Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  I know she isn’t gone because of me. But there’s also that fucked-up little voice in the back of my head that’s working real hard at convincing me that yeah, she’s gone because of me. I creeped her out. Her parents hate me. She’s moved back to Delaware—fleeing the entire state of Illinois because Andrew Harper is bad news.

  The only thing that’s made me feel better is skating, and I’ve been extra rough with the guys who’ve shown up to scrimmage this week. One of them finally had enough, and checked me back, then took his elbow to my chin hard, cracking my lip open.

  I’ve been sitting on the other side of the glass, spitting, for the last fifteen minutes. Chris, the dude who popped me in the face, stopped by to apologize. I flipped him off.

  “Look at baby Harper,” a voice calls from behind me. I twist in my seat, wincing at the deep bruise Chris apparently left on my ribs. I’m able to shift enough to see my brother’s friend House in my periphery. House is kind of an asshole, but he’s harmless. And he was glued to Owen for most of my life; when he moved away, it was kind of like losing another brother.

  “Dude, what are you doing in town?” I say, standing, but holding the washcloth to my mouth while I slap House’s hand with my free one.

  “Yo, Indiana sucks worse than this shithole,” he says, spitting his tobacco into a cup he’s carrying. That cup—it’s fuckin’ disgusting.

  “Yeah, well, I could have told you that. If you want change, you need to go to the city, or some place like Vegas or California, man,” I say, testing the bloodstain on the rag I’ve been holding to my mouth. The blood is less, so I toss the cloth on top of my borrowed equipment on the floor.

  “Your lip’s all fucked up, dude. What happened?” he says, reaching his hand toward my face as if to touch it. I smack his hand away, but he does it again. He keeps doing it until I punch his arm. “Look at that, baby Harper’s growing up, and he’s feisty.”

  “Dude, whatever,” I roll my eyes and bend down to pick up my things to return to the counter. “It’s nothing. I just took a jab to the face.”

  “You Harpers, always getting hit in your pretty-boy faces,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the counter while I hand my things over to Gary and toss the bloody cloth into the trash.

  “Whatever, man,” I say, stepping toward the door and encouraging House to follow. He isn’t quiet, and people are already starting to watch us suspiciously. House—he’s like a warning siren for a shit-storm of trouble.

  He follows me out to the parking lot, to my car, and when he whistles, my chest feels a little fuller. There are few people who will recognize this car—my brother and House are at the top of that list.

  “Damn, that old man finally sold it. Or…wait, did you lift this shit?” he says, stepping back with his hands in the air.

  “Fuck off. Mom bought it, but I have to pay her back,” I say, cracking open the door, not even minding the sound it makes.

  “You are the good son,” he teases, pushing me out of the way and sitting in the driver’s seat. “Ohhhhhh, baby Harp. This shit is fast, yo? Hey…you got time? I’m dying to see it open up.”

  I glance at my phone as if I have anywhere to be. It’s not quite lunchtime on Saturday, and the girl I’m stalking is nowhere to be found, so I look back up at him and let my grin grow slowly.

  “Yeah haaa haaa,” he says, slapping at the top of the steering wheel. He reaches for the keys, but I only open the door as wide as it will go. He gets out with a chuckle, then jukes toward me like he wants to grab my keys. I don’t flinch, because House has been doing shit like that to me for years. Maybe I see him coming now, or maybe I’m just so used to it I don’t juke for anyone any more. I think the latter might be the case, and I also think that’s maybe why I let Chris punch me with his elbow about twenty minutes ago.

  House gets into the passenger side, and I buckle up and wait for him to do the same. He rolls his eyes at me, but he does it anyhow. I look around the lot, and when I confirm it’s empty, I fishtail backward from my spot until I hit the roadway, then I punch it and feel the tires grip after a few seconds of burnt rubber and smoke. The back end slides for the first hundred yards, but I straighten everything out—careful not to punch the gas until we hit the edge of town.

