by Ginger Scott
“I’ll tell you what happened,” the man sitting next to him says, his white hair tufting on either side of his head, his eyes framed with thick black-rimmed glasses. “This young…hooligan…tried to pocket this charm bracelet while he was emptying out the trash! That’s what’s going on.”
The man waves a small, silver bracelet toward Owen, and it jangles while he shakes it to emphasize his opinion. I look to Owen, looking for confirmation that this is false. But there’s a part of me that wonders, the part that knows how dangerous Owen can be. This…this would be such a small thing for him—not even a thrill from the crime.
I wait while he shuts his eyes and shakes his head, and I’m not sure what he’s feeling. “I told you, I bought it this morning, from the girl who was working here,” Owen says, and my chest fills with air, my body washed with relief.
“There, see?” I say, standing, practically demanding and proclaiming him innocent.
“Then where’s the receipt, you little piece of shit?” the old man yells, standing and smacking his hand down on the seat he just abandoned. I look to the officer, who stands silently, his pen already armed to take down the guilty report.
“We’ve done this already. I can’t find it. But maybe it’s in my truck. Just let me look,” Owen says, his voice trailing off because he knows the response he’ll get.
“Bullshit, you’ll just take off,” the old man says.
“Where the FUCK am I gonna go?” Owen yells, his eyes simmering now, the shadow closing in over him. “Fuck! You know who I am! You all know my family! This isn’t a big town. You seriously think I’m going to shoplift a bracelet for sixty bucks—then leave my home and go off into the sunset? Where the fuck would I go, man? Use some goddamned logic at least if you’re going to judge me without any facts or reasons.”
“Let me look,” I say, my eyes darting between the officer and the shop owner, neither of them paying attention. “Owen, where are your keys?”
“In the back. This prick took them,” he says.
“Don’t you call me that,” the old man says.
I ignore them all, march to the back where Owen’s keys are sitting on a stack of notebooks on an old metal desk. I grab them and walk back through the store. “Hey, you can’t take those. Those aren’t yours!” the old man yells as I pass him.
“Yeah, well they aren’t yours either, you prejudiced asshole!” I say as I storm through the door, the small string of bells dangling from the door handle announcing my exit.
I find Owen’s truck quickly, parked near the road, away from the shops, in a spot no customers would want. I unlock his door and scan my eyes over his seat, the only thing there an empty licorice wrapper and the paper from a stick of gum. Owen’s sunglasses are on the dashboard, as are a few papers. I leaf through them, noting that one of them is a letter from Bradley University, interest in Owen’s basketball intentions. The letter looks yellowed, so I look to find the date—two months old.
I toss the stack of papers back to their spot on the dash and pull open the glove box, finding nothing but his insurance and registration card and an envelope with a few dollar bills inside and some gas receipts. It has to be here. I know it in my heart that he isn’t lying.
Stepping away from the truck, I look at the long bench seat through the open door, and I pull my hand to my mouth, my teeth working on my short, already chewed down thumbnail while I think. With a small tilt of my head, I notice something different along the floorboard, deep in a corner along the floor of Owen’s driver’s side. There’s a small speck of pink, and when I step closer, I realize it’s paper. Scooting forward on my elbows, I move my body under the steering wheel and lift slightly on the gas pedal, sliding the floor mat back a tiny bit.
MOORE’S GIFT HUT is written in large, bold letters along the top, and a handwritten note details a bracelet, today’s date, $58.47, and it’s signed by the name Patricia. I grasp it in my hand, wrinkling it, but more concerned about somehow dropping it, or a gust of wind carrying it away. I slam Owen’s door to a close and run back to the store where the officer now has Owen standing, his palm on his back getting ready to guide him through the door.
“It’s here! It’s here!” I say, pushing the receipt into the officer’s hands. He sets his clipboard down, lets his other hand fall away from Owen, then unwrinkles the pink paper for inspection.
“Sir, is this receipt from your store?” he asks, handing the paper to the old man, who scrambles to push his glasses to the tip of his nose, holding the paper up in the light. I’m looking at an entire stack of similar pages stuck through a pin on his counter, and I turn to Owen and wink. But Owen’s face still looks sullen.
