Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  Let it spill! Let me bleed!

  “Come on, hurry up! Get me back out there!” I shout at him. He shakes his head, ignoring me. I push at him to get out of my way, but he leans into me with all his weight, which is twice mine.

  “You’re a crazy little punk, and I get that you need this, but just do me a favor and let me save you from getting killed, huh?” he speaks through gritted teeth.

  “Whatever,” I say, looking past him to Pitch, who smiles at me. He wants more too. He’s having fun with this, and I’m forgetting everything. It’s exactly what I need.

  The bell rings, and I brush Bill away and rush back to the center where I find Pitch waiting, his fist opening up the wounds Bill just spent seconds trying to secure. I laugh as I stumble back on my feet, losing my balance enough to catch a glimpse of Harley, whose lip is between his teeth under his angry eyes.

  I gotcha, Harley. I know this is only three. I’ll stay on my feet. I just want to feel it a little more. Let me go, let me spar.

  I come at Pitch with everything I’ve got. My swings are sloppy; he blocks most of them, but I’m wild and aggressive. A few shots land on his chin and head with enough power that he stumbles back a step or two. The crowd actually turns for a second, cheering for me. My breath, as stuttered as it comes, is mixed with a rush of adrenaline and fear and pride.

  I’m too lost in this feeling of glory to see his next swing, and soon I’m caught in the ropes, his fists taking turns moving from my right side to my left, my skin red from punches and my bones begging to break.

  But I’m still breathing.

  I’m still feeling.

  The bell sounds, and I falter back to the stool, where Bill goes to work quickly, my view of him skewed now from the swelling happening around my eye.

  “You’ve never been hit like this,” he says. He won’t make eye contact with me, and it pisses me off.

  “I’m fine!” I shout, spitting in the bucket he is holding under my chin.

  “Yeah…” he says, pulling my chin up with his monster hand, the roughness of his calluses scraping my face so I’m forced to look him in the eye. “You’re fine, huh? Then go out there and you end this. This is it. No more rounds for you, no matter how fucked up you are and how much you think you can take, you got it?”

  Four rounds. I knew the gig. I got it. I stare at him without answering, though, because he’s pissing me off. He growls at me, pushing my face from his view with disgust.

  The bell rings, and I find Pitch once again ready for me in the center, his feet still nimble, his arms still up at his sides, everything about him fresh. I’m a bloody mess, and it makes me start to laugh.

  “You’re a crazy motherfucker, you know that?” Pitch pushes back a step, bouncing, as he stares at me.

  “Oh, I’m crazy. And I can take anything you’ve got. Bring it, big man,” I slur, my smile big as his fist elevates then rushes forward, landing squarely on my nose.

  Oh fuck! Oh yes!

  His swings don’t stop. The pain keeps coming. I feel every single shot, as if time slows down just so I can take in the sensation of the leather of his glove pushing deep inside my gut, my chest, my face. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. I bleed. I land. The ref counts, and Bill drags my torn and broken body to the corner amidst the roar of the crowd around me; they’re celebrating my fall, my failure.

  They love me for it, and I’m drunk on my self-loathing.

  “I’ll do my best, kid, but I think you’re gonna need to make a trip to the emergency room for some of this,” Bill says, his face somber. Bill’s disappointed too.

  “I’m fine,” I growl.

  He laughs once, but his face remains serious.

  “I said I’m fine!” I repeat, my face square with his. His eyes stay on mine, and we both breathe while they announce Pitch as the winner and people rush the ring to congratulate him, to touch him. I’m lost in the corner with Bill and my pain and nothing else.

  “Okay, kid. But I don’t like putting you back together. If this were my call, this wouldn’t have been you tonight,” he says, pressing a wet towel on my face. I grab it from him and stand.

  “Well it’s not your call. It’s mine. And Harley’s. And we say I’m fine,” I say, spitting once more at his feet as I climb through the ropes and out to the back rooms where Harley is waiting for me.

  The envelope exchange is fast, and unlike Bill, Harley hardly spends time looking at my face. The bruising and blood disgusts him, and I think I scare him a little. It’s fine; I scare myself.

