Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (35 page)

Sliding into my car without a penny to my name, I turn my key, then adjust my mirror, looking at myself for the first time in maybe years. I stare into my own eyes and try to recognize something, and for once, I think I just might. My lip curls on one side, and I look back down, tugging my beanie on my head, my smile growing as I think about what I’m racing home to, shifting into drive and grinning all the way through the warehouse district.

I stop at the last light before I leave the shadows of the delivery bays—between two of the largest shipment buildings—and I think about calling Emma. I leave my phone in my pocket, deciding surprising her will be even sweeter. When I glance back into my review mirror, I see the swell of bright headlights racing toward me, and I don’t have time to do anything but prepare my body for the blow.

The large SUV hauls through me, smashing my back-end, shattering glass, and pushing my car into the intersection—a passing car clips my front bumper, spinning me into the pole at the side of the road.

My arms are cut to shit, and my lip is bleeding badly, but my bones don’t seem to be broken. I’m still whole. I kick at the door, the smell of gasoline rich. As I’m stepping out, I look toward the spot of the impact, the crushed SUV still revving, but the driver no longer inside. My head is ringing, and my body is tingling with adrenaline, but I somehow am aware enough to notice that both doors to the front seat are open. Two people were inside, and I have a strange sensation that they meant to hit me.

I wobble on my unsteady legs, and the faint sound of someone calling my name tries to force its way through the rush of blood passing over my eardrums. I spin in all directions, my head soon dizzy from my movement. I find the two people from the SUV—each grabbing one of my arms and kicking my legs out from under me, dragging me closer to the car that hit my front end.

“What the fuck, man!” I kick and jerk, but their hold is tight, and their size is nearly double mine. They stretch my body in opposite directions, kicking at my legs until they’re able to drag me to the back end of the black Mercedes that hit me the second time.

“Always so unwilling, Harper. Always so quick to say
no
—to put up a fight. You never could just
do
what you were supposed to.” His voice reaches down my throat and through my ears, strangling me…before seeping through the rest of my body and killing my spirit, one cell at a time.

I left Lake Crest when I was seventeen years old, never formally bidding farewell to the man who’d broken me more than any tragedy in my life had been able to before. I opted out of my exit interview, knowing nobody really cared to listen about my tales of corruption or reports of abuse. Instead, I let my last memory of that man be the beating he gave me and the round burn of his cigar on my wrist.

Standing before me, his hair grayed, but his body the same—his height somehow more than mine despite his age—I’m instantly filled with terror, and I fight to run, pulling and kicking against the beasts he’s brought with him to hold me here for him to torture. I’ve been here, in this exact position with this man, so many times before.

“Graham was always such a good boy. He and I, we’ve had a great business relationship since he left my school. He saw the potential for our mutual gain—my…ability to persuade people for him, to make his indiscretions vanish. And we’ve made loads of money in return. I could hardly believe it when he mentioned your name a few weeks ago. What was it he called you? Oh yes, this
nuisance
that he wanted me to make disappear. But I don’t do that anymore, Andrew. I don’t make people disappear. I’ve…changed.”

His grin is that of the devil, his mustache thin and his teeth yellow from nicotine. The acid in my stomach threatens to come up, so I will it down. I won’t be weak in front of him. I’m weak for no one.

“So that’s how Graham knew I went to Lake Crest,” I say, spitting blood to the side, the spray of it hitting one of his beasts, who jerks me harder; I smirk, pleased that I’ve pissed him off.

“He was two years before you. Drugs…just like you,” he says, and I jerk at the comparison. I’m nothing like Graham—not then, not now.

“I thought you would be another one I could trust, just like him. That’s what I did at that shit-for-nothing school; I made apprentices, partners in my…
business.
But you were too stupid, weren’t you?” His brow lowers, and he reaches into his side pocket, pulling out a lighter before moving to the breast pocket of his jacket for a cigar. I wince at the sight, my wrist burning from the memory.

“I’m not weak, like Graham. That’s all,” I say, the blood from my lip choking me again. I lean forward and spit, turning to the side and grinning at the guy I spit at before. “That better?” I say, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I don’t think Graham’s weak. After all, he isn’t the one being held down and beaten by the light of the moon and headlights of my car, is he?” His laugh is soundless, and my body grows rigid on instinct, expecting to feel his hand on me, his fist through me; the need to protect myself, strong. “Look at that. I can still get to you, can’t I?”

I twist as he steps closer, and the hold on me grows stronger.

“You’re pathetic,” I spit out. “You can’t do anything to me. You have nothing to gain,” I say, my eyes darting around him as he saunters close enough to blow a puff of his smoke into my face.