“Patricia, yeah she was here this morning. And the numbers all match up,” he says, standing and walking over to the counter, pulling a few old receipts out just to make sure the handwriting is to his satisfaction. He’s putting on a show, because he’s embarrassed; he was wrong.
“All right, looks like things worked out this time, Harper,” the officer says, pulling a pocket knife from his pocket and cutting the strip of plastic on the disposable cuffs that were holding Owen hostage. He rubs his wrists and stretches his arms across his chest, then turns to look at the old man across the counter.
“Well…you can’t be too careful,” the old man begins, his voice stuttering, panicked. He can’t believe he was wrong. Owen doesn’t say a word, only holding out his hand until the old man realizes what he wants, and hands him the bracelet.
“I’ve been stolen from a lot this year,” the old man continues, trying to explain to me now, but I’m no longer interested in anything he has to say either. I follow Owen out the door, and as we pass my mom’s car, I expect him to stop, but he keeps walking. After he’s several paces ahead of me, I call his name, but he doesn’t turn around. His pace is steady, and his shoulders are low, ashamed.
I jog until I’m caught up with him again, and follow his footsteps until we’re at the driver’s door for his truck. “Owen, wait!” I say, wanting to say something better, something that would show him I didn’t doubt him. But then again, there was a moment where I did. I doubted him, for just a fraction of a second—because of everything I’ve been told.
“Here,” he says, tossing the silver chain, heavy with charms, to me. I catch it in both hands, looking down at it with a pinched brow, confused. “I got that for you.”
He leaves quickly, never looking me in the eyes. The light is fading as dusk starts to settle in, so I shuffle my feet back to my car, my fingers rubbing obsessively over the metal trinkets in my hand. I flip the dome light on as soon as I’m buckled in the car, then I open my palm and look at my gift from Owen. I fall apart all at once; each charm is thoughtful, precious—one a note, one a piano, one a pick-up truck, and the last one a Ferris wheel.
I dial Owen three times, each call going right to his voicemail. So I give up, slam the car gear into reverse, and speed away from the shopping center. A few times, I convince myself that I can see Owen’s lights, that it’s his truck I’m following. But it never is, each time the driver turning the wrong way.
When I pull into my driveway, the car skids over the dip in the gutter, grinding metal along pavement, but the noise is just enough to stop Owen as his foot is about to step up his porch.
I push the gear in park, fly from the door and leave the car running in my driveway—my feet skipping carefully over the rocks and dips from the concrete of my driveway to his front yard. Owen doesn’t move, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there, his hands limp at his sides, his hat pushed low over his eyes, hiding how pathetic he feels—how vulnerable he is. I ignore it all, my hand grasping my bracelet, my gift, so tightly that the metal is leaving an indentation in my palm.
“I love it,” I say, walking swiftly up to him, my breathing coming hard. “My bracelet. Owen…thank you. I love it.”
He doesn’t say a word, but he glances down at my open palm, his eyes twitching with the motion of my hands as I struggle with t
he clasp and work to wrap the chain around one wrist with my opposite hand. I hold my arm against my chest, keeping the end of the bracelet in place and finally hook it closed.
“It’s beautiful, Owen. This…it’s beautiful. Thank you,” I say, my eyes glossing over with the want to cry. I stand before him, waiting for him to say something, say anything. Instead, he’s motionless, and I give up. “I just wanted you to know how much I love it. How thankful I am…I’m sorry, Owen,” I say, my smile fading fast, my eyes falling low as I turn and walk back to my house, to a kitchen full of pasta and sauce, enough to feed a real family. Only I’m coming back alone….
“You’re beautiful. That…it’s just a bracelet. But you…” Owen says, and I stop, my throat catching my emotion at the sound of his voice. It’s deep and raspy, just like that first night in his truck. His hand is on my shoulder, my feet stopped and my body shivering.
With slow movements, his feet glide closer, an inch at a time, while his hand sweeps my hair around my neck. He slides his touch down my shoulder and arm until his hand is completely wrapped around my wrist. Lifting my arm slowly, Owen slides the edge of my sleeve with his finger, exposing the bracelet along my pale skin, the weight of the charms sliding up as he brings my hand closer to my shoulder, closer to him.
