Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  “I need to know. Did you do something…illegal to end up with this?” What he means—is am I selling drugs.

  “No…not…not really,” I shake my head. It’s not really legal, but my end…well it gets sketchy. I’m just doing a job. I get offered a fight and a purse. I do my thing; I go home with money. I’m not hurting anyone.

  “Not really…as in you are just like…what…a middle man?” Trent’s voice grows louder, and he’s rubbing his hands together nervously. I can sense his temper, his patience waning.

  I pull my face up to really look at him, my hands gripping the back of the chair. “Do I look like a middle man?” I say, arms out, my beaten body as evidence. “I fight sometimes. For money. Harley…he pays me,” I say.

  Trent flinches, not expecting that answer.

  “So you’re, what…like a boxer? Are you any good?”

  “I can take a punch,” I say. “That’s why he books me. I’m like a practice fight for his real guys.”

  “So you get paid to get the shit beat out of you?”

  I nod slowly, letting my eyes drift back to the table, to the stack of cash peaking out from the yellow envelope.

  “Yep,” I say, chewing at the inside of my mouth.

  “Wow,” he says quietly. Slowly. He leans forward again and picks up the envelope, really flipping through this time. His eyes flash as the number he’s counting grows higher. “So…the worse shape you’re in, the bigger the payday? Is that how this works?”

  He chuckles, handing me my money. I lean back and stuff it back into my pocket.

  “Nah. Last night was sort of special. I fought a guy that’s sort of a big deal. Paid my tuition,” I say.

  “That guy…he gave you that?” he asks, pointing to my crusty brow, the dark stitches sticking out. I touch it, and immediately think of Emma. I nod in response.

  “Does Harley just stitch you up then?” he asks.

  I purse my lips, tilting my head to the side.

  “I…uh…I had Emma do this,” I say, finger back on her handy work.

  Trent starts to laugh slowly, standing as it grows to a full belly laugh, the kind that makes him start to cough. He walks into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, guzzling half of it before finally calming himself down enough. My life is funny to him.

  “Emma,” he repeats. I just nod.

  “Not…what was her name?” He’s being an ass now.

  “Her name is Lindsey. You know her name. Stop,” I say, standing, done with my little session. I flip the chair around and walk toward my room.

  “A’right, a’right. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m helping, listening—go on, give me the story behind that part. Emma…you said she’s the girl. This is the girl? The one who you went to that group home for or whatever?”

  “It wasn’t a group home. It was more like a reform school. And yeah…same Emma,” I say, folding my arms, protecting my heart. “Long story short, I took the fall for her, then I never heard from her again.”

  “Oh that shit ain’t cool,” Trent pipes in. At least he’s on my side for this. I hold up a hand to spare him.

  “Yeah, that’s sort of what I always thought, except…” I pause, shutting my eyes for a beat, picturing her face as I told her, as she filled in the gaps, as her heart broke hearing my pain. “Turns out she never knew. She thought I was just gone. I don’t know where, but just…gone. Not in some shit-hole wannabe prison getting the shit kicked out of me on a daily basis.”

  “Oh…damn, bro,” Trent says, leaning forward to lean on the counter across from me.

  “Yep,” I say, mouth tight. “Damn. Or damned. Whatever.”

  I walk away and leave my friend with the synopsis of my hell. I toss my envelope on my bed along with my keys and whatever other crap I’ve collected in my pocket. I look around at the blankness of my room, the walls and dresser top void of anything personal. I don’t have anything personal. I’ve kept my life sterile. I don’t even have a favorite…anything!

  Except my car. I have that back.

  And maybe I sort of have Emma back too. If I want her…

  Do I want her?

  Can I forgive her?

  Is there really something to forgive anymore?

  Letting go is proving harder than it should be. Or maybe it’s as difficult as I wanted it to be. I spent years building up the walls and anger—turning them into weapons against the Emmas of the world so I’d never fall victim to one again. To find out I did it all in vain—I just don’t know if I’m ready to believe that either. I don’t know what to believe. I’ve held on to that sourness, that poison, for so long that my insides aren’t sure what to do without it there.