  I don’t count the money until I get outside and to my car, but before the rest of the crowd starts to spill into the streets, I pull the envelope from my backpack and leaf through the hundred dollar bills, counting twice and getting eighty-four each time. My lips can’t fight against smiling no matter how badly it hurts my face to do so. The laughter comes when I hit the highway, pressing the pedal down with ease, crawling the car up to ninety-five as I weave into the flow of traffic, passing anything in my way.

  The rush will carry me home.

  And when I come down, I’ll be at my next destination. I’ll be at her house, and she can bring the pain back all over again.

  * * *

  Emma

  Graham has been the perfect gentleman. His mother would be proud. Or, I think she would be. It’s still hard to say—I’m not clear about their relationship.

  I didn’t let Lindsey know I was leaving to meet him. I didn’t want to deal with expectations. I brushed her attempt to talk off last night, telling her I was just stressed after the awards dinner. I told her I was walking to the store and back—instead, going to Andrew’s to confront him. I wanted to see him without the veil, to see if he would be the same if it were just us.

  Turns out he was worse.

  He’s so broken, and I don’t know why. I let that consume me, and it was starting to push me into depression when Graham called and asked if I wanted to meet for a quick dinner. I jumped at his offer, wanting to find something else—anything else—that would mesmerize me for a while.

  Graham has been ideal, what women are supposed to want—at least what I think women are supposed to want, all beardy and strong and masculine—but my mind hasn’t abandoned its thoughts of Andrew once all evening. His messy hair, pierced ears, half-shaven face with eyes that have this way of boxing me in and suffocating me.

  “So what’s it like studying with my mom?” he asks as we walk from the small café two blocks away from my apartment. He offered to walk me home, and I allowed it.

  “She’s…I don’t know…kind of tough I guess?” I say, glancing to his smiling face then back down to the walkway in front of me.

  “She’s mean, huh?” he laughs. “It’s okay; you can say it to me. I mean hell, the woman raised me. She tells my dad what to do, too. That’s the whole reason I went into psychology. I wanted a practice and specialty she knew nothing about. I had eighteen years of that woman knowing what’s best, telling me what to do, but never really caring enough to stick around and watch me succeed at her plan. She just laid out new orders for me to follow, new expectations. I’m done with it.”

  “I bet she still knows a few things about your world,” I smile, not really comfortable complaining about Miranda to Graham, or hearing his complaints—which seem to be plentiful.

  Graham chuckles, holding his hand out in front of me to stop me from stepping in the road as we reach the intersection. A delivery truck races by, kicking my pulse up as it passes.

  “Thanks,” I say, embarrassed and looking down.

  He bends his elbow out to the side, nudging me until I look up at him again. “Don’t mention it,” he says, leaving his arm out for me to take. I slide my fingers under his bicep and let him lead. He layers his other hand over mine, and I notice that when I loosen my hold, he tightens his. I think it’s because he’s still worried about me stepping off the curb, but there’s also something overly-possessive about the way his touch feels. If I weren’t th
is close to home, I’m not sure how okay I would be with it. “And no, my mom doesn’t do psychology,” he continues, lowering his head, picking up my gaze and bringing my eyes back up to his. “My mom thinks it’s a shit practice, actually. But we’re past that argument. I’m too far in now anyhow.”

  “How many more years do you have?” All I can think of while we walk is how different his arm feels. There’s heat that goes along with his skin, and his muscles are bigger than Andrew’s. Or maybe they’re not. I haven’t touched Andrew in years, and the version of him in my life now is definitely not a teenaged boy.

  “Probably four more if I want to really be something. Which I do. I want to be the doctor who solves things, with papers published in journals and all that. You see, Mom and I both have that in common,” he says, and I squint at him, my brow pinched as I try to follow his suggestion. “You know, awards and accolades—Wheatons love the attention.”

  I smile as he chuckles, and I feel relief that he recognizes this about his mom as well.

  “Well, at least you all earn it…the awards, I mean?” I say. He acknowledges with a quick nod and smile, but his expression quickly fades as he turns his head from me.

