Wild Reckless

by Ginger Scott

  Owen pulls his phone from his pocket when it rings, and he starts pacing in the middle of the parking lot while he answers the call, his feet kicking at a few rocks and his other hand rubbing the back of his neck. When he gets off the phone, he holds his thumb up to the guy he was talking to and smiles—a real smile—then jogs back to his truck.

  He slams the door to a close and buckles his seatbelt, and I test mine to make sure it’s tight, somehow hoping that will keep me safe wherever it is we’re going. Owen doesn’t share our plans; he just pops the truck into drive quickly, the wheels kicking up gravel as we fishtail back onto the highway and head back the way we came.

  “Where are we going?” I ask finally. Owen glances up at the rearview mirror, then leans his head out the window slightly and adjusts the mirror on his door. The wind coming in is cold, and I fold my arms tightly around my body, trying to fight the chill.

  “Party,” he says, a smirk on his lips as he notices something in his mirror.

  “Party? But it’s…Sunday. We have school tomorrow,” I say, and Owen looks at me finally, then laughs. No other response.

  Seconds later, the truck with his friend and Kiera race by us, the guy’s motor growling so loudly that it almost pops as he speeds by us, dust kicking up in Owen’s headlights as his friend passes him and moves back to our lane.

  There’s no pause in Owen’s reaction. His right hand grips his steering wheel and he rolls his window up with his left, and the moment it’s closed, he punches the gas with a force that sends my back hard against the seat. My hands grip my seatbelt by instinct, holding onto it to make sure it’s tight—to make sure I stay in this vehicle.

  “Owen, slow down,” I say, my heart starting to make my body shake with its beating.

  Owen hears nothing, and he starts rocking forward and back with his eyes intent on the truck in front of us, like laser beams locked on the taillights leading our way.

  “Owen,” I say, this time a little louder.

  The grin on his face is maniacal. It’s actually maniacal—I’ve never seen that expression on someone before. We inch closer and closer to the truck in front of us, and Kiera leans over, draping her arm on the back of the seat in the other truck, her eyes on Owen, her mouth twisted into a tempting smile, urging him to do it, to be dangerous.

  There’s a fast jerk to the truck as he veers to the other lane, and I hear his friend’s truck rev a little faster at the threat of being beaten. Owen leans forward and pushes his pedal to the floor, and after a few seconds, we’re dead even with the other truck.

  “Owen!” I yell, but he can’t hear me. He’s somewhere else. His hand is pounding on the steering wheel, and I look at his lips and notice them moving, speaking quietly. “Come on, baby. Come on,” he’s saying, over and over.

  His friend is laughing, his head tilted back, and Kiera is clapping. Everyone here is having fun. This is fun. This is what they do for fun. And I want to throw up. In fact, I might throw up.

  “Owen, you’re scaring me,” I say, my voice coming out in a shrill. But he presses forward.

  I have no idea where his other friends are. There were at least three other cars in that parking lot. But no one is near us—not in this race. We move about a quarter length ahead of the other truck, nowhere near enough to pass, and as we top a hill, I notice the lights coming at us in the distance.

  “Owen!” I scream, my hands grabbing at the side and front of the seat now. Anything to brace myself. Anything to survive whatever is going to happen.

  “Come on, baby. Come on,” he’s still whispering.

  We’re racing, our engine fighting to be just a little stronger than the other guy’s, and the lights are coming closer to us. The other car is just over this hill, and we’re either going to veer off the road, or we’re going to die.

  I don’t want to die.

  I don’t want to die.

  “Owen! Please stop! Owen! The car…that car! Stopppppppppp!” I scream. I’m grabbing his arm, trying to get him to change course, and he punches the gas with one last thrust, and our truck slides past his friend’s, only a second before the car coming at us head-on rounds the top of the hill and honks at us—the sound of the horn blaring and lasting for several seconds in the night air.

  “Yeahhhhhh baby! Wooooooooooo!” Owen is shouting. He rolls his window down and holds his hand out the window, giving his friend the middle finger, and his friend reciprocates.

