Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (6 page)

“Wow, I was willing to fake it until you said
bitchin’,”
I say, unable to help but smile so hard my cheeks hurt.

“Fuck,” he says, his head slung forward, his eyes down. “Ruined by my own lame vernacular.”

“
Bitchin’
will kill you every time,” I say with a short tisk and headshake.

He turns the engine over, but looks at me from the side, his eyes moving in quick motions from mine to my mouth and back again. He chuckles to himself before looking up into the rearview mirror and shifting the car into reverse. “I’m pretty sure you can say anything and own it,” he says.

I don’t answer, and I watch his cheeks turn just a little redder. I fight grinning at his compliment, pushing my lips together tight, but losing the battle and smiling anyhow.

Andrew picks up where our tour left off the time before, driving me through various neighborhoods and streets, pointing out places he and his brothers used to sled, places where he got into fights, and then down his street, stopping in front of his old house.

It’s a simple two story, the color dark brown with brick, the yard neat but simple, and a few trees towering in the front, their branches growing bare for the winter.

“You miss living here?” I ask.

He leans forward on his steering wheel, folding his arms and resting his head on top. “Sometimes,” he sighs. “But…I don’t know. Never mind.”

“No, tell me,” I say, for some reason not wanting him to feel he can’t tell me things.

He leans back in his seat, his gaze still out the window, on the dull porch light shining in the front. “This house wasn’t full of happy memories. At least, not for me,” he says, his eyes lost to the light now, and I can tell he’s letting it pop in and out of focus.

“Your brother James?” I ask. I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles and bite on the fabric, hoping that question was okay to ask.

“Yeah, that’s most of it,” he says. “James died here.”

I heard the story—both from the gossipy tale my neighbor told my parents and through the whispers spoken in the diner tonight—but hearing Andrew say the words, even though he didn’t offer any details, made the pain of it all palpable. His brother was an addict, and when he got caught up in something with the police, he ended up shooting himself in the driveway. When I heard the story, I couldn’t imagine it was true. But as Andrew mentions James now, I can tell just by the look in his eyes that it is. And it’s awful. And I wish I’d done more to those assholes in the restaurant who thought his pain was funny.

“But I didn’t really have much of a life here. I mean…I had my brother’s life, my brother’s friends. And we lived next door to Owen’s girlfriend. But, it was all Owen. None of it was really
me
.” His head falls to the side, and I reach up cautiously and let my finger run along the ridge of one of the gauges in his ear. It’s not very big, but it’s edgier than anything I would ever have the courage to do. I envy him for it.

“I met you while I lived in my apartment,” he says, his eyes still on my hand next to his face. I pull it away, back into my lap, nervous about what he may say next. Everything inside of me wants Andrew Harper to like me—
like that.
Everything inside wants him to kiss me—
like that.
And it’s also the last thing I want, because then my parents will freak out, and they’ll ruin this perfect friendship. I think I might like kissing him. But
I know
I like sitting next to him in his car.

“So being my friend is a good memory?” I say, leading him, and regretting it the second a shade of disappointment paints his eyes. He hides it as best he can, breathing deeply and adjusting his posture in his seat before shifting the car and pulling back out on the roadway.

“Yeah, Delaware. Being your friend is a pretty damn great memory,” he says.

Before the sun kisses the horizon, Andrew pulls up in front of my house, and as I expected, both of my parents are waiting on the front porch for me to come home. Andrew puts the car in park, and skips around to my side to open the door for me. I silently curse his broken door, because now that he’s out of the car, my parents are going to want to meet him. They’re already walking toward us when I step up to the curb.

“Home before sunset, just like I promised,” I say through gritted teeth only my mom can see. She ignores my nonverbal plea, though, and shifts her focus right to Andrew.

“Yes, I see. Thank you, Andrew, for bringing Emma home,” my mom says, reaching out a hand for him to take. This is a test, to see what he does. But Andrew does nothing but act like himself. He stutters a bit, then responds with a few
of courses
while he repeatedly shakes my mother’s hand before awkwardly reaching for my father’s.

He calls them both Mr. and Mrs. Burke, saying their names at least a dozen times, and when he’s not looking, they’re taking turns surveying his car for danger, then memorizing his piercings and the way he’s dressed. I’m sure in their mind he looks to be everything the nosey neighbor warned about—the youngest in a brood of hoodlum troublemakers—but I’m hopeful that his bumbling speech and clumsiness in front of them cancels most of it out.