  “I plan on earning it,” he says, his focus on the long sidewalk in front of us, his mouth in a tight straight line. “Mom…she gets awards because people have just gotten used to giving them to her at this point.”

  I breathe in slowly through my nose, glancing at him carefully, turning away before he looks down at me. I don’t respond to his criticism of the woman who saved my life. It’s clear that he’s privy to a side of her I don’t know, though, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to delve into it—not now, anyhow.

  My nerves make themselves present as we get closer to my apartment. Graham has been a gentleman, but I’m also not sure if that lasts all the way up to my front door. His hold on me is still rigid and unforgiving; the few tests I’ve tried to relax my muscles haven’t induced the same response from him. I’m not inviting him in, and my extremely-limited dating experience hasn’t taught me how to navigate this next step yet.

  Karma seems to have sent me assistance, though, as the moment we get to the front of my building, a voice calls my name from the ground. Andrew is sitting with his back against the wall, his hood pulled forward over his head. He looks drunk on his feet as he slowly gets himself to a stand, but when I see his face I realize it’s more than that making him shaky.

  “Jesus, Andrew! What happened?” I pull away from Graham again, but he puts a hand over my chest, wanting to step in front of me. I wave him off, whispering that it’s all right, then reach up to touch the side of Andrew’s hoodie; he jerks away. I hold my palm flat, then move to touch the material again, pulling it back just enough so I can see the cuts and bruises on his face in the light. His eyes aren’t on me at all, though. He’s staring at Graham behind me.

  “I got in a fight,” he says, a low rumbling laugh brewing in his chest, but never fully escaping his lips. His smirk never pulls into anything more, and his gaze can’t seem to leave Graham.

  “Yeah, I can tell. Andrew, you need to see a doctor,” I say.

  “That’s why I’m here,” he says, shifting his eyes to me, but only for a second.

  “Em, you need me to call someone?” Graham asks, his hand flat on my back as he lets me know he’s right there behind me.

  “She’s fine. Who are you?” Andrew’s voice is louder this time, but his face is just as hard. As beaten as he is, his eyes are still clear and threatening.

  I look down, closing my eyes and wishing to rewind time. I’m just not sure how far back I should go. Maybe…maybe all the way before Andrew.

  Graham reaches around me, his gesture protective, as he holds his hand out for Andrew. “I’m Graham Wheaton, a friend of Emma’s,” he says.

  Andrew looks at his hand in front of me, his mouth seesawing back and forth as his eyebrows rise, then slowly his mouth slides into a smile. Never full, and never friendly.

  “Graham,” he repeats his name, finally closing the distance and shaking, his muscles flexing to show exactly how little Graham intimidates him. I’m shocked he’s not pissing on him, just to really show what a man he is. “You’re the guy with the PowerPoint. A real hero, I hear,” he says, every word double-edged with meaning—he’s being affable as far as Graham is concerned, but I know better. He’s mocking me. His eyes move to mine, and my stomach sinks.

  Graham chuckles. “Yeah, I guess that’s me,” he says.

  I feel Andrew’s gaze as he steps closer to me. The amount of testosterone radiating around starting to suffocate me, and I need to extradite myself from it all.

  “Graham, I had a really nice time. I’m okay, really. I think I need to help Andrew out, until my roommate gets home, but I’ll text you tomorrow. If that’s okay?”

  My face is in no way a reflection of how I’m feeling. On the outside, I smile and look grateful for his protection, not worried at all over the guy standing—bleeding—next to me. Inside, I’m repeating swear words and praying that my roommate comes home early from her spin class. Glancing at my watch, I realize her class has just started, so that chance—it’s really slim.

  Graham’s holding his position, keeping his eyes on Andrew, his head cocked slightly to one side. When Andrew notices, he mimics him, just before he leans forward and spits a bloody mess at his feet on the sidewalk in front of us all.

  “She’s fine, Graham,” Andrew says with a small nod of his head.

  Graham still doesn’t move, but he turns his face to look at me, his eyebrows raised. “You sure?”

  I roll my eyes and sigh, glancing from Andrew and back again. “I’m fine. He isn’t here for me. But I can’t leave him out here waiting. I’ll text you,” I say, repeating my words from earlier, maybe also wanting to rub in the fact that I’ll be talking to Graham again, seeing him again, making more plans with him.

