Wild Reckless

by Ginger Scott

  “Wow, well that was deep you two,” she says, and my eyes grow wide with embarrassment. Owen laughs lightly and pushes his hands into the pockets of his black jeans before stepping closer to me. Willow glances at me before unlocking her car and tossing her bag inside. Jess is walking up, which now has my heart racing even faster, pulsing harder, and my mouth has forgotten how to work.

  “I guess you probably already have a ride, huh?” Owen says, cocking his head to the side to look at me with one eyebrow raised.

  “Yeah, uh…I have to be at the game tonight. Band,” I say, sucking in my lip and cursing band for the first time.

  “Right…right,” Owen says, nodding and taking a small step back. “I forgot you do that. That’s cool. Just thought I’d see if you needed a ride home, but yeah…so, I’ll see ya later.”

  He pulls his keys from his pocket and tosses them slightly before grabbing them in the air and turning on his heels. I want to jump in the other side of his truck, run away with him, go home with him, go anywhere with him. Hell, I want to sit in the truck and wait while he fills out job applications and does whatever else it is he does when he’s gone.

  “Hey, Kens?” Willow asks, her arm over the top of her car while she looks at me. Owen pauses at the sound of her voice. “You know, Jess and I were thinking we’d just go grab dinner at his house, since it’s so close. We don’t have to be back here until six, in case…you know…you wanna do something else?”

  My lips actually hurt from the force of wanting to smile, but I keep it hidden, pushing my lips tight and only letting the corners of my mouth curl.

  “Could you bring me back here? By six?” I ask Owen, hoping he simply says yes, that he doesn’t bail on this completely.

  “Yeah, that’s cool. I’ve got time. I have to pick up Andrew, so…” his voice fades away, and his attention moves to the cab of his truck. I secretly love that he’s so unsure of his words with me. This is different from teasing. This is different from being cruel. And I like it.

  “We’ll see you at six, Kens,” Willow says with a wink. Jess is already in the car with her, looking over his shoulder at Owen and me, and I’m sure she’s filling him in on everything she thinks this is about. That’s probably for the best, because Willow might understand what’s happening better than me.

  “You ready?” Owen asks, from the other side of his truck. I didn’t really expect him to open my door or anything, but he seems so uncomfortable being alone with me now.

  “Oh, uh…yeah. Should I just throw my stuff in the back of the truck then?” I ask. Owen shrugs a nod, so I lift my heavy bag to the back of his truck, securing it between the metal side and a tire, then climb into the cab with him. His truck looks different in the daylight, but it still brings back memories of the last time I was in here with him, when I swore at him and slapped him like a girl. I feel a little ashamed, because I can tell he’s remembering that, too.

  “So, where’s Andrew?” I ask, wanting to start a safe conversation—any conversation.

  “He’s at the community college. He splits his time between here and there, usually doesn’t get done until after our school lets out,” Owen says, his lips forming a prideful smile. “Andrew’s sort of smart.”

  “Wow, so he’s like, what? Taking college classes?” I ask. We had a program like this at Bryce, but the professors came to our school.

  “Yeah, he has eight credits or something like that. English and algebra, I think? If he passes with an A, he gets full credit toward his diploma. It’s free, so I made sure when he was selected he took advantage of it,” Owen says, his eyes on the road as we pull away from the school—the opposite direction of everyone else.

  “That’s amazing. You must be proud of him,” I say, knowing he is by the way he talks about his brother.

  “Yeah, well…one of us should get a college degree,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s being humble or bitter.

  “What about you? Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Depends,” he says, glancing up at the rearview mirror, then beyond his shoulder, his eyes grazing over me as he does. “I’d like to play ball somewhere. But then...who’s gonna pay the bills?”

  Owen doesn’t add anything after this, and I don’t know what to ask, so I reach forward and twist the knob on his old stereo to listen to some music. Nothing comes in very well, the classic rock station sounding the best; I leave the dial there. A few minutes later, we pull up at the front of the community college, and Andrew waves from a bench.

