Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  Number 907.

  I’m nine stories away from the girl who ruined my life.

  My plan is pathetic. I’m not going to ring the bell. I’m not going to knock. I’m just going to slide the ID under her door, then get the fuck out of here. I thought about leaving it with the doorman. But I have to see. There’s something that’s pushing me forward, some part of me that just needs to get close, to know exactly where she lives, what her door looks like.

  When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, I pause briefly, considering riding it back down and going with the other plan—leaving her license at the front desk. But the hallway is quiet, and that silence coaxes me through the doors that fall closed behind me.

  Breath held, I glance back down at her picture in my hand, the sharp edges of her license digging into my skin as my hand closes on it, squeezing it so hard I bend it a little. Signs on the wall guide me down the hallway to the right, so I walk by a few doors until I get to her number, slowing down before I’m fully in front of the frame. I don’t want her to see me here—not through a crack in the door, not through a peephole.

  There’s nothing special about her door at all. There’s only the number on the outside. No welcome mats or seasonal décor plastered on the doorknob or frame like a few of her neighbors. It’s just a door, and it looks just like any other door.

  Emma is just any other girl, I remind myself.

  I laugh lightly at how ridiculous I’m being and how nervous I am for no reason. She’ll never even know, and I can go back to living a life without her, now knowing a few places to avoid.

  Bending down, I slip her license from the pocket in the front of my hoodie, and hold it between my thumb and finger, sliding it along the carpet until it meets the bottom edge of her door. When I see it fits, I flick it hard with my finger, satisfied when it disappears underneath.

  “Uhm, excuse me?”

  The voice behind me scares me enough that I jump forward and press my hand flat on Emma’s door to catch my balance. I know it isn’t her; I’m pretty sure I’d still know her voice. But it’s someone. And I’ve now been seen—here! When I get to my feet and turn, I’m greeted by a girl with a laundry basket filled with towels, detergent, and fabric softener.

  Not Emma.

  All that matters.

  “Sorry, I…” I stop, realizing I can’t really make up an excuse, nor do I need to. “I found someone’s license at the bar last night, so thought I’d just drop it off. I…I knew where the building was.”

  I slide my hood from my head when she starts looking at me suspiciously. I pull my beanie off too and run my hand through my hair, pushing it out of my face. I probably look a little rough, still bruised from a fight and sweaty from practice.

  “Oh my god. Emma’s!” Her eyes light up with realization. “Thank you so much! Oh my god, she’s been totally freaked out over that! She’s going to die. I have to call her. Thank you so much!”

  “No problem. Really,” I say, exchanging places with her in the hallway. Just hearing her say Emma’s name does something, twists something deep inside. I was anxious to leave, but it’s like there’s a part of me that’s been asleep for years, and hearing the word Emma woke it up. My mind is begging my feet to carry me away, but there’s that other thing inside me that suddenly wants to stay.

  The girl is balancing her basket and reaching for her keys. She drops them on the floor, and as I see her struggle to kneel down with the basket and pick them up again, an idea strikes me.

  “Here, let me hold that,” I say, bending and taking the basket from her. She smiles gratefully, fumbling with her keys, sorting through the dozen or so on her ring to find the right one. Why do chicks have so many keys? How many things do you seriously need to keep locked?

  Finally finding the door key, her eyes flit up to me a few times as she nervously works it into the lock. The more jumpy she gets, the more I start to like my probably-very-bad idea. I like how it’s making me feel.

  Her door finally open, I follow her inside, reaching down to pick up Emma’s license as we step over the threshold.

  “Here, I slid it under the door,” I say, stepping in a little closer than I need to. I want to see her reaction. Her mouth twists into the kind of smile she’s trying to control. I can tell by the slight shiver in her lips. I step to the side, giving her some space, and notice the deep breath she lets out. I slide her basket onto the table right inside the door, glancing around to take in the full apartment.

  So this is where Emma lives now.

