering. I guide her all the way into my room, and she doesn’t protest. I pull out an extra-large Tech hockey shirt and lay it on the bed next to where she’s sitting.

“Go ahead and change. I’ll step outside and give you a minute,” I say, my eyes studying her knees, too afraid to look up in her tear-filled eyes. She stopped sniffling during the drive, her eyes instead wide and stunned in one position. I’d give anything to read her thoughts so she wouldn’t have to tell me what happened—I’d just know. My biggest fear is that what I’m imagining is exactly what happened—or not even close to as bad as it really was. Either way, when I get my shot, I’m going to hit that guy so hard that his tongue will choke him.

I shut the door behind me quietly, as if I’m trying not to wake her. I don’t know why, but I just feel like too much noise will frighten her. She seems shell-shocked.

“She okay?” Trent whispers. He pulled a bottle of water from our fridge. I smile at him and nod
thanks.