  “You’re going to need to scoot to the middle,” Owen says, looking at the small space next to him, the one with the hump in the middle of the floor.

  I unbuckle my belt and slide there, bending my knees in front of me and looking for the seatbelt straps.

  “There’s no belt here. Sorry…I’ll be careful, though. I’ll keep you safe,” he says, his eyes flashing to mine for a beat before moving back to the steering wheel. I notice the hard swallow in his throat.

  “Door’s locked,” Andrew says, his voice muffled from outside. He’s pulling on the handle, but nothing’s happening. I start to reach over to pull the lock at the top, but Owen puts his hand on my arm, stopping me.

  “I got it. It’s broken,” he says, careful not to look at me while he leans across my body. I practically suck myself to the seat, holding my breath the entire time his body is stretched across my lap. I can see the bare skin on his side as he reaches over, his shirt pulling from his jeans, and I notice the gray band of his boxers.

  I’m noticing things I’ve never noticed about boys before.

  When he straightens up again behind the wheel, he turns his focus to his side window, almost as if he’s trying to pretend I’m not here, that my leg isn’t touching his. All I can feel is his leg—and when he moves it from the gas to the brake and back again—I take pleasure in the movement.

  “Hey, Kens,” Andrew says, startling me back to the present.

  “Hey. Hope it’s okay I tagged along,” I say, wondering why Andrew called me Kens, if he knew I’d like it, and if Owen was the one to tell him so.

  “Oh, it’s okay,” he says, leaning forward to look at his brother. I’m uncomfortable by his suggestion, and I can tell it’s making Owen angry by the way he starts jerking the wheel and driving a bit rougher.

  “Kensington has to be back at school for band at six, so I’m going to drop you off at home, we’ll eat, and then I’ll bring her back,” Owen says, suddenly acting formal, like a parent.

  “We should go to the game,” Andrew adds, still leaning forward with the same grin. I keep my face forward, my eyes focusing on a small chip in Owen’s windshield.

  “I don’t go to football games,” Owen says, stopping quickly at a light. His change in speed makes me slide forward a little in my seat, so I flex my legs against the floor to hold myself back.

  “You said you’d be careful,” I say, interrupting his pissing match with his brother.

  “Sorry,” he says, taking off again a little slower.

  “Well, maybe I want to go. Can I go? I’ll hang out near the band, by Kens,” Andrew says, smiling at me. I’m not sure if he actually wants to go, or if he’s trying to goad his brother—but both thoughts make me smile in return.

  “Don’t call her Kens, Andrew. You don’t know if she likes it,” Owen says, jerking the wheel hard again while he turns right to head down our street.

  “You know that’s not true, asshole. You’re the one who told me,” his brother says, clearing up that small sliver of doubt I had left that I had an effect on Owen Harper.

  We fly into Owen’s driveway, but his truck skids to a stop. I feel my legs weaken in their fight to hold me in place, and I shut my eyes tightly and bring my arms up to brace myself. Owen’s hold on me is fast as his arm quickly covers my chest, and I grab hold of it on instinct.

  A rollercoaster ride.

  When my adrenaline rush begins to fade, I loosen my grip and look down at the dark knitted fabric of his shirt a
nd how its contrasts with the paleness of my small fingers.

  His arm is warm.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice more of a whisper, just for me.

  “I’m okay,” I say, sparing a look at his face. The pain in his eyes is evident, and even though he scared me, I want to erase his guilt. “Really. Owen…I’m okay.”

  I squeeze his arm one more time, letting my hands feel how strong his muscles are, feel the heat of his skin, sense the beat of his pulse in his veins.

  “That’s not what I’m sorry about,” he says, his voice cracking a little this time.

  When I turn to face the open door Andrew left on the other side, Owen’s apology becomes achingly clear. My father’s car is in our driveway, and he’s standing at our back door, practically lying against it, pounding and begging for my mom to answer.

  “Fucking hell,” I say, the thrill I felt from that small touch of Owen’s arm replaced with feelings of regret, anger, betrayal, and dread.

  I slide from the seat and move closer to my driveway, my father still unaware I’m behind him. He’s slurring—badly—and within a few more steps I can smell why.