  House leans forward, and we both glance in all directions, checking for cops. It’s winter, so the landscape is pretty clear. In the summer, the asshole cops hide behind the corn. I crack my knuckles as a joke, and House laughs, his cackle growing more maniacal as I hit the gas hard and climb the car up to ninety in a few seconds. The roar echoes everywhere; I try to take the car up over a hundred, but it starts to feel loose, so I back off.

  I flip around at the edge of the woods and push it just as fast on the way back toward town, slowing down to the speed limit when we start to see other cars. House has turned the radio up, and he’s rolled down his window. I can tell he’s happy. It’s nice having him here, too. He and I—we used to do this a lot.

  I drive him back to the Ice Palace lot and pull up next to his truck. He gets out, but pauses at my door, knocking on the window. I roll it down.

  “Hey, a few of us are getting together for a little party at Sasha’s. Mostly guys you know. Anyhow, if you wanna come, just hit me up,” he says. I nod, and think about forgetting his invitation immediately—just like I used to. But then I realize, Owen’s gone. And I was invited.

  “Hey! House!” I shout out the window just before he climbs into his pickup. He turns and flips me off, because that’s his thing. “I’m in. What time?”

  “Show up around five. And bring fuckin’ pizza!” he yells, half chuckling.

  Maybe I’m the guy bringing the pizza, but House wouldn’t invite me if he didn’t want me there. He’s always been an extension of Owen, and I think I’ll always be a kid brother in his eyes because of that closeness.

  One fucked up family. But it’s mine.

  * * *

  I spend a few hours wrapping up some reading on existentialism for an essay due next week, then I rush out of the apartment around four, giving myself enough time to pick up pizza and avoid my mom coming home from work. I leave a note for her and Dwayne that I’ll be out late, knowing if I say I’m with House that she will call. I just say I’m meeting with a few of the hockey guys instead.

  On my way to pick up food, I swing by Emma’s house, and everything about it is as quiet and shut down as it has been all week. Her family has disappeared, but there are a few lights on inside. It’s always the same ones, which makes me think maybe they’ve just taken off for a family trip or a vacation. A little weird in early October, but maybe that’s a thing normal families do. I wouldn’t know. We’ve never taken a trip anywhere, other than a drive for the day up to Wisconsin for some water slides. And that trip was all Owen’s doing.

  I stop by the pizza joint next, pick up the four large ones House ordered, and head to Sasha’s.

  I’ve been here a few times, but never for long. Usually, I was tagging along with Owen while he talked to someone about something or made plans with House. He never let me stay. But tonight, I pull up on my own, in my own car—invited.

  “Douchebag!” House shouts the second I walk through the door.

  “You owe me fuckin’ money, yo!” I say, sliding the pizzas on the counter seconds before a dozen people I don’t recognize flip open the lids and start taking away slices. House walks into the kitchen and throws a wadded up ten-dollar bill at me. I look at it in my hand and then furrow my brow at him.

  “It’s all I got now. I’ll hit you up with the rest later,” he says, already devouring a slice.

  “Right you will,” I say, stuffing the money into my wallet and knowing it’s all I’m going to get. House confirms it with his full-mouthed laugh.

  I grab a slice and follow him to the sunken living room, taking a seat in one of the large beanbag chairs. The lights are low, and there’s a group of people playing pool at a table in a room near the back of the house.

  E
verything in here is either really expensive or a piece of trash. It’s weird. I know Sasha’s parents have money—they own a lot of land, and they’ve sold most of it. They farm this small plot, and they don’t even do their own farming.

  They’re never around, but I heard Sasha and her friends are staying here for college, driving to Northwestern for school. The result—this farmhouse has become a five-bedroom dorm without any supervision.

  “Hey, baby Harp…” House nudges me with a red plastic cup in his hand. I take it from him and smell it; it isn’t beer. “Just drink it.”

  I take a small sip and start to cough instantly while House leans forward and lets out a belly laugh. “Welcome to your first taste of Jack, baby Harp. Don’t tell your brother I gave it to you; he’ll kick my ass,” he says, holding his cup out to click cheers with mine, urging me to drink the rest along with him.

  I do.

