Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (9 page)

She gives me a slight nod, her eyes never once blinking, and her gaze looking over my shoulder at the emergency personnel now rushing in all directions.

“Sir, are you all right?”

There’s a flashlight in both of our faces, and I stand to talk to the firefighter at my car.

“She hit her head on the dash. I think there’s a cut,” I say, and he flashes his light on her immediately. I move out of the way and let him work on cleaning up Emma as I step away to the man on the road. By the time I get there, three men and a woman are working on him, checking vitals and stripping away his bloodied clothing. My sweatshirt has been tossed into a biohazard bag along with the man’s shirt. His injuries don’t look life threatening, but I can tell he’s not fully aware of what’s happening.

“Is he going to be okay?” I ask, getting a variety of short responses—the gist always to let them work and they don’t know enough yet.

I step away to give them room and move toward my car, where two firefighters are now working on Emma, walking her to the side of the car and checking her for more injuries. Two police officers have also started circling my car, and I notice them ask her a few questions.

Come on, Emma. Lie for me, baby. Please…just this once—tell a lie.

She shakes her head no, then her eyes flit up to me—our gazes lock, and I know she’s done as I asked. She looks so ashamed, but I nod and close my eyes, so thankful she followed through. Whatever has her terrified of this—whatever she thinks this will ruin—is in the past with that one little lie.

I walk slowly toward the car, and as I get to the front, where the damage is, the second officer moves from my back seat leaving the door open.

“Is this your car, sir?” he asks.

“Yes,” I nod.

“Were you driving this vehicle tonight?”

Yes, this is what I was hoping for.
I’ll explain everything; there will be some processing. Insurance is going to suck, but the man…he’s going to be okay. I know it. I’ll be fine. Emma will be fine.

“Yes, I was. It was dark, and he stepped into the roadway after that bend, and—”

“Place your hands on the roof of the car, please,” the other officer says. I do as he asks, and open my mouth to finish my version of what happened, when I feel him kick my feet farther apart as his hands pat down the front, sides, and back of my body.

“I’m going to put these cuffs on you, sir, and they’re going to feel a little uncomfortable, but if you don’t resist, it won’t hurt,” he says, jerking one arm behind my body, then the second.

The cuffs are more of a giant zip-tie, really, and he pulls them tight, then leads me backward a few steps, pointing me so I’m looking at his partner.

“Is this your marijuana, Andrew?” the officer says. I look at the bag, the same small fucking bag of weed House dangled at me as payment to buy him a cheeseburger, and I feel overwhelmed with the need to throw up.

“That’s not mine,” I say, realizing how typical every word I just said sounds. That’s what everyone says. And it’s never the truth—except this once. This isn’t the lie I’m telling. But it’s the only one they’re interested in.

“Have you been drinking or have you taken any drugs tonight?”

Shit.

I glance to Emma, who is now a hundred yards away near the fire truck, and I look back to my officer, knowing I’m fucked. I nod
yes
.

“Andrew, I’m placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say, can be…”

I hear his voice. It’s a droning sound, and I know every word he’s uttering. I know the law, the way it works, what happened, and I can see every single frame of this moment and how the universe has lined up to destroy me. I’ll call my mom. She’ll find a way to fix this. She’ll call Owen.

My heart is beating so fast I think it might stop from exhaustion at any moment—the rhythm hurting my chest from the inside. I look up as the officer presses down on my neck, lowering me into the backseat of the squad car, and Emma’s eyes lock on mine.

“No!” she shouts, and I see her pulling away from the medics trying to help her, the woman holding her arm and keeping her still. “No, Andrew!”

I can’t hear her second scream, because the door is shut on me. I only see her lips moving, her arms jerking and her legs fighting to get to me. She’s trying to get them to stop, and she’s probably trying to take my place, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t want her to, either. She needs to stay with them, to wait for her parents, to go home and to be safe.

She doesn’t need to be afraid. She is not going to lose anything. She can’t and she won’t. And I’ll be okay.

I’ll be okay.

E
mma
,

I’m sorry that this has to be a letter. It’s the only thing I’m allowed to do. I wanted to call you, but there really wasn’t an opportunity. I didn’t know where to call, either. All this time, and I still never asked you for your phone number. I’m such a jerk.

I’m sure you heard. Dwayne, I mean Mr. Chessman said he would let you know. I hope you didn’t get in any trouble. And I hope whatever you were afraid of losing is still with you, or still yours. I hope one day you’ll explain.