  “Dad, you need to leave. I’m calling you a cab,” I say, pulling my phone from my back pocket.

  “Like hell I do. This is my house, and that bitch is going to let me inside,” my father says. Hearing him say those words—that word—about my mom makes my arms begin to itch, wanting to swing and hurt something or someone.

  “Dad, this is all because of you. You’re drunk, and you’re being mean. You need to leave!” I yell, stopping when my dad finds his footing and stumbles a few steps in my direction.

  “You…” he says, pointing over my shoulder. I turn and see Owen near my side, only a few steps behind me. “You’re that kid next door. You’re a disruption, and you need to stay the FUCK away from my daughter!”

  “Dad! Stop it!” I say, sliding to the right a step as if I can protect Owen—as if Owen needs my protection.

  “Sir, I think you’ve had too much to drink tonight. You really should listen to your daughter. If you don’t want a cab, I’ll take you somewhere—anywhere,” Owen says. I turn to look at him as I feel his hand flatten against my back, and when I do, my dad yanks at my shoulder, sending me to the ground.

  “You punk-ass little shit! She has worked too hard for you to screw it all up. If anyone is leaving, it’s you…right now!” My father hoists his sloppy arm forward, hitting Owen in the eye, and Owen stumbles back a step, but rights himself quickly. When my dad moves toward him again, I get up and run to my front door to get my mom.

  “Mr. Worth, you need to stop. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m not going to let you assault me…” I hear Owen say as I race through my door to find my mom sitting at the bottom of the stairs, crying.

  “You have to call the police, Mom. Now! Dad’s hurting our neighbor,” I say, trying to snap my mom out of this strange trance she seems to be in.

  “It’s been an hour. He’s been out there for an hour. I don’t know how to make him leave,” she sobs, raising her hand to cover her mouth and mute the sound of her wails.

  When I hear the sound of a punch being thrown, I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial 911.

  “What’s your emergency?” the operator asks.

  “There’s an assault happening outside, in my driveway. Hurry, fast, please!” I move to the window and see Owen straddling my dad on the ground, trying to hold his arms still, but my dad is fighting. He’s fighting so hard. Andrew is moving back inside his house on Owen’s urging.

  “Ma’am, I am going to need your address…”

  I pull a bill from the front counter and read off our address that I have yet to memorize—then sprint back outside to Owen. He looks up when he hears my footsteps, and my father takes advantage of the distraction, punching him hard in the same eye again.

  “Mother fuck!” Owen says, wincing, and leaning his face against his shoulder, pushing down on my father’s flailing arms again, this time with more strength.

  “The police are coming. They’ll be here any minute. I’m so sorry, Owen. I’m…” I let out a short cry—mortified that this is my life, that Owen is watching this. The boy who minutes ago had my heart racing is now straddling my dad in a pile of dust, trying to keep him from hurting my mother more than he already has.

  “Don’t,” Owen says, his eyes on me again, his right one already blue and puffy—because of me. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

  I nod, then pull my left arm around myself, squeezing in an attempt to stop the rush of nerves and fear coursing through me. The lights flash in the distance, and soon, I can hear the sirens.

  “They’re here,” I say to the operator, pushing my phone back in my pocket without ending the call, just in case. Two cop cars pull in quickly, and two of the police officers rush to Owen, pulling him away from my dad and pushing him flat along the ground.

  “Do not try to fight us!” one of them yells, while the other pulls Owen’s arms together behind his back, binding them with a thick plastic tie.

  “No! He was helping! Don’t hurt him!” I start to protest, but they dismiss me and go to work on my dad, sitting him upright and pulling his arms behind his back as well, though with less force than they used against Owen.

  “Oh my god, Owen. Your eye!” I say, moving closer to him.

  “Miss,” one of the officers says, holding his arm out and barring me from taking one more step in Owen’s direction. I look across the lawn and see Andrew standing at the doorway, and he’s shaking his head at me, telling me to leave it alone.