I can feel him breathe along my neck, and when the warmth of his mouth tickles my fingers, then my wrist, my eyes roll to a close—the feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. This is the dream I’ve had in my bed every night since I’ve met Owen Harper. Only this isn’t a dream at all. It’s really happening.
Owen loosens his grip on my wrist, letting go completely—then moving his hand to my jaw, pulling my chin up so I look at the dark, cloud-covered sky. When his lips touch the freezing skin along my neck, my knees grow weak, and I nearly slip to the ground.
With a more forceful grip, Owen reaches into my hair and turns me into him quickly, my breath catching when I realize how close I am to him, how much of him I can smell, feel, touch—taste. Both of his hands rise to my cheeks, his thumbs giving each one a gentle stroke while he looks at me.
No boy has ever touched me like this. No boy has ever given me a gift. And I’ve never wanted a boy to kiss me more than I do right now—to kiss me like the way they do in the movies, like a grown woman, like the woman I’m so close to becoming.
Every movement he makes is slow and studied, his eyes watching as his hand works in and out of my hair, then runs along my arm again, feeling the bracelet against my skin. When Owen leans into me, I begin to shut my eyes, my lips quivering, ready to meet his, but his mouth keeps moving, finding my neck and ear first, his tongue taking small strokes along the way. I’ve watched Owen do this, watched him kiss other girls like this. And as much as I also secretly wanted to be in their place, I now know that I don’t want to be them at all.
I want to be more.
“Owen, I’m not Kiera,” I breathe, his touch halting with my words. His hands never leave their spot, cradling my head, but Owen’s mouth leaves my neck, his eyes serious when they come into view, his mouth a tight, straight line. My hands move to grip his elbows, to steady me in my moment of weakness, my legs threatening to betray me and send me to the ground again.
After several long seconds under his scrutiny, under the power of his gaze, he pulls me even closer, shutting his eyes as his mouth comes within a fraction of an inch of mine, his bottom lip grazing my top lip and sending a lighting bolt into the depths of my belly.
His mouth brushes against mine a few more times, each pass leaving me wanting more, forcing my lips to part, my skin to radiate with need, until finally he speaks. “You’re right,” he says, holding my head to his, our mouths ready, waiting. “You’re so much more.”
His mouth covers mine fast, his strong lips working my naïve and novice ones quickly into submission. His hands crawl around my head and body until he’s pulling me to him so tightly that it becomes hard to breathe, but air—breathing—it’s so unnecessary. I follow his lead, copy his every move, and grip him tightly, my fingers exploring the powerful muscles along his back and sides, feeling all of those physical things I’ve hungered for, until I’m stretching on my toes to reach him just to keep our lips intact.
With one swift action, Owen’s hand slides down the small of my back, to my butt, and he lifts me up against him, carrying me while he takes giant strides to his truck, our lips never once breaking their hold on one another. He sets me on the bed of his truck and shifts his hands up the sides of my body, his finger’s pausing at my ribs, his hands flexing with indecision. I can tell he wants to touch me, to feel me, and I love that his hands crave the feel of my breasts. The mere thought of him touching me there—in a place where boys who weren’t worthy have barely felt me—makes my mouth hungrier, and I put all of the passion I’m feeling into our kiss.
I don’t know when the back light clicked on, and I never heard the door, but when I let my eyes slip open, I notice. My wits are with me enough to realize that my mom is probably still watching this from somewhere inside our house. And while a small part of me doesn’t care, there’s another part that doesn’t want to talk about boys and kissing and what’s appropriate and what isn’t with my mother. Not that I mind talking to my mom, I just don’t want to talk about my beating heart with someone whose heart is broken.
“Dinner,” I breathe out one word finally—a word that makes no sense to Owen, and barely registers with me. Our lips part, but Owen’s hold on my face remains, his forehead resting against mine while he stands in front of my dangling legs, his feet shuffling with what I think might just be excitement and nerves.
“You want…dinner?” he asks, his lip pulling into a smirk on one side, a deep dimple impressing on one cheek.