  I could fill it, though. I could fill it with her, with what we were supposed to be before that night ruined everything.

  But would she even have me? Like this. What I am now? A hollow version of the boy my brother and mom spent years trying to protect to keep me whole and light and hopeful. One night was all it took to make my heart dark. One night, and a year of having my bones broken, my skin burned, my spirit shattered by an evil man and a group of boys just as damaged as I am.

  She didn’t know. She said she didn’t know. Then she said she would have…what? Stopped me? Would I have let her? It’s easy to say that now. Sorry is a word. Actions…those are harder.

  But maybe…maybe if she showed me something, a piece of who she was. Maybe if I knew she really cared.

  “Hey. Let’s go hit the ice,” Trent says behind me, snapping me out of my self-pity and dangerous self-diagnosis. He’s holding my stick and my gear bag. His face is erased of everything I just told him. I stare at the stick in his grip, laughing lightly to myself. I just got my face tore up in a boxing ring and I want to make everything better by crashing my teammates into glass.

  “I’ll drive,” I say, grabbing my bag from him and passing him in the hallway, my keys pressed in my palm.

  “Hey, maybe I can take it for a test run sometime? You know…just up to the arena or whatever…” I stop at the door and laugh, then look at him over my shoulder, my lip raised. He already feels stupid for asking.

  “No fucking way in hell,” I say, and I swing the door wide enough for him to follow me out, admiring my car on the road. In this mountain of shit I’m sinking in, that car makes me smile.

  Maybe I’ll get Emma in it just once…for old time’s sake. Just to see how she looks here, in our past, in what we almost were. Maybe I can try us on.

  I drive away a little faster, and I notice Trent’s smirk as I peel out.

  * * *

  Emma

  I don’t know how I knew he’d be here. I just knew. I had to find a way to see him alone—without Lindsey. I need to know more. He needs to know more. And this need—it isn’t about my friend. Even though she’s precisely the reason I shouldn’t be here.

  I’ve compounded this sham of Andrew and I not knowing one another to the point that there’s no escaping losing her friendship if it blows up now. No matter how I look at it, I’ve lied.

  I lied to the girl who helped me bury my mother.

  I suck in a deep breath, letting the cold harden my lungs—maybe my heart a little, too, just so I can hide it from the guilt brought on by thinking of Lindsey.

  The Tech arena is colder than the one back home. It’s nicer here, too. The rink is surrounded by stands, different from the few bleachers that press up to the glass in Woodstock. I see his name on the marquee by the door. It isn’t one of the ones up top. It isn’t even in the middle. But it’s the first one I see.

  I hear him before I see him, his voice carrying across the ice, his laughter—his laughter. I pause and take a seat in the front row on the opposite end, just so I can watch as he slides back and forth effortlessly, his stick working against his teammates, the ease with which he steals the puck away, the speed he shows when he chases—when he leads.

  That vision right there, the man I’m looking at out there on this ice—that’
s my Andrew. He rushes once more, the puck loose and coming toward me, and he stops hard right in front of me, his face looks up, his eyes finding mine at the last second. He’s breathing hard, and at first, it’s because he’s out of breath. But then he stops and stares at me a while longer, still breathing rapidly. That…that’s because of us.

  “Hey, Trent! Give me a sec, ‘kay?” he yells to his friend still skating on the other end with a few of the guys. Trent nods and begins lining up pucks on the ice to take shots over and over again.

  I follow Andrew along the other side of the glass toward the opening. He’s wearing a dark beanie and his team jersey with a dark knit shirt underneath. Even the way he’s dressed reminds me of the boy he was, the man he should be.

  “Hey,” I say. All this time, the walk here, the time thinking about coming here this morning, the hours awake last night, and the best I can come up with is hey.

  “Hey,” he says back, making me laugh. He grins, dimples denting both cheeks as he lowers his head and looks down at his skates. He’s a solid foot taller than me right now.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?” he asks, looking at me sideways, his lip curled on one side of his mouth. I like him better like this—happy. Or at least not angry. He isn’t being mean.