  “I’m fine, Kens. I’ll be okay. Go check on your mom,” Owen says, his voice a strange calm. He spits to the side, and it’s bloody, which only makes me want to get to him more. “Kens…go!”

  My mom. He’s right. She’ll know what to do. Only, just seconds ago, she was practically a statue—frozen in her depression inside my house. I rush inside and she’s moved to the window, standing there swaying, holding the blinds open with her fist.

  “I need you, Mom! You have to come out. You have to explain that Owen didn’t do any of this,” I say, but she doesn’t move, and her feet keep rocking. “Mom!”

  This time I yank on her arm, and she turns to look at me, her face shaking a little, like I just woke her up. “Mom! Come!”

  “Right, yes…okay,” she says, looking around the house for a few seconds, like she’s missing something. She finally grabs her wallet, and I follow her back outside.

  “Ma’am, can you explain what happened here tonight?” the first officer asks. I notice the tag on his uniform reads Blakely.

  “My husband…he…he was drinking. We’re…separated,” my mom says, her words coming out in a stutter as she watches the police officers push my dad’s head down as they load him into the back of one of the cars.

  “Are you hurt, ma’am?” Blakely asks, and my mom quickly shakes her head no.

  “The boy—” she says, looking to me and then out to Owen who is being jerked to a stand by Blakely’s partner, “he was only helping. Please, he was just protecting my daughter.”

  Blakely stops his pen on his notepad and looks up at my mom when she says this, then to me, before looking back over his shoulder at Owen who is slowly being led to the other car. “That boy? The one right there?” he asks, motioning to Owen with his pen.

  “Yes,” my mom says, her eyes fighting against the need to cry.

  “I’m afraid we’re still going to need to talk to him,” he says, nodding his head to his partner to continue.

  “Can’t you talk to him here? Or just call him or whatever? I mean…he saved me!” I sound like a pathetic little girl, and my stomach is overcome with this sinking feeling that they’re not going to listen to me, that they’re going to take Owen away, and it will be my fault.

  “Miss, if you’re lying, you’re going to be in a heap of trouble. That kid right there—he’s not worth lying for, you understand?” Blakely says
, but all I can see is the door closing on Owen behind him, and Owen going peacefully—willingly.

  “I understand,” I say, my eyes moving back to Blakely. “I’m not lying.”

  He holds my attention for a few long seconds, the sound of his pen clicking open and shut like a bomb ticking away in my ears. “Mosely, let him go,” he says, pushing the button on the radio pinned to his collar.

  “You sure about that?” I hear his partner respond.

  “Seems so,” Blakely says, and within seconds, his partner is stepping back out of the vehicle and opening the door for Owen. I don’t breathe until his hands are free. When the car holding my father pulls away, I move closer to him, letting my mom finish her talk with the police officers.

  “Come on, you need ice,” I say, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt, urging him to follow me inside.

  Owen’s quiet as we walk up my porch and through the main living room, but he pauses at my piano. I backpedal a few steps, and nod toward the kitchen, and he catches up.

  “Let me see,” I say, placing my hands on both of his shoulders, gently guiding him to one of our stools. I step closer, until my body is practically between his long, outstretched legs, and I move my hands to his chin, tilting it upward so I can see how bad his bruising is in the light.

  “That’s going to be really bad. God, Owen…I’m so sorry,” I say, but he quiets me fast.

  “Shhhhhh,” he says, his head tilting back down and his eyes on me. His hair is super messy, the beanie he was wearing lost somewhere in the scuffle with my dad.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” I say, closing my eyes and letting my head fall forward. I want to cry, but I’m so drained; I can’t even do that.

  “Don’t be. Not with me. Not over this,” he says, his hand slowly sweeping a strand of my hair away from my face. His gesture sends a short wave of shivers down my neck and arms, and I hate my father for ruining this moment. I want to enjoy it, but I can’t.

  I turn to the freezer and fill a small plastic bag with a few ice cubes, then wrap it in a dishtowel. “It’s the best we have. Don’t get a lot of shiners in our house,” I chuckle. My joke is stupid, but Owen smiles at it anyway.