Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  “I see,” I say, my insides still trying to process the name that Graham threw out to get at me. Could he really know Nick Meyers? Fuck me if that ghost from my past is an investor here, too.

  “He wants to fight you,” Harley says, and I spit out a spray of water as soon as his voice hits my ears.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I say.

  “He’s offering five grand. All you have to do is go down in four. That’s five grand…just for you, Drew. This wouldn’t be like Pitch. Graham’s good, but he’s not big like that—it would be fair, and you’d come out all right—and five grand richer. I won’t be able to line something like that up for you again in months. He’s looking at a small event in a week or two.”

  I stare at him while he speaks, trying to sort through the crazy shit coming out of his mouth.

  “I don’t know, Har,” I say, looking down and kicking my foot. “That guy…I don’t trust him.”

  “You don’t have to,” he says, holding up a check for me to see. “He gave me the deposit. I hold the money.”

  I breathe in slowly. Any other name on that check with that number and I’d be sold. But something about this feels not right. Even so, I would love to have an excuse to slam my fist through his face. I take the check in my hand, rub it between my fingers and look at it for several long seconds before I begin nodding.

  “So, you’re in?” Harley asks.

  “Yeah, I’m in,” I say, not liking the taste in my mouth.

  Harley takes the check back with a nod. He never smiles. I don’t think he has a good taste either. But he likes money, and I know that the five thousand that goes to my pocket isn’t what he’s in this for.

  I leave the gym at three, knowing I have hours until Trent is home, and my feet carry me to Majerle’s. I text him to join me, but I’m gone hours before he says he can make it. Chuck quit serving me after my fifth Jack, so I stumbled into the liquor store at the end of the block, leaving my car safe along the roadside outside the tavern.

  And then I called Lindsey and told her I wanted to come over tonight so we could talk. I’m going to end the lies, and I’m going to punch Graham cracker in the face. And I’m also going to go home and drink. I’m going to drink a lot. In the middle of the day. Just like the fuck-up loser I am.

  * * *

  Emma

  “We haven’t had a girl’s night in forever,” Lindsey says, pouting a little. She just got off the phone with Andrew. He told her he was coming over, and she got excited. They haven’t spent much time together over the last couple days. I know why, and it’s killing me to know so much.

  It’s also killing me that he’s coming here, to be with her. He’s only doing that to hurt me. I can’t let it hurt me. I’ll leave early, meet Graham at the restaurant—whatever it takes to avoid him.

  “I know. I miss my Emma-Lindsey time,” I say, sinking down next to her on the sofa. I’m half dressed, a long, silky black shirt hanging over my underwear.

  “You better finish getting dressed. Unless you’re trying to get something going with this Graham guy,” Lindsey teases. I stand and sigh, looking down at my bare legs and feet.

  “You think I can go in jeans?” I joke.

  “Uhm…to Polo’s? No,” she laughs. “I am pretty sure when the restaurant quits putting prices on the menu that they require their guests come in something a grade fancier than flip-flops and leggings.”

  “Ugh,” I sigh. “Fine.”

  I stomp my feet playfully back to my room, returning to my closet, to the rows of boring formal wear and pantsuits. I pull out the silk pants and decide those will be good enough.

  “Hey, Em?” Lindsey calls down the hall. “I forgot to give you something. Your dad…he came by. He left something for you. He said it was important.”

  “My dad came by? He knows my schedule,” I say, my brow pulled in and my mouth twisted while I try to both figure out why my father came when I wasn’t here and how to work the tight band of my pants over my hips. I haven’t worn these in a year, and it seems my hips are not willing to work with me tonight. I discard them and reach for the cocktail dress I bought on sale over the summer and have never had a chance to wear.

  “Yeah, I thought it was weird too. He said something about having to take your brother somewhere or something. I don’t know. But he left this,” she says as she enters my room. She tosses a large manila envelope on my bed as I spin to face her. I glance at it, but don’t recognize it. It must be my mail from home. Sometimes I get magazines.