  “You used to go to the rink at home…you know…when you were stressed, or whatever,” I say, my bottom lip tucked in my teeth, my face flushing from his closeness. I’m assuming he’s stressed. I’m stressed. Last night, what he told me—that was a hell of a lot of stress-inducing crap, surely.

  “Yeah,” he says, leaning against the opening from the ice. “Some things don’t change, I guess.”

  His gaze lingers on me after he says this, his smile subtle…special. Different. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

  “I was hoping…maybe…we could talk a little? I…I don’t know. I just…last night? I have so many questions. And I thought…” I’m stammering, my stomach all twisted and my confidence suddenly nonexistent. I’m afraid he thinks I’m being silly, that I’m being a child. That I got all the answers I deserve and that’s where it all ends.

  “I’d like that,” he breaks into my thoughts, dipping his head lower to force my gaze back up to his. “I would really like that,” he repeats, and this time he’s wearing a real smile, a full one.

  “It doesn’t have to be now. You have practice, and your friend is here…”

  “Nonsense,” he laughs, cutting me off. “Yo, Trent! You know Emma, right?”

  His friend holds a hand up to wave. I wave back, still blushing.

  “I’m gonna take off so we can go talk. You okay with that?” he yells over the ice.

  “I think that’s the first smart thing you’ve done in a week,” his friend yells back.

  “Real nice, Trent. Real nice,” Andrew laughs, his hand finding the back of his neck as he shakes his head, but peers up at me. This is his version of embarrassed. I remember it, too.

  “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll meet you by the front doors,” he says. His eyes stay on me, and his mouth is in this forever-quirked smile, small enough to erase, but there.

  I nod and walk to the front lobby where I came in and spend a few minutes looking over the plaques and trophies and clippings in the case along the wall. There’s only two photos of Andrew in the bunch—one the team photo, and another a clip of him from the school paper, the picture of his face looking busted and bruised, just like last night. The headline reads HARPER THE BRUIN’S BRUISER. It makes me smile.

  “That was after the opener, against Southern. I spent a lot of time in the box,” he shrugs.

  “I bet it makes the other team think twice about being aggressive,” I say, giving him an excuse for being rough on the ice. He seems embarrassed by it, but smiles sheepishly when I say that.

  “Yeah, that’s sort of my job. I’m like the guy they put in the basketball game just to foul out,” he chuckles.

  I don’t look at him, but I catch his eyes in the reflection in the glass in front of us. It feels easier to look at him this way, even when he’s looking back.

  “So, you hungry? I skipped breakfast,” he says.

  “Uhm, yeah…I could eat,” I say, my chest suddenly feeling tighter.

  “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the front door. I look away from his reflection, to the real him, and I follow him out, walking a few steps behind, watching his form. His body is still bruised, but the swelling in his face is gone. His shoulders are broader, his T-shirt clinging to his back, his jeans loose around his waist. His feet are in flip-flops, sliding along the ground.

  “We can go somewhere close. I don’t want you to have to carry your bag far,” I say.

  He chuckles.

  “Nah, let’s go get pancakes at Estos,” he says. Estos is far, maybe a half an hour away, which means I’ll be with him for most of the morning, alone, away from my roommate, who’s sort of dating him, I think…

  “Oh no, it’s okay, close is fine,” I say, fumbling to make an excuse, to stay near home base, to keep the option of backing out of this crazy idea if I want to. I stop talking, though, when I notice his car parked in the lot. Suddenly breathing becomes hard, and that night comes crashing over me—the lights flashing, the man on the road, my hands numb, my eyes burning, my future gone.

  My lips open with a gasp, and I suck in a hard breath.

  “My heart…” I say, my words almost a whisper, my voice cracking and stopping before I say too much.

  “Huh?” he asks, turning and seeing me. He drops his bag and reaches for my hand when he fully takes me in. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit…I’m so sorry, Emma. I thought you’d like to see it, my car, all fixed up. I just got it back, and I was excited. I didn’t even think about what…I…I just didn’t think.”

