Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  Their celebrating carries over as we get inside, and Trent walks into their kitchen, opening the fridge wide as he talks with his back to us, giving Andrew enough time to tug me to him, then lean me over and kiss me hard.

  “Well shit! That’s the problem with always going to Majerle’s to celebrate our wins, we’re never prepared with beer to celebrate at home. There’s only one left,” Trent says, twisting the cap and turning around just in time to catch us in a full-on make-out session. “Or maybe you don’t need beer to celebrate,” he chuckles, pressing the bottle to his mouth and drinking.

  “Shut up,” Andrew says, taking his keys back out of his pocket. “I’ll run to the store. I’ll be back in five minutes. You want anything…I don’t know…girly?”

  “I like beer,” I blush.

  His eyebrows lift in a teasing way, but he pulls my chin close and dusts my lips with a kiss, smiling and winking before he leaves. I watch the door close, then I shiver once at the realization he’s gone. Even here in the safety of his home—with his roommate who I know won’t hurt me—I immediately feel vulnerable. I never thought Graham would hurt me. But he did. And I hate that I feel so dependent on Andrew for safety.

  I turn to Trent and hug my body, my lips in a tight smile. He sits on the back of the sofa, and I relax a little with the distance between us. I think Trent senses my edginess, and I know he at least has an idea of what happened with Graham. I’m sure Andrew’s talked to him, and my bruises are still very much on display. I’ve quit looking in mirrors. I don’t like what I’m reminded of when I do.

  “Andrew is crazy about you, you know,” Trent says, light laughter coming out as he looks down at his feet before raising an eyebrow at me. “You in this as much as he is?”

  I hold his stare, then nod yes. He begins to nod with me.

  “Good,” he says, looking back down. “That’s good.”

  I move to the stool by their counter in the kitchen, sliding it out enough to sit on top and rest my head on my hands. As safe as I feel here, I’m still not okay—I’m miles from okay. When Andrew’s gone, all I see are Graham’s lips curl into an evil grin, smoke trailing around his whiskers. I feel my skin burn from everywhere he touched, and I try to replace it with the feel of Andrew.

  What holds me hostage, though, is the knowledge that it isn’t over—that Graham isn’t over. Andrew is going to face him, and I want to be there to keep him safe. But I can’t—my body and heart literally wouldn’t survive being in Graham’s presence. I’m afraid one more look at him and my nightmare would never leave.

  “Did he tell you about his fight?” I ask, unable to fully look at him. I feel like I’m sharing secrets behind Andrew’s back.

  “He did,” Trent says, and I glance up to see his mouth paused open, like he wants to protest the fight too. But he doesn’t, instead biting at his bottom lip and shaking his head.

  “Don’t let him,” I beg, my voice breaking when I ask, and my eyes burning from tears. The emotion hits me fast; I pull my sleeves up over my wrists and push them into my eyes, squeezing them shut tightly until I can speak again with composure, without my voice feeling weak and frantic. I clear my throat and look down. “He’ll listen to you, Trent. Please,” I whisper.

  It’s quiet between us for several seconds, and I work to regain control of my emotions, knowing Andrew will return home any minute. I focus on every breath, thinking of Andrew’s smile, and forcing out the thoughts of Graham and his devil eyes.

  “He doesn’t listen to me, Emma. Andrew Harper listens to Andrew Harper,” Trent says through a faint laugh. “But he’s been a lot more reasonable since you showed up, so maybe…just maybe…he’ll come around before he does something really stupid. I know that’s what I’m hoping for…”

  The sound of the key in the door has Trent on his feet, and his face is a full smile as Andrew walks inside—no sign of the worry I saw seconds before.

  Andrew slides two six-packs of beer into the fridge, pulling out a bottle for him and me before peeling away the caps and placing a cold one in my hand. Trent finishes his first, then reaches into the fridge to grab a fresh one to catch up to us, tapping Andrew on the shoulder as he moves to stand next to him, holding the top of his beer out to tap into one another.