  “Owen!” I yell, my body plastered to the vinyl seat, my heart stopped now from my near-death experience.

  “Did that scare you?” he asks, his voice an odd kind of calm. Unable to speak, I merely nod yes to him, my arms still clutched to anything I can grasp, and my body no longer cold, sweat dripping down my back and arms.

  “I told you to get out of the truck. You should have listened,” he says, his focus more calm now, his eyes back on the road.

  A large farmhouse comes into focus, and we pull into the gravel driveway, followed soon after by his friend with the other truck. We sit in the truck cab, waiting for everyone to arrive, and there’s an awkward silence. Owen’s arm is resting on the window, and he’s pulled a bag of sunflower seeds from the front seat pocket. I watch as he spits the shells out the window meticulously, one at a time, like he’s aiming for some goal I can’t see.

  I may as well be invisible. He hasn’t looked my direction once, and I’m too afraid to confront him—afraid of what he’ll do next. His friends finally pull into the lot around us, and Owen steps out when they do. I notice Kiera kiss the other guy, and I wonder how someone could jump from one boy to another so quickly. I also wonder how Owen can be so flippant about it—his friend is kissing the girl whose lips were on his only two days ago, and he looks as if he couldn’t care less.

  I don’t want to be here. But I don’t want to be home, either, so when Owen shrugs over his shoulder for me to join them, I slide from the seat and close the door behind me. Everyone walks to the house, and Owen isn’t waiting for me. I linger behind; the temptation to walk back to the truck—to hide there for as long as the night lasts—is strong. I feel foolish suddenly, the adrenaline from what just happened catching up to me, and my body quivers with a rush of tears that I quickly squash with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. When I look up again, Owen is waiting for me at the door.

  “You almost killed us!” I yell, stopping in my tracks.

  “But I didn’t,” he says, holding the door open and waiting for me to follow him inside, where everyone else has gone. He waits, his eyes rested on mine for several long seconds, and I notice them shift. In the truck, there was a determination in them, like a warrior—the kind you send in for the toughest kill because you know they won’t feel any of it. It was like nothing else existed. But for these few seconds, they soften, and he’s actually looking at me. And he looks afraid.

  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he says, his teeth biting the tip of his tongue as if he wants to say more, but he stops himself. His eyes stay on mine, and my body freezes, my mind not sure what to say. I’m empty. I have nothing—feel nothing. I nod at him, and shuffle my feet closer and step through the door. My back brushes against his chest as I pass him through the small space, and I can’t help but notice how warm he feels. Maybe I’m just cold.

  “Don’t do it again,” I whisper, glancing sideways at the nearness of him. I won’t look at his eyes; I’m not sure how they’ll look, and if I’m going to follow him inside, I need to feel safe—the way his eyes felt seconds ago. Instead, I focus on his chin, and neck and the way his dark shirt hugs his chest. His lip ticks, finding its comfortable place back into that sinister smile, but he doesn’t respond, so I step inside.

  The house is dark, and I follow Owen to a large, sunken living room where everyone is sitting in front of a television that’s barely audible. A joint is already being passed around the room, as is a bottle of clear liquor. I have no idea what it is, but I know the moment it makes its way to me, it’s going to start a conversation, be
cause I don’t drink. And Owen Harper, he’s not the boy who’s going to pressure me into something.

  “Ahhhh, new girl. Yeah, new girl needs to drink,” says the guy from the truck race. He holds the bottle out in front of me, but I nod no and shrug it away. “Fuck, O. You brought this prude to hang out? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  He takes a big swig from the bottle and runs his sleeve along his mouth when he’s done, then hands the bottle to Kiera. She’s lightly laughing at my expense, but I don’t care.

  “I don’t drink,” I say, standing my ground early. “I like my brain cells.”

  Kiera spits out a little of the drink at my response, and her new boyfriend starts to laugh loudly.

  “Dude, O! Seriously, are you like…fucking with us with this chick or something?” he says, his speech already sloppy, proving my point.

  “I didn’t bring anybody. She hijacked my fucking truck and wouldn’t get out,” Owen says, letting his long body flop into a beanbag across the living room from me, his legs stretched out and a small golden drink in his hands.