  “I like your place,” I say, noticing she’s still looking at me, still trying not to smile. She glances to the side of my face, examining my bruise. “Oh, I…I play hockey here. Game injury,” I lie. She likes my excuse though, her smile losing its battle a little more.

  When her back is turned, I look down the hallway and out on the patio that seems to run the width of their apartment. There’s nothing in here that screams Emma—not that I’d know what that would be any more. It’s a nice apartment. Not any bigger than mine, really, but the neighborhood’s nicer, everything’s newer. It’s a good place for two girls to live alone.

  “Hockey, huh?” the girl says. Interested. Yeah, that usually works. I nod down at my chest, to my NTU Hockey sweatshirt. “Oh…” she says, blushing when she looks back up and our eyes meet.

  “That’s where I came from. We had a light practice. There’s a game tonight,” I say, my pulse kicking in all the right places. It’s a mix of adrenaline and fear of being caught. “You ever come out to the games?”

  Or maybe you and your roommate? Does she know I’m here? Is she avoiding me? Dozens of questions race through my mind, but I keep everything calm on the outside.

  “Oh, no. Emma and me don’t get out much. We’re both pre-med—total book nerds. Almost scalpel nerds, ha! We just moved in…maybe two months ago,” she says. “Last night was rare for us. We hardly ever go out.”

  She doesn’t ask me to leave, instead moving into the kitchen toward the fridge, so I give her a little space before following her steps. I don’t want to make her nervous. But I also want to see how far I can go with this—what I can learn.

  Scalpel. She’s really becoming a surgeon. I almost smile at the thought of her living one of her dreams, but then my other feelings take over.

  “So just the girl on that ID and you here?” I’m looking around for a sign of a boyfriend, but I’m not getting the vibe that one exists from this girl, for either of them.

  My naïve host is wearing a sweatshirt and leggings, and she’s already kicked her feet out of the boots she was wearing which means she’s comfortable with me being here in her space. She’s cute—short hair, cut to her shoulders, kind of brown, kind of blonde. She’s small, like the sort of girl I could pick up easily over my shoulder, and what I can see of her body, looks pretty tight.

  “Yeah, just Emma and me,” she smirks, sliding an unopened can of cola toward me when she turns back. I pull the tab up, and the carbonation sprays over the counter. Pulling my sleeve forward on my hand, I wipe it away before peering back up at her to catch her lip in her teeth while she watches.

  “And you are?” I tilt my head to the side, and I know the second her lip slides loose from her teeth that I’ve got her. She blushes—hard.

  “Oh, right. Hi, I’m Lindsey.” Her voice comes out in a nervous giggle. I stand and wipe the moisture of the soda from my hand, reaching across the counter to her.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Drew.”

  Her hand is cold when I shake it, so I bring my other hand up to cup it completely, rubbing them together to warm her up. She likes it. I can tell. Her entire hand is swallowed up between both of mine. It’s almost sweet. Yet…I feel nothing.

  “Thanks,” she sighs, the smile she’s been trying to manage growing a little more out of control. She’s into me.

  “So…I’ve gotta go, Lindsey…game tonight and all. But I was wondering if maybe you’d let me come back here sometime, say ar
ound dinnertime, so I could take you out?”

  Her eyes grow wider, and I get the feeling she’s not used to guys being so blunt. That’s fine, because I’m not used to hitting on girls without some sort of pretense—like a missing phone or wallet. There just happens to be a bigger thirst I’m trying to quench right now, and Lindsey’s really the only safe way for me to get at it.

  Lindsey isn’t really safe at all.

  But I can’t stop. Whatever I’m doing has my belly warm, and I feel more energized about the next minute, the next hour and the next day than I have in years.

  This isn’t flirting; it’s strategy.

  “I’d like that,” she says, her eyes flitting once more. I could kiss her right now, and she’d let me. I think about it, letting my tongue lick my bottom lip at the thought. Oh how great it would be if Emma walked in right now, and my lips were on her roommate. My eyes haze a little, and her breath hitches, which gives me a satisfied grin. I don’t give her what I know she wants, instead stepping back and watching her smile falter, replaced by disappointment. She stammers to get me to stay longer.