  “What do you think?” I ask, bending down to pull on my silver strappy heals. These shoes make me taller than anyone in the room—always. I think the only person who could possibly stand taller than me in these shoes…is Andrew.

  I huff and right my posture, shaking my curls from my shoulders, then spinning to one side so Lindsey can properly evaluate my outfit, a slender-fitting gray dress with a back that dips low. She smiles, but tilts her head to the side. She glances to my dresser top, her eyes lighting up when she spots a pin. “Here, let me just try something,” she says, pulling the pin in her hand, opening it and taking a small strand of my hair between her fingers. She twists it into a tight line, pulling it to the back of my head where she fastens it in place. “There,” she says, standing back with her arms crossed. “Now he can see your eyes.”

  My shoulders relax as I smile back at her. With a simple gesture, Lindsey has made me feel beautiful.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking one more deep breath.

  “Relax,” she says. “He already likes you.”

  I nod and keep my happy expression in place, never letting her know that what I’m really worried about is me liking him.

  Lindsey retreats to her room, probably to get ready for Andrew’s visit, and for a moment, I think about walking to her room and telling her everything. My feet never leave their comfortable roots in my carpet though. I tell myself that it’s because I just don’t want to ruin my friend’s happiness. And that’s definitely part of my reason. But I’m also scared. I’m afraid of how she’ll react, afraid it will ruin something between us, and maybe…maybe a little afraid that it will solidify the path for Andrew and me. Lindsey and I wouldn’t survive that. I’d have to pick. And my heart is so very selfish.

  Graham will be here soon, so I look over my dress once more, making sure everything that should be hidden, is. This is a dinner with important people, so I decide to pull out the thin black sweater just to be safe. I look over myself once more in the mirror to see how the sweater lies in the back, and I catch a glimpse of the envelope on my bed behind me. I step over to it and lift it in one hand, a little surprised at how heavy it feels.

  Sitting on my bed, I listen to the sound of our apartment. Nothing.

  I pull the envelope into my lap and slide my finger along the poorly-sealed edge, reaching in. My fingers find a stack of thick-feeling paper, and when I pull what’s inside out, my eyes catch up to what I think my soul already knew, and time stops. Even the handwriting cuts to the core, the way he took care to write my name, the look of his own name on paper. Every single envelope is sealed. Never opened.

  “Your words went into oblivion,” I whisper to myself, the tears pooling up quickly. I glance up to my door, my feet following my gaze to the lock on my door, and I click it, rushing back to the envelopes that were all meant for me—the words I should have read years ago.

  These letters represent the gap in everything from my life before to now.

  With a hard swallow, I tear into the one on top.

  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.

  The past floods my insides, overtaking me completely. The envelopes still in my hand feel hot to touch, and I drop them on the bedspread beside me, spreading them out like a deck of car
ds, the one letter I began to read still on top.

  He’s sorry.

  After what he did for me, the first thing he wrote me was sorry.

  I slide one out from the middle, tugging the loosely-sealed edge open, and I pull the letter free. This one is only a single page. I notice that the letters are less thick the closer to the bottom of the spread-out stack I go.

  Dear Emma,

  Yeah. I’m writing again. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. I wish I could tell you the things that I see here. I wish I could tell you the things I’ve been through. I’m so unbelievably alone. I thought I was lonely before I met you, but god what I wouldn’t give to go back to that time. Not that I want to go back to life before you. Actually, I’d like to relive getting to know you again. Those few weeks were…well they meant a lot to me. I would probably skip the part where we get in the accident though—or at least I wouldn’t go to my friend House’s party. That was stupid.

  I don’t know what anyone’s told you. But I’m counting on the fact that you know me—the real me. You know I’m not some drugged-out loser, right? I was at a party I shouldn’t have gone to and tried some things that I shouldn’t have tried. Everyone looks at me differently now, though. I’m afraid they look at me and see my brother James. I’m not James, Emma. I hope you know that.