  I look down, my fingertips in his palm, his other hand on my arm. It’s a cautious touch, but he did it so fast—on instinct.

  He’s always acting on instinct…for me.

  “I’m…I’m okay,” I pant. “It’s weird, I haven’t panicked like that in a while. I’m fine, really,” I stammer, my mind catching up to the words I said, the admission that I once panicked. Five years ago, the panic came often, hitting me when I least expected it—sparked by seeing a fire truck race by, from riding in a car through the woods or sometimes a nightmare. I’m not sure when it began to fade, but one look at his car brought those feelings screaming back to the surface.

  Andrew keeps his fingers loosely tangled with mine, and his eyes move down to where our hands are touching as he peels his hold away one finger at a time. I feel sadder with each finger that leaves my hand. Everything gets colder. It feels like…loss.

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” His voice is quiet, and his face is wearing a mix of disappointment and worry.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” I push my lips together and force a smile, begging my stomach to stop clenching.

  I move to the passenger side and pause, looking to him before I tug on the handle.

  “Owen…he had it fixed,” he smiles.

  I grin back, then glance down at the handle again, still swimming in memories. Some of them, though…are good.

  “So you mean I don’t get you opening the door for me like a gentleman anymore,” I smirk. I’m flirting. I shouldn’t be flirting. It’s my nerves.

  Andrew stops at his door, pulling it open but leaning over the top of the car, both hands flat on the surface as he stares at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “I will open doors for you anytime, Emma Burke,” he says, the left side of his lip raised as he chews at the inside of his cheek. His eyes are soft, and smiling with his lips, then he taps the roof of the car once and climbs in. I do as well.

  Andrew is flirting back. I swallow hard.

  Inside the car is almost worse than outside. While the gashes, poor paint and other exterior things are all gone from the outside, covered in a fresh coat of slick, racing black and polish, the inside is still the same—still packed with memories everywher
e I look. I focus intently on my seatbelt, on pulling it tight, on the vents in front of me. I tuck my purse between my feet and squeeze, focusing on the feel of my muscles pushing against it. I focus on anything I can that isn’t the feel of my legs on Andrew’s lap, my lips on his, his hands around my waist—and the crash.

  “Are you sure? We could walk,” he says, the keys perched at the ignition, his hand gripping the wheel, his head tilted to the side, eyes bruised, but looking so full of hope.

  “I’m okay,” I exhale, letting my body relax a little. I glance to the side of his face, then smile bigger. “And you still have holes in your ears.”

  His head falls forward on the wheel, and he laughs hard as he turns the engine over. “Yes, Emma. Yes, I do,” he says, continuing to laugh as he looks over his shoulder and pulls us out onto the road.

  He drives slowly, always five miles slower than the limit, and he doesn’t speak. He’s being careful and cautious for me. He doesn’t have to say so; I know he is. The first ten minutes in the car with him is nothing but silence, even the radio on a gentle hum. Looking at it, I doubt it can go any louder. I laugh to myself because I doubt Andrew even likes the slow rock music that’s playing. My mind is racing with all of the questions I still have, but I don’t know how to start them.

  Every now and then, he glances to me, then back to the road. Each look is full of an almost—a question, an answer. Finally, one comes.

  “Where…” he starts, but stops, his tongue held between his teeth as his eyes squint into the distance ahead. “Damn, I don’t know why it’s so hard to talk to you. It’s hard, though. Is it hard for you?”

  He glances at me, swallows once, then looks back to the road. I suck in my bottom lip, nodding. “Yeah, it is,” I admit. “But maybe, now that we’ve said it, it won’t be so hard?”

  He chuckles, flexing his hands along the steering wheel, moving them to the top then around the sides, lengthening his arms into a stretch. I imagine his arms around me again, then just as quickly work to force that vision out of my head. “I’m pretty sure it’s still hard to talk to you, Emma,” he sighs.