  “Here…uhm…what’s your number? I’ll text you.” She’s opening her contacts screen on her phone when I take the device from her, letting my hands run into hers during the exchange. She giggles.

  “There,” I say, handing it back after I’ve typed my number in and sent myself a message with her name. “How about Wednesday at seven?”

  “That’s good,” she says, following me back to the front door. My pulse is racing with adrenaline. I have no idea if Emma is coming upstairs, or if she’s doing laundry too. I know that she’s worried about her ID, and I know Lindsey will text her about it the minute I’m gone. She’ll tell her all about the guy who brought it here then asked her out. I’ll be this cute story they’ll share. Then on Wednesday, I’ll find out exactly what Emma’s doing here, how long she plans to stay, and how long I have to think about her.

  “Good. I’ll text you, and we’ll meet somewhere nearby,” I say, stepping through her door, relief washing over me when I find the hallway still empty. There’s a slight exhilaration that flies through my veins too. I’m playing with fire, and I like how it feels.

  I wink at her before I turn to leave. When her door shuts, I take big strides toward the stairwell, deciding this is probably the best route to be sure I don’t run into Emma. There’s a part of me that feels lighter now that I don’t have her license on me, like I’ve gotten rid of this massive obligation. Adding the roommate into the equation was a bigger risk—the entire thing completely happening on impulse—but it also excites me. I need to know more about Emma. It’s curiosity, probably driven by the desire that she’s suffering…in some way.

  One date. With a cute girl. Harmless.

  I’ll learn secrets, get enough to satisfy things, enough to move on. Then, I’ll let Lindsey down easy.

  I rush by the front desk when I make it to the first floor, but I’m careful enough not to draw any more attention from the doorman, who’s still talking with the group of girls from earlier. Once I’ve made it safely a block or two away, I pull my phone from my pocket and send Lindsey a text.

  I’m really glad I found that license and ran into you.

  I know exactly what my words are going to do to her. And when she sends me back a gushy smiley-faced emoticon, I know it worked. I send her one more message, just to cement everything in place.

  Can’t wait for Wednesday.

  She writes back quickly that she can’t either. Satisfied, and feeling a little proud of myself, I put my phone back in my pocket and decide to jog the rest of the way back to my apartment. I spend those few miles thinking about the perfect way to work in my questions about Emma. I think about that, and I think about how she looked on that dance floor last night, and in that picture on her ID.

  I think about her eyes.

  The ocean.

  Lake Crest.

  I think about the fact that her eyes have found their way back into my mind…uninvited.

  Then I think about how good it felt asking out her roommate.

  Chapter 7

  Emma

  “So…it’s a little weird for you to be giving my date a present. I’m just sayin’,” Lindsey shouts from the hallway bathroom. I’m in the kitchen, layering the last batch of oatmeal cookies over the sheet of wax paper I’ve cut to fit perfectly in the tin.

  “I know, but seriously, that guy saved me from having to deal with the DMV and lines and mean people,” I say, tucking a short thank you note under the lid before closing it. When she steps into the kitchen, I hand her my gift. “Here…you can just tell him your roommate is a nut, but she’s grateful. It’ll be an icebreaker—seriously, you could spend an hour on the topic of your crazy roommate alone.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Lindsey says, her mouth twisted in a one-sided smile.

  “You didn’t have to agree so quickly,” I laugh, turning back to our oven to shut everything off.

  I don’t have many domestic skills. My laundry remains in the basket when its both dirty and clean, dishes are only done in our apartment because of Lindsey, and forget about vacuuming. I don’t really like cooking, either. But baking—that’s different. When I bake, I get to eat the ingredients along the way. It’s not like I can sample pieces of a casserole while I’m throwing in corn and meat and crap, but chocolate chip cookies? Oh yeah. Oatmeal are my favorites though—it’s the brown sugar. I could eat that stuff by the spoonful.