  I tear quickly into more letters, each one giving me another piece of Andrew’s heart, a piece of his soul. He pours out feelings in some letters, talking about how afraid he is of Lake Crest, and in others he’s almost resolved to what his life is there, offering me nothing at all, almost as if he’s protecting me from what he’s going through. The more I read, the sadder he becomes, and the less of Andrew I see. I pull one near the end, not ready—and maybe also not willing—to read his final letter.

  Dear Emma,

  I miss you.

  I wanted to see what those words felt like. There are more words…other things to write, to say. Maybe one day I’ll say them to you in person. Or maybe…I won’t. I hope I’m not freaking you out, it’s just that this place is so dark and heartless that I wanted to remind myself what light was like. You…you’re my light.

  I talked with my brother’s girlfriend Kensi for a while tonight. She came to visit. I wasn’t very good company at first, but then she asked me questions about you. She’s offered to visit you for me, to bring you something. I thought about letting her bring you one of my hats or my sweatshirt. I don’t know…I thought girls liked that sort of thing. But I’m too afraid you won’t want it.

  I’m afraid you won’t want me.

  I want to see you so badly it hurts.

  You don’t know this, but I tried—I tried to see you. This place has a way of keeping people on leashes though. I’m okay. Don’t worry, I can take it. I promise you this place won’t defeat me entirely. I’ll come back to you, Emma. We’ll start over, and I’ll take you on a proper date. I’ll hold your hand and buy you popcorn and kiss you in a dark movie theater. And I’ll be your date for prom. And I’ll spend my summer trying to make you laugh.

  I’ll come back to you if you’ll have me. It’s all I’m living for.

  Please write soon.

  Completely yours,

  Andrew

  I can barely see through the tears that stream down my face. My breath is stuttering, and my chest hurts. On instinct, I hold my palm flat over the center, over my scar, counting as I breathe in and breathe out.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  The calm that usually follows is short—the mixture of anger, regret, and heartbreak flooding me again and again.

  Andrew was mine. I was his reason for everything. And when he needed me most, I wasn’t there—because I never knew. And now…now that he’s here…all I’m doing is pushing him away more. My skin turns red, and my body feels hot. My fist clenched, I bring my other arm down on the bed, slamming it hard enough to make the letters jump from the force. I slam my fist down again, then swipe the letters in all directions, sending them to the floor as I collapse onto my bed, my face deep in my sheets. I open my mouth wanting to scream, but I’m aware enough to know that I can’t. Not here, not where anyone can hear me.

  I scream inside, to myself, wishing I could turn back time.

  “Em?” Lindsey knocks at my door. I push myself up, rushing to the floor to gather my letters, to protect them and save them.

  “Just a second. I’m fixing something…on my dress,” I breathe out in a panic, scooping the letters back into the envelope and tucking it into my backpack on my desk to hide them.

  “It’s okay. I just wanted you to know Andrew’s here,” she says. My eyes grow wide, and my body freezes, my fingers about to clutch my door. I pull my hand away and hold it against me.

  Andrew’s here. Just on the other side of this door. I can’t see him—not now. I’m not ready. I want him. I don’t want him with Lindsey. I’m greedy and selfish and these letters…his letters, they’ve completely swept away all reason. And it’s going to hurt my best friend. I don’t know what to do.

  “Oh,” I say, my mouth holding the O as I wait to think of what comes next. Nothing does.

  “Are you leaving soon?”

  She wants to be alone with him. I get that. And I have to leave to meet Graham and Miranda for dinner. I need to be there in twenty minutes, with my mentor and her son—whom I feel nothing for, who if it weren’t for timing and circumstance, I probably wouldn’t even like. This isn’t how any of this should be. How can I look Graham in the face after reading what’s in Andrew’s heart? How can I live this lie knowing he once felt so much for me. He still does. I know it…I believe it.