Before I realize it, he’s made his way back to the driver’s side, and when he gets in the car and revs the engine, I realize I’ve managed not to get his number for a second time. I regret that the moment he drives away.

I regret it more when my parents begin to pick him apart as we walk back up to the house.

I regret it most, though, when I shut my bedroom door on them and curl up in front of my window and wait for the sun to go down—for one more day to tick off my calendar, for the waiting to be over.

I should tell him. It would be nice to tell someone.

Maybe after our trip to Chicago.

I
’m pretty
sure Emma’s parents don’t like me. I don’t think they dislike me, but I got the strong sense they were working through a lot of Harper-shit to drill down to the real me. And I think they still think the real me isn’t far off from the stories they’ve heard.

I didn’t help things by acting like an idiot. At least I wasn’t threatening.

Of course, now I can’t find Emma. I drove by her house every morning this week, and their cars were always gone. I looked for her in PE every day, but she was missing from the line of girls racing up the steps or out from the locker room. After my morning drive-by on Friday, when I got a strange look from the woman who lives across the street, I finally broke down and asked Dwayne where Emma was. He checked with the office for me and said her parents signed her out for the week.

I know she isn’t gone because of me. But there’s also that fucked-up little voice in the back of my head that’s working real hard at convincing me that
yeah
, she’s gone because of me. I creeped her out. Her parents hate me. She’s moved back to Delaware—fleeing the entire state of Illinois because Andrew Harper is bad news.

The only thing that’s made me feel better is skating, and I’ve been extra rough with the guys who’ve shown up to scrimmage this week. One of them finally had enough, and checked me back, then took his elbow to my chin hard, cracking my lip open.

I’ve been sitting on the other side of the glass, spitting, for the last fifteen minutes. Chris, the dude who popped me in the face, stopped by to apologize. I flipped him off.

“Look at baby Harper,” a voice calls from behind me. I twist in my seat, wincing at the deep bruise Chris apparently left on my ribs. I’m able to shift enough to see my brother’s friend House in my periphery. House is kind of an asshole, but he’s harmless. And he was glued to Owen for most of my life; when he moved away, it was kind of like losing another brother.

“Dude, what are you doing in town?” I say, standing, but holding the washcloth to my mouth while I slap House’s hand with my free one.

“Yo, Indiana sucks worse than this shithole,” he says, spitting his tobacco into a cup he’s carrying. That cup—it’s fuckin’ disgusting.

“Yeah, well, I could have told you that. If you want change, you need to go to the city, or some place like Vegas or California, man,” I say, testing the bloodstain on the rag I’ve been holding to my mouth. The blood is less, so I toss the cloth on top of my borrowed equipment on the floor.

“Your lip’s all fucked up, dude. What happened?” he says, reaching his hand toward my face as if to touch it. I smack his hand away, but he does it again. He keeps doing it until I punch his arm. “Look at that, baby Harper’s growing up, and he’s feisty.”

“Dude, whatever,” I roll my eyes and bend down to pick up my things to return to the counter. “It’s nothing. I just took a jab to the face.”

“You Harpers, always getting hit in your pretty-boy faces,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the counter while I hand my things over to Gary and toss the bloody cloth into the trash.

“Whatever, man,” I say, stepping toward the door and encouraging House to follow. He isn’t quiet, and people are already starting to watch us suspiciously. House—he’s like a warning siren for a shit-storm of trouble.

He follows me out to the parking lot, to my car, and when he whistles, my chest feels a little fuller. There are few people who will recognize this car—my brother and House are at the top of that list.

“Damn, that old man finally sold it. Or…wait, did you lift this shit?” he says, stepping back with his hands in the air.

“Fuck off. Mom bought it, but I have to pay her back,” I say, cracking open the door, not even minding the sound it makes.

“You are the good son,” he teases, pushing me out of the way and sitting in the driver’s seat. “Ohhhhhh, baby Harp. This shit is fast, yo? Hey…you got time? I’m dying to see it open up.”

I glance at my phone as if I have anywhere to be. It’s not quite lunchtime on Saturday, and the girl I’m stalking is nowhere to be found, so I look back up at him and let my grin grow slowly.