  “Good thing I did. I’ll drive your ass home,” I say, letting my eyes zero in on him as he raises his glass to his lips. He holds it there as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes mocking me.

  “Nobody drives my truck. And we’re not leaving for hours, so I’ll be fine,” he says, brow raised before tilting the glass back and letting the amber liquid flow down his throat. He keeps his stare on me as he sets the glass down and settles into his seat.

  “We’ll see about that,” I say.

  “Yeah, we’ll fucking see about a lot of things,” he says, pulling his arms behind his neck and leaning sideways as he stares at me for several long, uncomfortable seconds.

  His friend from the truck reaches for Kiera’s hand, lifting her to stand, and the two of them leave their seat on the sofa and walk up the stairs. The casualness of it all feels so sad—maybe even a little gross—and I can’t help the face I make in reaction to it.

  “You have a problem with House hooking up with Kiera?” Owen says, bringing my attention back to him.

  “His name is House?” I ask, keeping the focus on the easier topic.

  “Matt House. We’ve been friends since kindergarten. I call him House. He calls me Harper. Whatever. And you clearly have issues with people having sex,” he says.

  “I don’t give a shit who has sex,” I say fast, my response not really a lie. I don’t care who does what, but that doesn’t mean I understand how little importance people place on something like sex. My face is red; I know because I can feel my cheeks tingling. But the darkness shrouds me.

  “You’re a virgin,” Owen says, his lips taking their time with that word. My cheeks burn stronger, and for the first time, I feel flustered from the embarrassment.

  “So.” That’s all I can think to say. At first, I consider adding more, defending myself, but the more time that passes, the happier I am with that response. I won’t make apologies for not being easy.

  “Your daddy would be so proud of you, proud of his little girl keeping her snatch all sewn up, waiting for her prince charming,” Owen says, the cruel look glimmering in his eyes and curling his lips.

  His words make me want to cry, and I can feel the pressure building, the water wanting to spill down my cheeks, but I won’t let him have this. I breathe long and slow, and I hold his gaze, meeting his challenge, until I know I can speak without my voice wavering.

  “Nobody likes you. They all think you’re crazy. They feel bad for me, because I have to live next to you,” I say back. I’m expecting Owen to wince, to feel my words on some level, but he only leans forward and lets his grin stretch larger across his face.

  “Then why, little miss sunshine, are you here?” he asks, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The two other couples here with us have all left the living room for the kitchen, where they’re playing some drinking game. Owen and I are alone, and nobody is interested in our war of words. That means no one will hear the details of my broken life.

  “I’m here because you took what was left of my barely-decent life and ripped it to goddamned shreds,” I say to him, waiting for him to argue and say he didn’t.

  “What, the little bit about the affair? I was right, wasn’t I? Your dad…he’s stepping out on your mom. Who is she? Someone…younger?” He’s seen Gaby at the house. I can tell he knows it’s a younger woman by the way he’s looking at me, luring me and taunting me. But he doesn’t know how young. And I don’t plan on giving him anything else he can use to hurt me.

  “Why do you play basketball in my driveway?” I ask, taking control of the conversation. Owen keeps his eyes on me, his tongue teasing at the edge of his lips as he decides whether or not he’s going to let me.

  “The Stratfords used to live there. They sold the house to you. They always let me use the hoop, because we don’t really have a place for one. I didn’t think you’d be assholes and take it down,” he says, and I feel a small pang in my side because Owen actually looks sad. He also looks less like the hardened eighteen-year-old and more like a lost little boy.

  “Well, like I said. I didn’t take it down. My dad did. And it turns out not only does he have a low tolerance for bullshit, but he’s a royal fucking asshole, too,” I say, finally letting my eyes move from Owen’s face to the front pocket on my sweatshirt. I push my hands inside and focus on the tattered strings from the hoodie lying along the front. I’m startled when Owen is standing in front of me, a small drink in his hand. “I told you, I don’t drink.”

  “Yeah, and I bet a week ago you thought your dad was the greatest man alive,” he says, moving the small shot glass closer to me.