I’m not proud of some of those things you’ve probably learned. But I had to explain, and I know you’ll believe me. I’m not a druggie. That weed wasn’t mine, either. It was my brother’s friend’s. He was visiting me, and he dropped it. Not that it matters. It sounds so cliché, and I laugh even now about how perfect it all is. Not a funny laugh. Nothing funny about this. But, I’ll still be okay.

I did smoke a little. It was a stupid move, I know. But I was trying to feel less alone. Maybe I wanted to fit in. Fuck, if I’m honest, peer pressure is a thing. It’s real. And I missed you. You had been gone for a week, and there was a part of me that thought maybe you’d never come back. I think maybe I thought I’d imagined you, too. Only, if I imagined you, I’d close my eyes now and you’d be here. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Anyhow, none of that matters, and I own that bad decision. I fell to peer pressure, and it kicked my ass. My mom kicked my ass, too. Owen—he won’t talk to me. Which hurts. But I know that won’t be forever. I’m sending him a letter, too.

They won’t let me make any phone calls for at least three months. My schedule here is very…rigid. It’s not military school, but I imagine it’s not far off. At least my classes aren’t boring. They aren’t quite college-level, but the work keeps me busy. I have duties every morning until seven, and I’m in class until four. We have counseling at five, and then sometimes they give us recreation. I call this place juvie, but I guess that’s not really accurate. It’s more of a reform school, part of the bargain I got. Lake Crest Boys Academy.

I should be able to start back with the Excel Program in a few months. This isn’t forever, and I’m okay. That’s what I’m really writing about. I’ve been talking about you to someone here. She’s a counselor, sort of, though, I’m not really sure how qualified she is. Don’t worry, I don’t tell her everything. Just…that you were with me, during the accident. She mentioned that you probably feel guilty about this, and I don’t want that.

I’m okay, Emma. I’ll be okay. And I’ll be home soon.

I miss you.

Andrew

Dear Emma,

Did you get your gift? I made you something for Christmas. I get to go home for the holiday, but I don’t have a lot of time. It’s not even a full day, really. I want to visit. I hope you know that. But, I may not be allowed.

I miss hockey. I know that probably sounds selfish, but I do miss it. I’m honest with you. And as much as I miss my family, my boring routine and that shitty apartment, I miss kicking someone’s teeth in on the ice more.

They have basketball here. Owen would love it. Me…not so much. I suck to the point where I’m literally the last one picked during rec time.

A lot of these guys are real assholes. And a lot of them actually did some bad shit, but nothing really bad. Petty theft, fights, drugs—things like that. I mean, it’s reform school. They call it boy’s academy. I guess that makes it sound better.

Oh hey, I got a letter from Owen, by the way. They let me get mail. I’d love to hear from you. Please write if you have time. I get phone privileges next week for being “good.” I’ve already been offered twenty bucks to make a call for someone who doesn’t get them. I’m thinking of taking him up on it.

Anyhow, I guess I just hope you’re okay.

Andrew

Emma,

I get to come home next week.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this to you, because I know I will have the choice to see you in person next week.

I say “choice” because…you know why I say choice. I think you know what I’ll choose. I’m sure you’re hoping for it.

This letter, I think it needs to be the last one I write. I didn’t keep track, but I know I sent you more than twenty. Whatever the number is, it’s the same number you never sent back.

It’s spring, and the weather is warm. I’ve worked ahead of my class here, which really wasn’t very hard. They offered to let me into the Excel Program again, although I’m on probation. My mom has forgiven me, for the most part, and Dwayne comes to visit every weekend. Even Owen came last week.

Owen had a lot of questions about the accident. I think he knows things don’t add up. That man on the road, he lives in one of the housing projects on the edge of town. He’s in his sixties. My mom said he recovered, though, and they’ve settled with him. I don’t ask for the details, because I’m sure Dwayne had to help with the costs. I don’t like that. But I guess that’s just money. I’m alive. I’ll go back to where I was. And you…you’ll be wherever you are.

Oh, and I never told anyone. I never will.

Maybe I’ll see you around.

I probably won’t.

Andrew

Dear Emma,

This letter is for me. It isn’t for you.

I resent you.

I blame you.

I hate you.