“Yeah haaa haaa,” he says, slapping at the top of the steering wheel. He reaches for the keys, but I only open the door as wide as it will go. He gets out with a chuckle, then jukes toward me like he wants to grab my keys. I don’t flinch, because House has been doing shit like that to me for years. Maybe I see him coming now, or maybe I’m just so used to it I don’t juke for anyone any more. I think the latter might be the case, and I also think that’s maybe why I let Chris punch me with his elbow about twenty minutes ago.

House gets into the passenger side, and I buckle up and wait for him to do the same. He rolls his eyes at me, but he does it anyhow. I look around the lot, and when I confirm it’s empty, I fishtail backward from my spot until I hit the roadway, then I punch it and feel the tires grip after a few seconds of burnt rubber and smoke. The back end slides for the first hundred yards, but I straighten everything out—careful not to punch the gas until we hit the edge of town.

House leans forward, and we both glance in all directions, checking for cops. It’s winter, so the landscape is pretty clear. In the summer, the asshole cops hide behind the corn. I crack my knuckles as a joke, and House laughs, his cackle growing more maniacal as I hit the gas hard and climb the car up to ninety in a few seconds. The roar echoes everywhere; I try to take the car up over a hundred, but it starts to feel loose, so I back off.

I flip around at the edge of the woods and push it just as fast on the way back toward town, slowing down to the speed limit when we start to see other cars. House has turned the radio up, and he’s rolled down his window. I can tell he’s happy. It’s nice having him here, too. He and I—we used to do this a lot.

I drive him back to the Ice Palace lot and pull up next to his truck. He gets out, but pauses at my door, knocking on the window. I roll it down.

“Hey, a few of us are getting together for a little party at Sasha’s. Mostly guys you know. Anyhow, if you wanna come, just hit me up,” he says. I nod, and think about forgetting his invitation immediately—just like I used to. But then I realize, Owen’s gone. And I was invited.

“Hey! House!” I shout out the window just before he climbs into his pickup. He turns and flips me off, because that’s his thing. “I’m in. What time?”

“Show up around five. And bring fuckin’ pizza!” he yells, half chuckling.

Maybe I’m the guy bringing the pizza, but House wouldn’t invite me if he didn’t want me there. He’s always been an extension of Owen, and I think I’ll always be a kid brother in his eyes because of that closeness.

One fucked up family. But it’s mine.

I
spend
a few hours wrapping up some reading on existentialism for an essay due next week, then I rush out of the apartment around four, giving myself enough time to pick up pizza and avoid my mom coming home from work. I leave a note for her and Dwayne that I’ll be out late, knowing if I say I’m with House that she will call. I just say I’m meeting with a few of the hockey guys instead.

On my way to pick up food, I swing by Emma’s house, and everything about it is as quiet and shut down as it has been all week. Her family has disappeared, but there are a few lights on inside. It’s always the same ones, which makes me think maybe they’ve just taken off for a family trip or a vacation. A little weird in early October, but maybe that’s a thing normal families do. I wouldn’t know. We’ve never taken a trip anywhere, other than a drive for the day up to Wisconsin for some water slides. And that trip was all Owen’s doing.

I stop by the pizza joint next, pick up the four large ones House ordered, and head to Sasha’s.

I’ve been here a few times, but never for long. Usually, I was tagging along with Owen while he talked to someone about something or made plans with House. He never let me stay. But tonight, I pull up on my own, in my own car—invited.

“Douchebag!” House shouts the second I walk through the door.

“You owe me fuckin’ money, yo!” I say, sliding the pizzas on the counter seconds before a dozen people I don’t recognize flip open the lids and start taking away slices. House walks into the kitchen and throws a wadded up ten-dollar bill at me. I look at it in my hand and then furrow my brow at him.

“It’s all I got now. I’ll hit you up with the rest later,” he says, already devouring a slice.

“Right you will,” I say, stuffing the money into my wallet and knowing it’s all I’m going to get. House confirms it with his full-mouthed laugh.

I grab a slice and follow him to the sunken living room, taking a seat in one of the large beanbag chairs. The lights are low, and there’s a group of people playing pool at a table in a room near the back of the house.

Everything in here is either really expensive or a piece of trash. It’s weird. I know Sasha’s parents have money—they own a lot of land, and they’ve sold most of it. They farm this small plot, and they don’t even do their own farming.

They’re never around, but I heard Sasha and her friends are staying here for college, driving to Northwestern for school. The result—this farmhouse has become a five-bedroom dorm without any supervision.

