Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  “Oh my god, Andrew! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

  She’s panting; she’s breathing so hard. She’s fighting to free herself from her seatbelt, and I’m only making it worse by getting my hands tangled with hers. I finally hold her hands still, and my other hand rushes to her face, moving her hair to the side.

  “Emma, you’re bleeding,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

  She touches her fingers to the place on her head where mine are, then pulls them in front of her to see the red on her hand.

  This only makes her cry harder and begin to shake.

  “I hit something. Andrew, I hit someone,” she shouts. Her body is shaking, and her eyes look terrified.

  I felt it too. Just before she jerked the wheel, something hit the front of the car. I wasn’t watching the road. I was watching Emma.

  Emma was watching me.

  We didn’t see it.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You hear me? It’s okay.”

  I reach for the passenger door and she grabs for me.

  “No, Andrew. No! Don’t leave!”

  I hold her hand, bringing her fingers to my mouth. Her cut is dripping blood into her eye now, so I reach into the glove box for a napkin and put it in her hand.

  “Hold this right here,” I say, guiding her hand and pressing firmly on her gash. “Leave it there, and keep the pressure on. I’ll be right back.”

  She nods, but I can already see her hand starting to slide down and grow weaker. I push on it again, and she follows my lead, pressing harder.

  I step from the door and move to the front, seeing the large dent in the bumper. The headlight is busted too, and there’s blood on the glass. My stomach drops, but I don’t let my face show any of it.

  Watching her watch me through the back window, I hold up a finger, signaling I’ll be right back. I step into the roadway, keeping my face still, no sign of the terror ruling my body. When I turn back to the road, I see a large mass lying on the asphalt—my only relief, it’s moving.

  The moaning hits my ears when I’m ten feet away; I realize it’s an older man and his dog. I rush to his side—his head is bleeding onto the pavement.

  “Sir, can you hear me. Sir?” I shout. I touch his neck, looking over him again, and he rolls to his side and the extent of the cuts and injuries to his abdomen and face hits me.

  “Sir, I’m going to call for help,” I say, standing and fumbling my phone from my pocket. My eyes are seeing things in scenes—in flashes, really. This man lying on the ground, his injuries, his dog whimpering at his side flat against the road—they are all scenes from a nightmare—then I look to the car, nearly one hundred yards away, and my eyes lock onto Emma’s…I realize this nightmare, it’s just beginning.

  The emergency operator answers instantly, and I give our approximate location along the dark rural road. The temperature feels about twenty degrees colder than before, my breath thicker, and the air damp with mist.

  I pull my sweatshirt from my body, wrapping it around the man’s head, resting it easily on the pavement and promising him I’ll come back. He seems to be fading in and out of consciousness. I reach for his small dog, and it growls at me, so I leave it where it is and jog back to the car, where Emma is now rocking in the driver’s seat, her eyes wide and full of tears.

  “He’s going to be okay. Emma, listen to me.” I cup her face in my hands, turning her to face me. I feel badly because I’m being a little forceful, but she’s slipping into a real state of panic, and I don’t think that’s going to help.

  “Andrew, this is going to ruin everything,” she says.

  I shake my head no. She’s just panicking, and I understand that. But the man is going to get help; he’ll be okay. My car—it’s just a dent. These things, they’re not forever nightmares.

  No.

  “You don’t understand,” she says, her voice more forceful, her worry showing in her eyes in a different way. There’s something about the way she’s looking at me that says something more, something she can’t seem to verbalize. “Andrew…I can’t. This…oh my god. Andrew—”

  Her shaking begins again, so I cradle her to my chest tightly, looking out the window that is hazing over with dew from outside.

  “They are going to take everything away,” she whispers against me, her eyes open, staring into emptiness. Nothing I say seems to bring her out of this trance. I know I need to get back out to the roadway, to the man lying there in far worse shape than either of us, but I can’t leave her here, without hope. There’s an absolute look of fear on her face, and the more seconds that pass, the more dire her expression becomes.

  “Come with me,” I say, stepping out of the passenger side and moving quickly to the driver’s door, opening it and pulling on her arm. She shakes her head no, so I reach in and lift her into my arms, carrying her to the passenger side, where I place her in the seat I just left.

  “What are you doing? Andrew…no…”

  “Shhhhhhhh,” I interrupt her protest, holding her head to mine as I kneel in front of her. “Listen to me. You. Were not driving. Tonight—you never touched the keys. This car, you never drove it. Not once—ever. I was driving. Do you understand?”

  “Andrew…I can’t let you…” I look up and see lights reflecting in the distance, an ambulance and fire truck on the way. Police will not be far behind.

  I leave her in the seat and rush over to the ignition, pulling the key out and wiping it with my shirt then shoving the keys into my pocket. I run back around the front of the car to her, and hold her in place as she tries to step out from the car.

  “Emma, I’m going to be fine. He’s hurt, and we didn’t do anything but have a horrible accident. He was walking on a dark road at night. I didn’t see him step into the roadway, and I hit him with the front end of the car. I called for help right away, and you hit your head on the dashboard.” I repeat myself three times, and she shakes her head and mutters no the entire time. I see the police cars trailing behind the medical help, and I know I only have seconds to get her on board with my story.

  “Emma, I drove this car tonight,” I say with more force, my teeth gritting. She needs to embrace this—she needs to let me lie. “I’m going to say this to them, and I need you to back up everything I say. I need you to!”

  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.

  Chapter 5

  One month later

  Emma,

  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

  Two months later

  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

  Seven Months Later

  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, be
cause 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

  One Year Later

  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

  Part II