“Maybe I don’t have anything to gain. But I sure as shit don’t have anything to lose, either. I had a shitload of money invested on this fight happening tonight, and you just cost me. You…
you!
You were always costing me, and when Harley said the fight wasn’t on because one guy dropped out, I knew who it was. I got into this on a whim, when Graham mentioned it was you. I thought it would be a quick-and-entertaining way to make some cash. I booked thousands, and some assholes even bet on you. Ha! Imagine that,” he says, his face close enough that I can smell the sourness of his breath. “Someone actually thought you would win. But you’re just the pathetic coward you always were, aren’t you?”

“I’m no coward,” I seethe, my mouth once again full of blood. “I’m just not your pawn.
You’re
the one who has always been afraid. I was a child, and I stood up to you. You’re nothing.”

I swallow hard, then let my lids fall closed for a brief second as I think of Emma’s face, my heart beating, my hands on her. There’s nothing he can take from me, and I’ve survived him before. I found her in the end.

I open my eyes and stare at him, almost challenging him, begging for his worst, when something shifts—a flash that makes my world tilt, my head dizzy. His thugs drop their hold under my arms and take off running back to the smashed-up SUV that brought them here. Nick Meyers walks away just as quickly, his step not quite a run, but his clip urgent. Their tires squeal and they swerve back into the direction they came from, their lights darting around buildings and disappearing around corners—the sound of their engines vanishing just as fast.

“That’s right, you fucker!” I yell, lifting my arm and swinging it over my hand, giving my ghosts a giant middle finger. “Run away, you fucking loser! I will never belong to you!”

My legs collapse under my weight, and my knees hit the gravel hard, the rocks digging into my skin as I fall forward, my hands catching me before my face hits the ground. I’m instantly heavy. The ground begins to swirl, and despite the fact that the sun has fallen below the horizon, my world is bright. Everything yellow. Everything slow. My mouth is overcome with the taste of metal, and I let myself fall to my back, my head to the side as I vomit blood. The feeling sends a searing burn through my stomach, and I curl my knees up into my body like a child, my hands moving to my belly, wanting to make the pain stop.

Wet—so wet. Everything wet! I pull my hand up in front of me and immediately lurch with the desire to vomit again. The blood is everywhere. I look down to see my shirt soaked through, and as I pull the fabric up, I see the gaping hole in my belly, the round wound spilling out blood faster than I can think. My mind races with what to do, putting together what happened, then I remember it—the sound. I shut it out, but it was there—the loud cap of the gun, the acrid stench from the fire of it.

My hand finds my pocket, and I slide my phone out, hitting the emergency icon and letting it ring. A woman answers, and I choke on my blood as I lay myself more to the side. More vomit. Moaning…I need to make noise so they hear me. I moan, and I slap at the pavement, and then eventually, there’s nothing.

I haven’t written a single word. I’ve been sitting in here among the smell of Andrew, buried in his covers, my books all around me, and all I’ve done is blink. I haven’t opened my laptop once, and the few times Trent has knocked lightly on the door, I’ve lied that I’m “fine” and “getting a lot done.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. And his knocks have come more often as the day has shifted into evening, as six o’clock has passed and as nearly an hour after the time Andrew was set to fight has come and gone.

I’m giving him two more minutes. Two minutes, and then I’m calling. Two minutes, and then I’m dragging Trent out into the streets with me to find him. The soft knock comes again, and this time I invite him in.

“Nothing?” Trent asks, nodding to my phone, his own in his hand. I shake my head quickly, my eyes wide on my blank screen. Why is my screen blank? Why no ringing or message?

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” he says, sitting on the end of the bed near my feet. I nod
yes
, but I don’t believe it. Something is wrong—I feel it in my gut.

The two minutes comes and goes, and as soon as my phone reads 7:01, I let the tear I’ve been holding in for hours fall down my cheek.

“We have to find him,” I say.

“I know,” Trent says, standing and walking from the room. “I’ll get my keys.”

I kick away the useless books on his bed, running to the restroom to pull my hair into a tie and shove my feet into my running shoes. I swallow my nightly round of meds with the feeling that I won’t be home in time to take them, then I rush around the corner, still pulling my arms into the sleeves of one of Andrew’s sweatshirts when I run into Trent. He’s holding a hand up to me, his phone pressed to his ear with his other hand, and his face is completely blank.

“Yes, I’ll call them. Yes, yes. Thank you. I’ll be there soon, too,” Trent says. I reach for his hand, grabbing onto his fingers, threading mine with his and holding his fist hostage. I have a sense that I’m going to need it to stand soon.