And when I sat in my car last week, just out of your view, and saw you dressed in that pink homecoming dress, your hair done up, probably from one of those fancy salons in the city, and saw you kiss that guy on your front porch… I thought about going back to that moment and taking it all back—letting you stay in that seat, letting you lose everything important to you.

I thought about it.

I want to want that for you.

But I can’t. I’ll never want that for you.

I’ll always want you to be the one who gets to be okay.

And I hate you for that most of all.

You said that night ruined everything, and you were right. It ruined me. I will never be the same.

It ruined us—as if there ever was an us.

I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in this town because there’s too much of you in it. I’ve seen you too many times. You never see me, but I see you. I see you fucking everywhere!

And I don’t want to see you anymore.

I’m going to live with my uncle in Iowa.

It doesn’t matter, because you’ll never visit.

I’ll never give you this letter.

It wasn’t for you anyway.

This letter—it’s the only thing I’ve done in a year for me. Just for me.

I’ll never make the mistake of picking someone else again.

I pick me.

Me.

And you can go to hell.

Andrew

“
Y
ou’re a fucking cocksucker
, Harper,” Trent says, slapping the back of my head as he passes behind me at the bar. I hit him hard today. He blew it last week, though, and that’s my job—to get guys ready to take hits in the real games.

I get to play, but I’m more of an insurance guy—the one they send in to be distracting and cause trouble for the other guys, to shift the game to our advantage. It lands me in the box a lot, but we’re surprisingly good at penalty kill. We come out stronger, and sometimes we need to feel the pressure to get things going.

“I wouldn’t have to hit you so hard in practice if you weren’t such a pussy during games, Metzger,” I say, pulling my lips from the rim of my beer bottle just long enough to dish out a quick insult to my best friend.

“Fuck off, you’re just bitter that girls like me more ‘cuz I’m the sexy captain,” he says in this fucking annoying-ass voice while he rubs his chest like he’s a stripper. It’s creepy.

“Yeah, you got me. Totally jealous of
all that,
” I deadpan, gesturing toward him.

I kid with him, but truth is Trenton Metzger is the most talented goddamned hockey player I’ve ever been on the ice with. He’s the only reason people talk about Northern Tech hockey, and it’s an honor to be on the roster with him.

Hell, it’s an honor to be on any roster at all. I’m a partial-scholarship player; partial lots of things, really. After two years of busting my ass in junior college and proving myself in junior leagues, I managed to pull together enough of an academic and athletic resume to get my ass into Tech. My grades were never the issue. It was my stint at Lake Crest that gave people pause. The list of schools willing to hand out free money just so I would go there dried up fast even though I finished out high school in the Excel Program, my senior year in independent study—graduating early with shining academics. I was still accepted lots of places, I just couldn’t pay for them.

What a fucking tease college is.
Hey, come to our university and have this awesome life we’re showing you in these glossy pictures. Oh…what? You can’t afford it? Here…here’s a nice mug and calendar magnet of our football schedule instead.

Luckily, I’m enough of an asset on the ice for NTU to pay for part of my last two years. Part. I get another small percentage in academic scholarships, but even then there’s still a shitload I have to figure out on my own. My mom and step-dad Dwayne help, but they don’t have much either. They gave me what little they made from combining households when they got married two years ago, and that little went right to what was left on my tuition tab my first semester. So I work the rest off with odd jobs. Right now, I have two. In the mornings, I work at a nearby elementary school. I get there early for the parents who have to drop their kids off before school actually starts. We play dodgeball for two hours, and the girls sit at the tables and color. It pays shit, but it’s better than nothing.

My other gig is…different. But the pay is awesome—when it comes. I’m a fall guy. Basically, I spar with wannabe fighters for this dude Harley who manages up-and-coming boxers. He pays me ten bucks an hour to throw a few punches, but take way more than I throw. It builds up confidence in the guys he wants to move up and it keeps me aggressive on the ice. When he thinks his guys are almost ready, he sets up small fights at a few of the gyms in the city, and my job is to always go down, but not until we’ve gone at least three or four rounds.

This
is where I make my tuition money.

Harley takes bets on the side—rolling money into the thousands with a network of bookies he knows. I get a cut—because
I’m
the one who gives him the lock. He’s careful about running me too often, switching me up with two or three other guys who have the same deal, and he always loses a bet when he needs to make it look legit.

The fights are only on Sundays, so it never runs into practice or games. And it’s rarely more than one a month. But one fight can land me a few grand in a night. It’s money I need, and the first time I did it, I couldn’t believe how many of my financial problems it helped make go away. But that’s not what made me come back.