  “Okay, enough about you. How do I look?” she asks, spinning slowly. She’s put a lot of thought into this date—blew out her hair, bought new lip gloss and I’m pretty sure she got a manicure. It’s sweet. She doesn’t go out much, even less than I do, really. It’s part of being a medical student. And I know it’s only going to get worse next year. Lindsey’s studying general surgery, I’m cardiothoracic. I’ve only ticked off three years, so only…seven left.

  “You look like a total hottie,” I smile.

  “Eeeek, thank you,” she squeals, before running into the bathroom one more time to check her makeup, and dashing out the door in a cloud of Victoria Secret body spray.

  I shake my head, smiling at my friend, then move back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up. I run right into my tin of cookies, which stares back at me, forgotten in the midst of my friend’s excitement. I snicker quietly to myself, grabbing the tin after I finish mopping up the stray grains of sugar from the counter. I climb into the worn part of the sofa, the spot my roommate and I both refer to as my corner, raise the remote, and begin my big night out.

  It’s the first night in weeks I haven’t been swallowed up completely with biology homework. I intend on watching mindless television until I can’t keep my eyes open, and it looks like I’ll also be making myself sick on oatmeal cookies. Glad I baked my favorites.

  I make it twenty minutes into one of those shows where two people take over decorating a couple’s house when my phone buzzes with a text from Lindsey. I’m tempted to read it after I watch the big fight—the guy hates everything they’re doing to the house, but the wife loves it. But my phone buzzes again right away, so I mute the TV, brush the few oatmeal crumbs from my lap, and lean forward to read my text.

  Help! Please.

  I panic at her first text, getting to my feet fast and moving to the front door for my shoes as I scroll to her next one.

  Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that sound that urgent. I just feel like an idiot. I don’t think this guy is going to show up. I texted him…twice. Now I just feel stupid, and I’m sitting here at Mello’s alone drinking wine like a loser.

  I relax a little knowing Lindsey’s not in trouble, but I move forward with my shoes, grab my keys, and put the lid back on the cookies so we have something to share when I get to her.

  On my way.

  She writes back fast: You’re the best!

  Mello’s is one of those places we always wanted to try, but just haven’t yet. We spent our first three years in
the dorms, and decided it was easier to concentrate in a place of our own without freshmen running around screaming and hooking up with each other next door at all hours of the night. Lindsey’s parents pay most of the rent, but I chip in with what little I earn in summer jobs and the money I get from home and financial aid.

  It takes me five minutes to get to the restaurant, and I find my friend sitting near the wall by the front door the second I step inside. I brush by the host table, beelining toward her and sliding into the other side of the booth quickly so I can tuck my sweatpants and sneakers underneath.

  “I didn’t really dress for this,” I whisper to her, pushing the tin of cookies on the table in front of us.

  “I wasn’t planning on making you my date,” she shrugs, her lips a tight smile that I know is hiding her disappointment. She pops the lid from the tin and laughs to herself when she sees the top layer is missing. “You get hungry?”

  “They’re my favorite,” I smile. “Good thing you forgot them.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was just so nervous, I left without my key, too, so I would have had to call you or ring the doorbell like mad anyhow,” she says.

  Lindsey pushes half a cookie into her mouth before sighing and relaxing into the plush back of her seat.

  “So he’s a no-show?” I ask, breaking one of the cookies in half to nibble on.

  “Looks like it,” she sighs. “I texted him about ten minutes ago. And oh my god, Em, I sound like an idiot.”

  She hands me her phone, and I read her messages that at first asks if maybe she has the day and place wrong, noticing that he texted her right above that with the exact time and place for them to meet on Wednesday—today. Then she tried to fix it with a: duh, I could have just read your last text. Okay, so I’m here. I’ll just be here waiting.

  I cringe when I hand it back to her, and tilt the lid on my cookies a little higher, encouraging her to take one more to console herself.