  And I drink one more after that.

  I’ve been drunk on beer before. Owen was always more lenient about that. But never the hard stuff. This buzz…it’s different.

  I like it.

  I stop after two, though, and manage to discard a third shot of whiskey, knowing any more will probably have me throwing up. The living room has become the hub for the party, and Sasha has set herself next to me, her legs draped across my lap from one side of the beanbag to the other. I can tell she’s lit, and House keeps raising an eyebrow at me.

  “You look a lot like your brother, you know?” she says, taking a long, slow drink of whatever’s in her cup. Sasha was always the girl—the red-hot one who every guy wanted to sleep with and many had. She always liked Owen, though. They had a fling, but I don’t think she could ever call my brother hers.

  Right now, she’s looking at me with eyes that say she’s willing to accept the consolation—even if it’s three years younger.

  “Well, we’re related,” I say, laying my hands on her knees, feeling the temptation of how smooth they are sting my fingertips. I leave them there for a few seconds and slide them out an inch at a time, moving up her thigh and down her shin simultaneously, like I’m playing an instrument. She bites her bottom lip when I do, letting it slowly slide from her teeth, and I can completely understand why every other dude in the room wants to trade spots with me right now.

  “You’re the cuter one,” she teases me. I keep my eyes on her legs, knowing if I look to the right, into her eyes, they’ll be waiting to seduce me. But then…

  Sasha isn’t Emma.

  I’m buzzed, but that thought floats on repeat in my head. Emma. I can’t stop thinking about Emma.

  “Well, I’m younger, so I guess that makes me cuter,” I say, lips tight in a semi-smile, hiding my inner struggle to do the right thing. Sliding my hands under her legs gingerly, I let myself hesitate for one extra second before lifting her legs from my lap and pushing myself to my feet.

  I move to the stools on the other side of the room, taking a seat next to House, who is shaking his head at me.

  “Dude, you might be the first virgin I’ve ever seen say no to that,” he laughs lightly.

  “Yeah,” I sigh.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a joint he’s been smoking for the last few minutes. I look at it in his hand, then look to Sasha who has now let her legs fall open; I can see the black lace of her underwear peaking out through the middle. I turn back to the joint and pinch it between my fingers, bringing it to my lips. Drunk and high is still probably a better choice. Of course, the smart thing probably would have been to choose neither, but I blew that with the second shot of whiskey.

  I spend the next three hours intensely watching two guys play a made-up game on the pool table—rolling the striped balls at the solids. There don’t seem to be any rules, or fuck—maybe there are rules. Whatever, it’s fascinating. I watch it until I realize exactly how boring it is, and when I glance at my watch, it’s ten o’clock at night and somehow five hours of my life have passed and I missed it.

  I walk through the house to find a bathroom and stumble into a room where House seems to have filled whatever need Sasha had, and I feel a little tinge of regret that I didn’t give in. Her shirt is off, and her bare tits are staring at me. She’s clearly comfortable with her body, because she stands up from her straddling position on House, her lace underwear the only thing on, and steps toward me. House slaps her ass as she walks away, his drunken laugh a soundtrack to her strut.

  “Bathroom,” I stutter, somehow. She giggles and moves close enough to touch my chest with her index finger, dragging it slowly down my T-shirt and stomach until she runs it along my now-hard cock.

  “Down the hall one more door,” she smiles, pressing her palm flat against my jeans and pausing as I pulse. “Or you can stay…”

  “I’m good,” I breathe, aware of every sensation happening under the zipper of my jeans. I leave the room and hear her laughter briefly behind the door, but I keep my resolve, putting one foot in front of the next until I get to the bathroom where I take the most painful piss of my entire life—then spend about five minutes running water over my face.

  I quickly pass the room on my way back down the hall, not wanting to hear any sounds that might act as a siren and call me in.

  Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I twist the cap and drink about half of it before fishing my keys from my pocket. In a house full of people, I’m still alone, and I wonder if this is how Owen felt when he would come to these parties.