“Was that him?” I ask. He shakes his head
no
.

“Hospital,” he says, his eyes wide, not looking at anything. “Someone…shot him, Emma. He’s in critical…”

My lungs collapse and everything blurs. I fall down Trent’s leg, my grasp on his hand too weak, and his the same as he stands limply, in shock.

“I…I have to call his mom. I…I don’t think I can drive, Em. I…” Trent’s eyes fall to mine, and we both look into each other. We should have tried harder. We could have stopped this. Andrew…I might lose Andrew!

“I’ll call a cab. Where is he?” I fumble with my phone, dropping it on the floor and cracking a corner of the screen. Shit! I hope it still works. I click it
on
, and breathe out hard when it lights up.

“Mercy,” Trent says, falling into one of the stools in his kitchen, his eyes forward on his phone as he chews at the inside of his mouth.

I manage to speak clearly enough to request our cab, and I listen as Trent delivers the painful news to a family that’s had so much of it over the years. He ends his phone call, unable to give them many answers, just as our cab pulls up, and we both drag ourselves to it. As I close the door, I glance up and realize that we left the front door completely open, and I motion to Trent.

He shrugs, so I let the driver pull away. There’s nothing worth anything in that apartment, anyhow. The only thing that matters is fighting for his life seventeen miles away.

“Hold on, Andrew,” I murmur to myself. “Please, just…hold on.”

T
he
beeping
sound haunts me
. I wait for irregularities. Though, I’ve learned now that even those sounds are meaningless. Andrew is being kept alive by a tangled mess of tubes and wires and liquids all working together. His body repaired as best as doctors could, the worry now is how long until he wakes on his own, and what state his brain was in after he was left to die in some back lot only miles away from our home.

Our home.

His family showed up minutes behind Trent and me, and his brother came in this morning. He looks so much like Andrew; it’s hard to look at him. He’s been kind, but very quiet. He rarely leaves Andrew’s side. He lets me stay, too. I told him who I was, that staying here was important, and he just nodded once, never questioning that my need to be present was just as great as his.

He stepped out to grab coffee and call his girlfriend. They weren’t able to both make the flight from Germany. I don’t think they could afford it. It must have cost thousands as it was. I can tell Owen misses her, though, and I can tell she loves Andrew like her own flesh and blood. I heard her crying through the phone earlier.

She sounds like me.

“Here, I made it black, but brought a little of everything,” Owen says, handing me a small cardboard box filled with sugars and creams along with a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. I nod
thanks
, then slide it onto the table next to me. He stares at it for a moment quietly.

“I’m not very hungry,” I say.

“Yeah,” he sighs, setting his cup down, no intention of drinking it either. “There’s a girl here for you,” he says, his eyes on his brother as he slides one of the tubes over Andrew’s chest and away from his neck, wanting him to be comfortable even in this state. “She said her name’s Nicole or Lesley or something like that.”

“Lindsey,” I whisper.

“Yeah, that was it,” he says. “Anyhow, she’s in the family room down the hall. I told her I’d come get you.”

“Thanks,” I say, my eyes zeroing in on Andrew’s, willing them to open. “If anything changes…” I start to say as I stand. Owen raises a hand, acknowledging me.

I hate leaving his room. I’m so afraid I’ll miss something. So afraid I’m what’s helping him breathe—as self-centered as that sounds. The door closes lightly behind me, and I take small, sliding steps down the hall, my hand dragging along the cold metal of the railings until I get to the windows for the family room. Andrew’s mom and stepdad took off for a nearby hotel to grab a room so they could shower and stay close for as long as Andrew would be here. The only one in the waiting room now is Lindsey. Her back is to me as I open the door, but she sits up fast and turns around, her eyes meeting mine as soon as I enter.

“Hi,” I say, lifting my shoulders, not sure if I should hug her, or thank her, or apologize. Probably all three, but my body doesn’t seem to want to leave the spot where it stopped walking.

“Hi,” she says in return, standing, but not moving closer. We’re both at the same impasse. Her head falls, and she laughs lightly with tears in her eyes. “Andrew said he’d find a way to get me and you together.”

She bites her lip when she looks at me, her head shaking. I move to her, and the closer I get, the less worried I am over everything else. Her arms open to me, and she holds me tight as I cry into her. I cry hard and long, until my face is empty and my heart feels close to normal again. When I finally step away, I keep hold of her hand, and I shake it up and down as I speak, nervous to let her go and so happy to be touching my friend.

She’s here. Of course, she’s here.