  “To friendship, and finally getting what you deserve,” Trent says, his eyes flitting to me. I smile, knowing that he’s trying to give a subtle hint to Andrew that he has so much going for him right now. Unfortunately, I fear those words ring about revenge in Andrew’s mind.

  “To getting what you deserve,” he says, an ominous smirk on his lips. “Soon enough.”

  I can feel his body growing hostile at the thought of Graham, and I can tell how much he wants to make him pay. Panicked, I push my beer bottle into his next, just before he can pull it away to take a sip. I’m not satisfied with this toast, and I want to throw out a Hail Mary.

  “And to remembering what you have…what’s here to come home to,” I say, causing him to turn to me, his head falling to the side and his eyes meeting mine instantly.

  “To you,” he says. “The reason I do anything,” he adds with a whisper. I close my eyes, holding my breath as he pulls my head into him and kisses the top, cradling me in his arm.

  “I’m drinking to this, but just so we’re clear here, Em, that last part of the deal is just you two,” Trent says, motioning his beer between Andrew and me. I laugh, but it’s a façade. Andrew’s is genuine, and as he tilts his beer to drink, Trent and I exchange one last glance—and I can tell he’s just as worried as I am.

  Chapter 21

  Andrew

  Saturday was a blur. We won our hockey game, and Emma came with me again. This time, we joined the team at Majerle’s. Emma and I only stayed for an hour, anxious to race home to be alone. The newness of it all is part of it, along with the longing we’ve both endured—at least I know I’ve endured. But it’s more than that, too. This all feels fleeting, like there are hurdles yet to clear. I know that’s partly my fault.

  She hasn’t asked me not to go since we last talked about the fight. She won’t ask—I can tell. But I also know she doesn’t want me to. I know I could handle him. I think she knows it, too. She wants it. But she’s afraid of the unexpected. The things we couldn’t plan for have been our downfall so many times.

  We’ve lain here the entire morning, her running her fingers up and down my arm and back while I press my face to the side in my pillow and stare at her. I like the way she looks at me—like I’m someone.

  “You were really amazing last night,” she hums.

  I smirk, and bunch my shoulder. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” I tease. Her hand stops moving and she brings it down on my shoulder with a quick smack. “Owwwww!”

  I grab her, rolling her over so she’s pinned beneath me, her eyes lit up with her laughter, her hair a chaotic storm of smoke around her.

  “I meant at your hockey game, you cocky asshole,” she says, rolling her eyes, but giving way to laughter again as I push my thumbs into the ticklish spots along her sides.

  “I know,” I say, my forehead against hers. Our laughter fades into a rhythmic breath and I close my eyes, feeling the tip of my nose brush against hers until I find my way to her lips. “I was just hoping I was amazing at other things, too,” I speak against her mouth, biting my lip, then hers.

  “You were,” she says against me, her lips closing the slight distance until we’re kissing so hard it feels as if it’s for survival.

  It feels as if it could be the last.

  My phone buzzes with a text, and we both pause our movement until I lift myself enough to look into her eyes, neither of us happy.

  “You should get that,” she says, her face falling to the side, away from my phone.

  Away from me.

  I take a deep breath and lean to the edge of the bed, rolling away from her until I sit with my feet on the floor. It’s nearly noon; we’ve slept most of the day away. I open my messages t
o find one from Harley. I knew it was him.

  The fight is set for six at his gym. They’re usually later, and it strikes me how rushed and unprofessional everything about this feels compared to the fights I’ve done for him before.

  I text him back OKAY, then close my phone before turning to take in Emma, still lying in my bed with her back to me. I lay back down behind her, running my palm up the perfect line of her spine, sweeping her hair to the side and pressing my lips on the back of her hot neck.

  “Was that about the fight?” she asks, her voice hoarse and quiet.

  I press my head into the back of hers and breathe her in. “Yes,” I say. I feel her nod against me, then eventually her hands find my arms and she pulls them around her tightly.

  “When?” she asks, pulling my palm up to her chest, pressing it flat against her heart. It’s beating so hard I can almost feel it working in and out.

  “Six,” I say. “But I need to leave in a couple hours to get ready.”