  I take it in my hand and look at it, smelling the edge of the glass and feeling surprised that the odor isn’t strong. It’s only a small shot, and I won’t drink any more—just this one. The urge to do something wrong—something against my grain—is suddenly overwhelming. I lift the glass to my lips, pausing before I drink to look into Owen’s eyes. When I do, they’re glowing again, and that same feeling of connection is there—the one from the driveway, the one from when he apologized for scaring me on the highway.

  I tilt the glass back, and cough the second the burn hits the back of my throat. Owen chuckles softly, then hands me a bottle of water, and when he takes the glass away, I notice his fingertips tickle against mine, pausing as if they’re surprised by our touch.

  “Just so you know,” I say, waiting for him to look at me to finish the rest, “I never thought my dad was the greatest man alive.”

  He holds my sightline and his mouth sits in a comfortable, flat line as he steps backward until he’s at his beanbag again, and he lowers himself to sit.

  “Just so you know,” he says, holding a newly filled shot glass in his hand, holding it steady in front of his face, but pausing when it’s raised between my gaze and his. I sense he’s reading me, but I don’t know why. “I always thought my dad was…”

  He drinks fast, and his eyes close as he holds the burning sensation in. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes again, and the look, the pained, lost boy, is there now.

  “I always thought he was the greatest man alive. All the way until he wasn’t,” Owen says, and my gut twists with a hurt I’ve never felt before. Sympathy. That’s what I feel for Owen Harper.

  Just then, I realize, he’s not really wild at all. He’s heartbroken. And maybe I don’t hate him as much as I thought I did.

  Chapter 7

  Owen didn’t talk for the rest of the night. We spent several more hours at that house—the one I found out later belonged to some girl named Sasha. Her family farms, but they have a large staff that really runs most of the business. Sasha is home alone often—alone with Owen and his friends and their…recreational habits.

  We didn’t talk during the ride home, but Owen drove slowly. I think he did it for me. The ride home felt…different. I didn’t fear Owen. I hated him for telling me what h
e told me. I also hated my father. And Owen missed his. As the sun rose, I spent the miles we drove trying to find a way to make those thoughts match up in my head—find a way to make Owen’s pain hurt just a little less. And then I became consumed with the realization that I was caring a little too much about Owen and his feelings.

  I’m starting to recognize the town, the trees of my street are familiar, and the closer we get to my house—and Owen’s—the more my stomach hurts. I sit up on the edge of the truck seat and push my hands under my legs, worried about what will be waiting for me in my driveway.

  My phone doesn’t have any messages on it, and I’m grateful for that. My mom let me run away, probably because she needed to be alone too. What worries me is where my father is—and if he’s home.

  Home. Such a farce. This is nobody’s home, and now I hope like hell my mom kicked my dad out of it.

  “You’re worried about your old man. Worried he’s there, huh?” Owen asks, his tone on the verge of caring, as if he’s really interested, as if he isn’t loving every second of my suffering. I won’t look at him, only glancing at his profile, but I notice the tilt of his face toward me. It’s just enough to let me know he’s looking at me, and it makes me uncomfortable, so I pull my arms around my chest. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice in hours. He had two or three more shots, long ago, but still I should have driven the truck. I don’t like that I let him drive.

  Maybe I’m still afraid to confront him.

  “Yep,” I respond to him, nodding as I let my head slide to the side, my cheek pressed on the passenger window. I let my breath fog it up, blurring out my view, like I’m erasing the parts I don’t like outside.

  “His car’s gone,” Owen says, making my heart slow instantly.

  “Good,” I say, pausing with my lips open, my breath fogging the glass once again, this time making the cloud on the window thicker. “I think that’s good. That’s…good, isn’t it?”

  I look at him when I ask this, something pulling me to him, forcing me to look at him. When I’m confronted with his calmness, the serene look on his face, a renewed fire grows in my belly, and it makes me angry again—angry with Owen, angry that he was the one to tell me, angrier that he took pleasure in it. He’s barely pushing his shifter in park when I shove him hard against his door.