“I’m so sorry, Lindsey. God, I’m so sorry,” I say, my face puffy and my voice a pathetic rasp.

“I know,” she says. She doesn’t smile, and her eyes fall from mine quickly. “I was so hurt. I’m
still
hurt, and that’s going to take time. It’s not that I thought Andrew and I were going to run away and make a life together. Hell, I was starting to think he was gay because the boy never liked to make out for long, and it sure as hell never went anywhere. Though he was a good kisser. Moody as shit, but a good kisser.”

She laughs at this, and I laugh, too. Hers fades, though, and she looks right into my eyes.

“I was hurt because you didn’t tell me something important in your life. You can trust me, Emma. With anything. And the thought that you couldn’t…with Andrew? It hurt.”

I sit in a small chair next to her and look down at my hands. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” I say, not able to look at her when I speak. “It felt like I had to pick, you or him, and I’m so sorry I didn’t have faith in how strong
we
were. That’s on me, Linds. And I’m so…so deeply sorry.”

I whisper an apology again, but I know its just words. And I know it’s time, like she said, that’s going to truly heal her and me. But she’s here now, when I need her desperately. She’s here. I sense her shadow as she sits next to me on the sofa, and I let myself go, catching her up on what I know—there’s an investigation, they think it’s some smalltime bookie who thought Andrew owed him money.

“So it wasn’t Graham?” she asks. I shake my head
no
.

It grows quiet between us again for several minutes. I don’t like the quiet. My mind gets carried away, starts imagining the whirling sounds of his machines and beeping and people rushing—Andrew leaving.

“You should try to go home, maybe shower?” Lindsey says, her mouth twisted on one side. “You can…you can come…
home.
It won’t be easy, but I’ve had time to think, and I don’t want this to be the end of the
Emma and Lindsey show.
I’m probably going to say bitchy things sometimes, and be totally passive aggressive, but I want to try to…you know…move past it?
”

I suck in a sharp breath, my cry surprising me almost as much as her gesture. I reach over and squeeze her hand again, my eyes fluttering as they close and I nod, accepting her offer.

“I missed my classes today. I missed…Miranda,” I say, tucking my lip in, waiting for Lindsey’s response. I’m hoping she’ll give me a solution.

“Yeah, that’s…that isn’t good,” she agrees. “But I think you need to talk to her, Em. You know you can switch mentors, if something’s uncomfortable or if it gets awkward.”

I nod again, grateful for her suggestion—one I’d thought about myself. It’s hard to give up time with the person I admire because her son happens to be an awful human being. Then again, I’m not sure how wonderful Miranda is after all. She saved my life, but maybe that doesn’t make her a hero—maybe it just makes her good at her job. I’ve seen glimpses of the cracks in her selfless façade, and they’re discouraging.

“Just promise you’ll think about it,” Lindsey says, her hand on my knee. “You have options.”

M
y conversation
with Lindsey stuck with me, even now, hours after she left.

I have options.

I’m not so sure I do, but looking at Andrew…watching him lay here—so much working on his behalf just so he can breathe—I feel a little angry with myself for letting Graham off without any punishment for what he did. I know he’s not the hand that put Andrew here today, but he’s partly the reason. And he
is
the hand that struck me.

I wonder how many others he’s abused?

My mind keeps replaying the switch flipping in him. I go to all of those moments where he wasn’t quite a gentleman in the first place. He was short, or rude, or curt during a conversation. His hands were always just
a little too assuming
with me, crossing the line
a little too far
; his presumption that I was his property happened quickly, and without my consent.

“You should take a break,” Owen says, kicking my foot from the chair he and I have both commandeered as our footstool. He smirks, spreading his enormous feet out on the surface of the seat in a teasing way, taking up all the space.

I sit up, rubbing my face and sliding my advanced bio book back in my bag on the floor. I haven’t slept but for a few minutes here and there, and I can feel the knots in my hair around the base of my neck. I think…maybe…I also smell a little.

“Go home. Take a nap. Get some rest. I promise I’ll text you if
anything
happens,” he says, holding out a fist for me to pound. I laugh at it, then squeeze it between both of my hands. Twenty-four hours together in this situation has formed an instant bond between Owen and me. I get why Andrew loves him so much.

I pull my bag over my shoulders and head through the door, spinning around before leaving and pointing at him. “You promise. If
anything
happens,” I say.

Owen crosses his heart, and I believe him. I’ve learned that’s part of the deal with Harper boys—they don’t swear on their hearts often, and when they do, they mean it.