  I step out front and spend a half an hour throwing rocks from Sasha’s driveway into the thick forest abutting her property—listening to each rock fall through the cracked branches and onto the bed of dried brush and leaves. The first snow hasn’t happened yet, but it’s coming. I can see my breath.

  My breath.

  I cup my hands and smell as best I can. I’m sure I stink of whiskey. Or maybe not. I only had a couple shots hours ago, though, and I feel fine. Maybe a little bit of a headache, but fine otherwise.

  I climb into my car and turn the engine on, letting the heat seep into my sweatshirt and reach my skin. My knuckles are red from being cold, so I hold my hands over the vent for a few minutes, letting my bones thaw.

  When I glance to the empty seat next to me, I think of Emma. Shutting my eyes, I let my head fall back against the seat and imagine her there. I’m interrupted by the sound of my car door flying open, and I’m startled when House climbs in, laughing hysterically and talking a million-words-a-minute.

  “Fucker, get out of my car,” I push at him.

  “Yo…yo…no, listen,” he says, speaking through laughter. He’s drunk. And stoned. I’ve seen him like this a hundred times, and it’s always a pain in the ass. “I’m hungry. Like, really hungry. Take me to get a burger, dude. Come on.”

  “Go make a sandwich, and get the fuck out of my car,” I say, gripping the wheel, intent on not taking House anywhere.

  “Awwww, come on man. Here, here…I’ll give you some shit,” he says, pulling a sad-ass bag of weed from his pocket, giggling as he fumbles with it.

  “Dude!” I roll my eyes.

  “Fucker. You suck,” he says, reaching over the console and smacking my face hard enough that it stings and I’m sure it’s pink.

  I lunge at him, but he’s too fast, and is already out of the car walking back toward the house. I am pretty sure I’m okay not getting invited to another one of these parties.

  With a deep breath, I look back at the wheel and then to the once-again empty seat, trying to get back to the place I was—imagining Emma there. When it doesn’t work, I push the car into drive and do the next best thing, heading to her house.

  I expect the same empty driveway, the lack of cars in the street, the single light shining through the upstairs window. But when I pull around the corner, everything about the Burke house is full and lived in. I’m fumbling with my seatbelt before I even stop the car; I shove the gear into park, and turn the engine off the second I pull behind the small car along the street.

>   I get to the middle of the brick walkway when I realize I have no clue what I’m doing. It’s almost midnight, and I’m sure everyone in the house is asleep, and I barely know Emma—let alone her family, but she’s in there.

  Knowing I can’t knock on the door, I step backward along the walkway and look up to the brightly lit windows over the front door. I make my way to the other side of the street, my eyes straining to figure out what room I’m looking at. I can see two ceiling fans spinning, and the tops of some bookcases, and I’m sure I’m looking at a loft space.

  Jogging back across the street, I slow when I come to the corner of the house, and I walk cautiously over the wood chips and mulch along the trail in the side yard. There’s another light on near the rear of her home, so I move to that area, stepping back just enough to let me see pink drapes along either side of a small bay window and then a knee.

  Her knee.

  I know it’s her leg. I’ve stared at it in PE shorts and pretended to grip it with my hand in my car. I’ve memorized the fantasy of that leg, and I would know it anywhere. She’s sitting in her window, and I’m overcome with a sense of urgency to talk to her.

  Looking around the ground in front of me, I bend to pick up a few wood chips then toss them at the base of her window. They’re not heavy enough, and they fall back to the ground after a few feet. I move a little farther away from her window, and finally find some stones nestled in the tufts of dead grass around her lawn. I toss my first one gently, not wanting to make too loud of a noise, but it barely grazes the side of the house. I wait, and her leg doesn’t move.

  Fuck.

  I hold my arm up and take a deep breath before launching my second attempt. This one pings directly off her window, and her leg jumps back fast. I scared her. Shit! I scared her. I hold my breath, waiting for her face to appear. But it doesn’t. She’s not looking for the noise. I panic and look for another rock, finding a small one and throwing it quickly without much aim. It ricochets off the side of the house, but close enough to her window that she has to know.