  “Yeah, just…just a sec,” I choke out. I turn to the side where my backpack rests next to my purse, and I pull my purse into my hands, my eyes staying on the letters I want to carry with me too. I never want to leave them alone. I need to memorize them, feel them—no matter how badly they hurt to read.

  Instead, I pull my mirror from my purse and check my face, powdering my cheeks and wiping away the blurred eyeliner from my cry seconds before. I can paint myself as much as I want—it will never erase how I feel right now. My heart is a steady rhythm, a warning that I should stay in this room, feign an illness. I can’t go out there, I can’t see him, and I cannot be anything with Graham.

  “Emma?”

  Lindsey sounds desperate. I should pull her in here, tell her everything, take the lashing she will give me—that I will deserve. I should.

  “I’m ready,” I say with the last breath that leaves my body in this room.

  I push my door open and immediately meet Lindsey’s eyes. They’re wide. Why are they wide?

  “I think he’s drunk,” she winces, pursing her lips and nodding her head down the hallway. I see part of his body, his legs leaning out as he leans against a wall in our kitchen. His dark jeans gather around his feet, his black shoes, his hands hanging from his thumbs looped in his pockets. I see enough to know that seeing the rest will break me open again.

  “Oh,” I say, just as I said before. I’m weak.

  “It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head. “You have to go; you’re going to be late. I’ll sober him up. Who knows, maybe this will break the ice that he’s had surrounding him lately.”

  Ice. Andrew’s had…ice. Because of me.

  Lindsey walks back down the hall, and I notice Andrew push off from the wall and sway on his feet, his expression meaningless—blank. His eyes haze as he paints her body with his gaze, but on his way back up, his focus is solely on me, and suddenly his expression changes. We’re the same. We are hurting the same. And the way he looks right now—it’s as desperate as I feel. Those words he wrote years ago, they’re still so very relevant now; I see it in his eyes. I see it in his soul.

  He remains several feet away from me, his fingers reaching for Lindsey’s hand while he watches me pull my coat from the hook near the door.

  “Call me if you need anything. We’ll be up late,” Lindsey says. The smile o
n her face makes everything hurt worse. I notice it, but only briefly. For the rest of the time, my eyes stay on Andrew.

  “That’s some guy,” he says, his voice monotone and his eyes flat. “He can’t even come to your door to pick you up.”

  “Andrew!” Lindsey chides him, grimacing. I can tell she’s right—he is a little drunk. But I also think he’s more sober than she realizes, too. I think this Andrew is on the other side of a binge, on his way out, coming through the pain, but bringing it with him. It never leaves him, really.

  “It’s okay,” I smile at my friend. My eyes find him again, and when Lindsey turns away, I mouth, “I’m so sorry.”

  His face falls the second my lips send the message. I don’t know why I said it, other than I had to—I need to say so much more. I need to read those letters.

  I pull the door open and step into the hall, breathing deeply to survive one more night, to be a pleasant dinner guest, to impress my mentor and not to offend her son. I just need a personality for a few more hours, and then I can figure things out.

  When I turn to lock the door behind me, Andrew is holding it open, just enough for my face to be square with his. His eyes hold mine hostage, drifting to my mouth then down my entire body. My scar burns on my chest even though he can’t see it, and I clutch my purse to me tightly to cover it up even more.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “I’m telling Lindsey,” he says, his lips parted and open, his teeth holding his tongue. His breathing is deep, his chest rising with the pressure of everything. He’s not telling me this to tease me. He’s telling me because it’s what he plans to do, because he’s determined. Those words are the gate to a whole hell of a lot he has to say. I can tell. And I wish our time were different; I wish it were right for him to say it and me to hear it. But it’s not…it’s just…not.

  “Don’t,” I say, a small shake of my head.

  “I have to, Emma. You know I do,” he says, closing the door behind him. I place my hand on it and will myself to open it again, to come up with an excuse, to protest what he’s about to do—to stop him from hurting my friend. But I hurt her too. And carrying this on any longer, that’s not right either.