“My mom. She said I could invite you for dinner. She’s…she’s been cooking all day. For you…and Andrew,” I say, my cheeks finally finding feeling again after the rush of heat that coursed through them.
“Is she trying to poison me?” he jokes, his lips giving mine one small peck while his forehead sways side-to-side against mine in a way that feels natural and familiar.
“No more than I tried with the grilled cheese. You seem to have a very high tolerance,” I smile.
“Well, I’ve had girls try to poison me before. I guess I’m immune,” he jokes, and I can’t help the way my lips slide into a frown at the mention of girls—other girls.
“Yeah, but I’m smarter than them. So I might be able to get the job done,” I say, swinging my legs just enough to lightly kick him in the knee.
“First of all, ouch! Don’t kick the knees. I’ve had surgery,” he says, as he lifts me from the truck, swinging my body around until I’m resting on his driveway, his arms still looped around my body while my hands are clutched against his chest, searching for warmth. “And second of all, you’re not just smarter than other girls. You’re…”
He doesn’t finish his words, instead sucking in his bottom lip, letting his teeth hold it in place while his head falls to mine one last time.
“So are you,” I say, letting myself have something I want, say something I mean—something risky and scary.
When Owen’s eyes close completely and his smile slowly pulls his lips loose from his teeth, I understand what the rest of that sentence is.
Everything.
Owen Harper is everything.
Chapter 13
“So?” Willow says, her face full of nosey curiosity while she watches me climb into her car.
“So…what?” I respond. I’m not going to make this easy.
“Come on!” she says with a laugh while she backs down my driveway. “You can’t text me that you kissed Owen, and then pretend it never happened! You ignored every single follow-up text and my two phone calls after that. You’re a bad bomb dropper. No cleanup afterward. Like…at all!”
I giggle, and the sound of happiness coming from my mouth is nice, foreign…but nice. It’s a sound I haven’t made in a while. �
��You kissed him. You know what it’s like. What’s to tell?” I tease, moving my book bag into my lap and pulling my gloves out to slip on my hands.
“Kens, I was fourteen when I kissed him. We were still dancing with bent elbows and rocking back-and-forth in the school gym at that time. I’ve seen that boy kiss now, and trust me—it’s different! I want deets,” she says.
“Deets?” I say, slowly, one eyebrow cocked in her direction.
“Gahhhhh! Details. Deets! Don’t make fun of my hip language, now spill it!” Willow’s gum snaps, and I study her for a few seconds while she signals at the light and turns down the street to our school. She’s so different from Morgan and Gaby. They both come from money, lots and lots of money. My family was comfortable middle class, sure. But I also used to have to listen to my mom dodge creditors and argue with my dad over bills. Those conversations never happened in my friends’ worlds. And while I always found Morgan and Gaby to be more down-to-earth than the rest of our peers at Bryce, that feeling of not being a real member of their club was always there—even with Gaby. Willow looks like someone I’m supposed to know, like the friend that perhaps I was always supposed to have.
Like someone I can trust.
“How long have you been with Jess?” I ask, changing the subject, but with a reason.
“Uhhhh, like, more than a year. Why? Is this still about that thing Ryan said? That I’m into Owen? Kens, you know I’m not…” she says, and I interrupt.
“No, no. I know, I was just curious,” I say, leaving my gaze on her. I bite at the inside of my mouth, a little nervous to push our friendship. “Have you and Jess….you know?”
I know she knows what I mean. I can tell by the way her eyebrows flare quickly, and the way she adjusts her grip on the steering wheel.
“Uhm, you did only kiss him, right? I mean…was there…more?” she asks, and I correct this quickly.
“Yeah, I mean no. I mean…yes, just a kiss. We just kissed,” I say. My armpits are actually sweating, and my chest is pounding, I’m so uncomfortable. I’ve only ever talked about things like this with Gaby. She had a lot of…experience, clearly more than I was aware of, and now she’s gone. And I have so many questions. “It’s just…I like him, Will. I like him…a lot. I’m pretty sure I’ve never liked a boy like this. No…I know I haven’t. And he’s…”