“Hey, baby Harp…” House nudges me with a red plastic cup in his hand. I take it from him and smell it; it isn’t beer. “Just drink it.”

I take a small sip and start to cough instantly while House leans forward and lets out a belly laugh. “Welcome to your first taste of Jack, baby Harp. Don’t tell your brother I gave it to you; he’ll kick my ass,” he says, holding his cup out to click cheers with mine, urging me to drink the rest along with him.

I do.

And I drink one more after that.

I’ve been drunk on beer before. Owen was always more lenient about that. But never the hard stuff. This buzz…it’s different.

I like it.

I stop after two, though, and manage to discard a third shot of whiskey, knowing any more will probably have me throwing up. The living room has become the hub for the party, and Sasha has set herself next to me, her legs draped across my lap from one side of the beanbag to the other. I can tell she’s lit, and House keeps raising an eyebrow at me.

“You look a lot like your brother, you know?” she says, taking a long, slow drink of whatever’s in her cup. Sasha was always
the
girl—the red-hot one who every guy wanted to sleep with and many had. She always liked Owen, though. They had a fling, but I don’t think she could ever call my brother hers.

Right now, she’s looking at me with eyes that say she’s willing to accept the consolation—even if it’s three years younger.

“Well, we’re related,” I say, laying my hands on her knees, feeling the temptation of how smooth they are sting my fingertips. I leave them there for a few seconds and slide them out an inch at a time, moving up her thigh and down her shin simultaneously, like I’m playing an instrument. She bites her bottom lip when I do, letting it slowly slide from her teeth, and I can completely understand why every other dude in the room wants to trade spots with me right now.

“You’re the cuter one,” she teases me. I keep my eyes on her legs, knowing if I look to the right, into her eyes, they’ll be waiting to seduce me. But then…

Sasha isn’t Emma.

I’m buzzed, but that thought floats on repeat in my head. Emma. I can’t stop thinking about Emma.

“Well, I’m younger, so I guess that makes me cuter,” I say, lips tight in a semi-smile, hiding my inner struggle to do the right thing. Sliding my hands under her legs gingerly, I let myself hesitate for one extra second before lifting her legs from my lap and pushing myself to my feet.

I move to the stools on the other side of the room, taking a seat next to House, who is shaking his head at me.

“Dude, you might be the first virgin I’ve ever seen say no to that,” he laughs lightly.

“Yeah,” I sigh.

“Here,” he says, handing me a joint he’s been smoking for the last few minutes. I look at it in his hand, then look to Sasha who has now let her legs fall open; I can see the black lace of her underwear peaking out through the middle. I turn back to the joint and pinch it between my fingers, bringing it to my lips. Drunk and high is still probably a better choice. Of course, the smart thing probably would have been to choose neither, but I blew that with the second shot of whiskey.

I spend the next three hours intensely watching two guys play a made-up game on the pool table—rolling the striped balls at the solids. There don’t seem to be any rules, or fuck—maybe there are rules. Whatever, it’s fascinating. I watch it until I realize exactly how boring it is, and when I glance at my watch, it’s ten o’clock at night and somehow five hours of my life have passed and I missed it.

I walk through the house to find a bathroom and stumble into a room where House seems to have filled whatever need Sasha had, and I feel a little tinge of regret that I didn’t give in. Her shirt is off, and her bare tits are staring at me. She’s clearly comfortable with her body, because she stands up from her straddling position on House, her lace underwear the only thing on, and steps toward me. House slaps her ass as she walks away, his drunken laugh a soundtrack to her strut.

“Bathroom,” I stutter, somehow. She giggles and moves close enough to touch my chest with her index finger, dragging it slowly down my T-shirt and stomach until she runs it along my now-hard cock.

“Down the hall one more door,” she smiles, pressing her palm flat against my jeans and pausing as I pulse. “Or you can stay…”

“I’m good,” I breathe, aware of every sensation happening under the zipper of my jeans. I leave the room and hear her laughter briefly behind the door, but I keep my resolve, putting one foot in front of the next until I get to the bathroom where I take the most painful piss of my entire life—then spend about five minutes running water over my face.

I quickly pass the room on my way back down the hall, not wanting to hear any sounds that might act as a siren and call me in.

Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I twist the cap and drink about half of it before fishing my keys from my pocket. In a house full of people, I’m still alone, and I wonder if this is how Owen felt when he would come to these parties.