That feeling—the one of knowing my arms aren’t going to move fast enough, that my instincts are going to be purposely numbed, is a rush. To know the hit is coming, and that I’m going to deny myself protection. When I get hit—gloves to the temple, chest, chin, ribs—it’s like getting high. Everything that hurts gets centered on the pain, and my runaway thoughts and fears come to a grinding halt. Regret fades. The only thing that exists is getting my ass kicked, feeling my flesh sting and my body hum with pain.

Sometimes, I think that if I didn’t do this—if I hadn’t stumbled into Harley’s gym one day and found my way into a ring with a boxer twice my size—that I would have turned to something else. My body can take the abuse, and my mind…it craves the distraction. It’s the same way on the ice.

“All right, Harper. Who’s the target tonight?” Trent leans over me, startling me out of my trance, grabbing my next beer and taking it for his own.

“Hey, dickhead,” I say. He holds up a hand and orders another one, sliding it to me. “I’m pretty sure it’s your turn this time.”

His face falls and his complexion turns green. Trent and I have this game we play with one another. It started as a drunken dare a few months ago, when he goaded me into taking a girl home from Majerle’s Pub. I’m not suave; I don’t have great pick-up lines. I usually wait for girls to hit on me. I wait for
easy
. When Trent dared me, I came up with my own set-up—I stole a girl’s wallet. I returned it to her later, pretending I’d found it. She was so grateful she spent the rest of the night sitting on my lap, her arms looped around my neck, her lips sucking on my skin, her hands soon finding their way in my pants.

That first girl taught me never to bring any of them to our apartment. I go to theirs now. It’s easier to leave than it is to kick someone out.

“Fine, I’ll go. But next time, I get to pick your girl,” I say, tipping my beer back to drink what’s left before leaving the bottle on the bar behind me and pointing at my friend.

“Dude, whatever. You know it’s your turn anyway,” he says.

“My choice next time,” I remind him as I walk backward. I know it’s his turn, and I also know he doesn’t really like taking the dare. Trent’s too nice, and he usually ends up dating the girl for weeks after. He doesn’t like to be an asshole. Or maybe he just doesn’t like people to say bad things about him. Maybe there’s no difference between the two.

I couldn’t give a shit what people say about me. Let ’em talk.

I make one pass through the crowded bar, letting my eyes roam over the dance floor and the tables that line the back wall on the way to the bathrooms. It’s a Friday night, so there are lots of girls here. It’s the middle of the semester, too, so they’re all ready to party—no finals to worry about. There’s one group that seems like an easy target, a blonde on the end who keeps trying to talk the others into dancing. I hover around the restrooms waiting for my shot, and when she finally drags the group of girls with her out to the dance floor, I walk back through the crowd, passing their table.

So easy.

Their wallets and purses are all piled in the center of the table except for a red bag looped over the back of a chair, the ID sticking out of the top. I drag my hand along the bottom of the table, and as I pass the red handbag I grab the small plastic card poking from it, tucking it into the sleeve around my palm. I glance up to make eye contact with Trent, and raise the corner of my mouth in a smirk.

“Dude, you are so slick at this. Seriously, if you flunk out of the engineering program you should just turn to a life of crime.”

I slide into my stool and look away from him. I know he was just saying words, but the joke doesn’t sit well with me. I have a chip on my shoulder. It’s my fucking chip, and I earned it by giving up a year of my life for a series of bad decisions and shitty circumstances. Trent knows my story—mostly. He knows there was a girl, and he knows I got screwed over by both the girl and the law. But I’m not sure he knows exactly how fucked up it all left me. And he also doesn’t know how many nights I walk that line with Harley, fixing bets that are illegal in the first place. Trent just thinks I like the workout boxing gives me.

“Well…let’s see it? Who’s the lucky lady?”

I pull my sleeve loose from around my wrist and let the card slide out, flipping it over while I drink what’s left of my beer, and that’s when karma slaps me like a bitch.

She’s older. Of course she’s older. She’s twenty-one, too. But she looks…older. She also looks the same. Nobody looks good in an ID photo. Emma Burke looks like a dream. Her brown hair is just as I remember it, long waves around her bright pink cheeks, lips that stretch into this sensuous smile. I don’t know if it’s sensuous to anyone else, but to me, it sure as fuck is.