I think about going to my old apartment, and when I hail a cab out front, that’s the address I give the driver. But when I step out of the car, my legs carry me to Andrew’s. The smell is comforting, and I
feel
him alive here. I need that—the image of him living, him just being. I shower quickly and leave a note for Trent asking him to text me when he gets home. He was taking care of alerting the school and the coach.

My hair dried and my clothes changed, I feel a small reserve of energy kick in my body. I brew myself a double cup of coffee and fill one of Trent’s mugs so I can carry it with me to stave off sleepiness for a few hours longer. I lock up and begin to walk back to the hospital, but I notice the light outside, the glow of late afternoon, and I check the time on my phone. It’s not quite four-thirty, and Miranda’s office hours end at five.

I don’t want to go. I stop walking at least a dozen times, a dozen more I turn around. But Lindsey is right. And Andrew was right. I need to tell someone—I need to tell Miranda first.

By the time I get to her door, I can hear the sounds of her on the other side powering down her computer and packing up her things. With a deep breath, I knock lightly, and her door slowly slides open with the force of my touch. Her body leans back in her chair, and soon our eyes meet.

“Emma, hi. I was just packing up. I missed you today,” she says, no longer looking at me. She’s checking out, moving on to her next thing. I step into her office and watch as she pulls her makeup bag from her purse, pulling out a mirror and lip gloss that she circles around her lips twice. I wonder who she’s wearing that for?

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry I missed today. I…a friend of mine was in a terrible accident. I’ve been at the hospital with him,” I say, sitting down as she stands. She glances as our bodies play opposite, her lips pursing and her brow furrowing with inconvenience. She sits anyhow, because she’s not a rude person. She’s just not as selfless as I always thought.

“I hope he’s all right,” she says, and I notice how rehearsed her sympathy sounds. I think she may be a sociopath—I read somewhere that most successful people are.

“He’s at Mercy, and it’s…well…we’re waiting for him to wake up,” I grimace. On cue, she bows her head—more rehearsed sympathy on its way.

“I see. Well, I’m very sorry,” she says. “We can catch up later this week. I understand, Emma. And I have somewhere I need to leave for soon, so—”

“Right,” I say, standing, my bag in my lap sliding to the floor. I awkwardly bend and pick it up, squeezing my eyes shut as my head is down.
Be strong, Emma. Be strong.
“I…I’ll let you get going. I just…I only had one thing I wanted to talk to you about first. It…it won’t take long.”

Really, it should take hours. Maybe even days. There should be wake-up calls and interventions discussed, but I get the sense that I have about two minutes to make my case. I pull my phone from the front pocket of my bag, clicking it
on
, sliding it across her desk, the photo of my face filling the screen.

Miranda remains standing, her head down and looking at the girl on my phone—the one with a deep-purple bruise around her eye, with matching handprints around her arm where Graham dug his fingers in. Miranda only stares, waiting for me to say it.

“I respect you. So much. And it’s more than my heart, though…yeah…my heart has a lot to do with it. But that’s not why I came here. I came here to learn from you, because I believe in what you do, and I want to be like you—professionally,” I say. Her lip twitches at my addendum. “It’s out of that respect that I thought I should tell you first. I’m filing a police report. I’m leaving here and going to the student advocacy center first. And I’m not sleeping until I’ve documented my story. Graham…gave me that.” I move my finger to the screen, pointing to it, then rolling my sleeve up on that same arm and turning it over, exposing the soft flesh of my forearm and the black, finger-sized marks left from his hold on me. “And this,” I add.

Miranda’s eyes dart around the evidence, her look almost analytical. I wait for tears. For an apology. For…something. But she only nods.

“If that’s what you think is best, then do what you think is necessary,” she says, her eyes rising to meet mine. I’m in shock at the complete lack of empathy in them, and I can’t help my candor.

She doesn’t believe me.

“Miranda,” I say, and she straightens at my use of her first name. I’ve called her that before, but something tells me she’d rather show her dominance now. First names make us feel like equals. “Dr. Wheaton, your son needs help. I don’t want
this
to happen to someone else…or worse,” I say, swallowing hard at the thought of what could have happened. My nightmares play that version, even during catnaps at the hospital—it’s nothing but a teeter-totter of Graham’s anger and Andrew’s pain.

“Like I said,” she says, sliding her chair under her desk and walking to the door, encouraging me to follow. “You do what you feel is necessary. Now, I do need to make an obligation, so if we can talk more at our regular meeting later this week…”

Her lips are in a perfect smile, and I notice how her eyebrows are raised indignantly. I’m not sure what I expected from coming here, but I no longer feel beholden to her for what she’s given me. A weight has been lifted.