  Graham is worth a second look. And maybe if I can go out with him without a mountain of anxiety dangling over me, I’ll end up liking him more.

  Leaving his eyes on Andrew, Graham reaches to my chin and tilts my cheek toward his lips, kissing the side of my face lightly, the whiskers of his beard tickling me and making me smile.

  I watch Graham step backward, his hands pushed in the pockets of his gray jeans, his sweater curled up around his neck, everything about him right out of the pages of an Abercrombie catalogue. He even smelled nice all night. I should have told him that.

  I should like Graham. I should feel something.

  But I also feel like maybe, just then, he was marking me—laying claim on his territory. And that makes me feel uneasy.

  “So guys with beards…that’s what does it for you, huh?” Andrew says, not letting my mind stray too far. I turn back to him, Graham’s image still in my mind, a comical contrast from the rough, beaten mess standing before me now.

  “You’re an asshole,” I say, shaking my head and stepping past him, pushing the glass doors open and greeting Sam at the front desk.

  “Good evening, Miss Burke. Saved a copy of the paper for you; thought you’d like to see it today,” Sam says, as I stop to gather my mail and then pull the paper from him.

  I smile politely and whisper, “Thanks,” but I leave the paper rolled. It’s a copy of the Tech Campus News, and I know why he saved it for me. I saw the reporters there last night, taking pictures. No need to see a reminder of what I look like when I’m being open and honest. I’ll just put it in the box in my closet with the others.

  “What’s so special about the paper? More stories about how your PowerPoint hero came to the rescue?” Andrew says behind me as we both step into the elevator. The doors close on us, and instantly the space feels small. I don’t answer him, but I feel him—I feel him watching me from four feet away, his arms folded over his chest, his hood draped over his face, his body smelling as if he’s stumbled in from some alley.

  We reach my floor, and I step out, not inviting him. If he
wants my help, he’ll just have to show himself in. I unlock my door, toss my mail and keys and purse on the table and walk down the hallway to our bathroom. I hear the door close a few seconds later, and soon Andrew steps into the frame, stopping with his hands gripping either side of the wall, his head slung forward. His knuckles are covered in blood, and his legs are spackled with red. He’s wearing black shorts that drape below his knees.

  “Why were you fighting?” I ask, pulling the alcohol from the cabinet and the bag of cotton and gauze from underneath our sink. I step to him, and notice his grip tighten on the wood as I move into his view, his lip twitches on one side—he sneers like a stray dog not ready to trust the hand about to feed it.

  “I fight for money,” he says, his mouth now a hard line, his brow still shadowed by his sweatshirt. I reach up to move it, but freeze the second his eyes meet mine, the swelling on his brow, the blood on his cheek nothing compared to the broken look in his eyes.

  “So this wasn’t like some pissing contest in a bar or you trying to act like a big shot on the ice?” I ask, dabbing the cotton again, ignoring what I saw in his eyes. I wish for that look to go away—it makes me weak.

  “I fight to forget about things,” he says, leaning forward just enough that his breath tickles my neck. I swear I feel his lips against my skin. Maybe I imagine it.

  Maybe I want it to be real.

  My breath hitches, but only once. I look down at the bottle in my hands, inhaling once more, deeply, the scent a mix of the alcohol fumes and him, then I pour some solution on one of the pads, moving it to his face. He’s playing me, and I don’t like it. I expect him to jerk when I touch him; his cuts are deep, and the alcohol is bound to burn at first. He doesn’t flinch. My eyes move from his wounds to his gaze—off and on as I work to clean him up. His expression never changes. It’s hard. His eyes hazed as he watches me. He’s trying to intimidate me.

  “What are you trying to forget about, Andrew?” I speak softly; something about him feels like I could set it off at any moment. I push his hood back just then, and my hand finds his hair as I do. The movement is natural, and I don’t know why my fingers act as they do. It’s muscle memory, from one night and years of dreams. I push a few strands back, letting my fingers touch his scalp—touch him. He’s still so familiar. The feeling of him rushes through me, and it burns.