It’s also cruel. I swear to god she’s mocking me in her picture, her eyes shining through and looking at me, calling me stupid, telling me what a chump I am for thinking I was some sort of hero or something.

She’s slapping me in the face for being good and decent to her.

Don’t worry, Emma. I won’t ever be good and decent to you again.

“Well?” Trent asks. I slide the card toward him, never looking down at it. He picks it up, holding it in his hand and reading her details while I choke down another beer and wonder how the hell I’m going to get out of this.

“Damn, Harp!” he says, his heavy pat on my back almost making my beer spill down into my lungs. I know what has him impressed; it’s her eyes. I get it. They worked on me too. That’s the first thing I recognized. And
like hell
am I putting myself in a position where I have to stare into them again. She’d probably hypnotize me right into prison—for good this time!

“It was your night anyhow; you take her,” I say, letting my gaze drift off to the TV mounted above the bar. It’s a commercial for toothpaste, and I’m so interested in it. So very interested. I’m ignoring everything—Trent, the brewing sensation in my gut, the heaviness of knowing Emma is in this room, breathing the same air I am.

I feel the card slide under my elbow, and I close my eyes.

“Awwww no you don’t. You’re not going to pussy out on me now. You know the deal.” He’s talking loudly. I know there’s no way she can hear me, no way she’d know, but my body heats up at the thought of getting caught.

I take a slow, deep breath so Trent doesn’t notice how tense I’ve become, then slide the card back into my palm, glancing at it before putting it in my back pocket as I stand. I toss a twenty on the bar and put my empty bottle on top of it.

“Whatevs, man. I’ll play hero a little later; I’ve got some shit to take care of,” I say, nodding goodbye.

“You’re such a prick, making her wait,” he chuckles.

If our friendship were a superhero, Trent would be Ironman, and I’d be Tony Stark. I think Trent is amused by my dick moves, because he’s the good guy and could never pull them off. I used to be that way, too.

I don’t respond. Yeah, I’m a prick. I’m a prick because what I really want to do is toss her ID in the trash on my way out. But I don’t do that, because instead I’m the kind of prick that gives up a year of my life and any possible future because of a fucking crush on a high school cock tease. This gift—knowing where she is—feels like something I shouldn’t waste, so I’m going to think of the perfect way to play it all.

I hit the exit and glance over to the group of girls on the dance floor again, and I wait for a few seconds until I see her body come into view. She looks like she’s having the time of her life, arms over her head, eyes shut, smile on her face, sweat dripping down her body. She’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. There was a time when I imagined her like this, grown up—this is what I saw in my sixteen-year-old fantasies.

That hate I’ve worked so hard on burying comes right back, and my heart hardens as her eyes drift open and there’s a short flash of recognition that crosses them. That’s right, Delaware—it’s me, and I see you.

I leave quickly, pretending not to notice her, knowing that she’s still not sure about what she saw. I don’t want to give her enough to be sure. I want to give her doubt and worry, and then I never want to see her again.

W
hen I left the bar
, I headed to the warehouse. Harley wasn’t expecting me, but he let me work in, take a few rounds in the ring. Harley’s only at the gym at night, and usually only on the weekdays. During the day, he’s the perfect law student his rich parents think he is. He manages the warehouse space as a gym; it’s in a building his grandfather owns. He told his dad he wanted to learn about running a business. Nobody in his family visits; they just take his word on things.

Harley is the kind of guy people trust.

I’ve run the numbers in my head, and I’m pretty confident Harley’s making out better running his boxing scam. His father’s a pretty powerful corporate attorney though, so there’s an expectation of his life going one way. If things go south, I guess he’ll be able to find his own loopholes and get his ass out of trouble.

The only guy boxing tonight is a dude they call Pitch Black. He got that name because he knocks people out cold. I’ve never sparred with him before; he’s not one of the guys Harley needs to
fake
things with. He took it easy on me; I could tell. But he still fucked my face up pretty good. I’ve had the ice out for an hour, and I’m just putting it back in the freezer when Trent walks in, sliding his keys on the counter behind me.

“Dude, do not tell me you blew that chick off just to get your fix at the gym.” He’s leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.

“I had a guy who wanted to work on some things with me,” I lie.

“Yeah, like seeing how many stitches he could rack up on your face?”

“Fuck off; it’s not that bad,” I say. He reaches at me, poking my tender jaw, and I wince and slap his hand off me in one motion.