  She nods again, and her body quivers lightly. I know she’s crying, but I also know she’s trying to hide it from me. I let her think she has, and I run my thumbs over her knuckles as our hands caress each other.

  “Hold me…like this…until you go?” Her voice is a whisper now.

  “Okay,” I say, snuggling into her more before pulling the blanket over us. I stroke her skin and hair until I can tell she’s calm. She isn’t asleep—she’s too afraid of missing something. It takes me back to Lake Crest when I never let myself completely lose sense of where I was and what was happening around me. I learned early on that sleeping left me vulnerable—it’s when others took advantage and stole away anything I had.

  Nobody would be stealing anything from us today—not Emma’s father, my history, or the ghosts of my past. I’d make sure of it. This small moment—it’s Emma’s and mine. And soon, when I’m about to face the sorry excuse for a man who marred her perfect face, I’ll make sure he can’t rob us of anything either.

  * * *

  Leaving her felt impossible. Emma has a paper due, so she buried herself in my bed, surrounded by books and her laptop. She played aloof as I packed my bag and left, as if it were just me getting ready to leave for practice, or class, or work. But her eyes were empty, and I know her thoughts were on where I’m really going.

  I kissed her and promised her I’d call as soon as I was on my way back. She smiled, barely, nodding and pushing her ear buds in, her music turned so loud that I could hear it clearly on my end. I let her front. I know she needs this.

  She never asked to come, which is good because I don’t want to have to argue with her. I can’t have her near him. I gave Trent orders to keep her home, too. He laughed at me at first, but quit when he took in my face—an understanding of how serious this is settling onto him.

  I almost told Trent the truth—just so he would be able to stay calm, to do whatever he needed to do to keep her calm. But I stopped myself, still not one-hundred-percent committed to my midnight-hatched plan. I almost backed out at the bank when I withdrew every cent I had. I’m still not convinced I’ll be able to follow through with it now as I step through the back door of Harley’s gym—the street lined with expensive cars and the main warehouse filled with gambling men ready to spend their money on two twenty-something punk shits beating each other senseless for no title or ring.

  I guess for some there’s glory. For most of the guys I’ve fought, the prize has always been knowing they’re ready for what’s next, a gift of confidence as they head into the ring with someone real—someone who mattered. But today—there’s not glory. There’s grudge and hate and vengeance between two sick men. I’m well enough to admit I’m sick, to admit I like the feel of pain more than I should. I know the way I cope with what really hurts in my life is unhealthy. But now that I know how Emma feels, what it’s like to have her completely fill the space inside my chest and heart, I’m not hungry for something to take me away anymore.

  When life is good, I don’t need the distraction of the rush. I’ve just never had good before, I guess.

  Harley is still in his back office when I walk through the heavy metal door. It slams shut behind me, and Bill steps out from the office to see who’s entering.

  “Just me,” I say, holding up a hand. He nods, then reaches his hand out to shake mine. His eyes glance around my body and his brow furrows when he realizes I don’t have my usual training bag with me. All I have is a small envelope—nothing more. I nod and pat him on the back as I pass by, slipping into Harley’s office.

  “You’re early. What, can’t wait for that fix and need Bill to knock you in the head a few times now?” He snickers as he talks, amused at how predictable I am. Normally, he’d be right. But not today.

  I plunk the heavy envelope on his desk then shove my hands in my pockets, staring at it, staring at him staring at it. He pokes it with a pen, turning it slightly, then tapping it.

  “What’s this?” he says, peering up at me, his hat turned backward so I can see the angry suspicion in his eyes.

  “It’s every cent I have to my name. Something like twenty-seven hundred. And I know I’ll probably owe you more, and I’ll get it to you, because I didn’t want this to be a problem for you, to cost you anything,” I say, my eyes meeting his. There’s nothing Harley can do to me. I quit being afraid of people the day I stepped out of Lake Crest Academy.

  He leans back in his chair, pulling the envelope in his hands and slicing it open on one end to look in at the small stack of money. He tosses it back on his desk, and folds his arms again, studying.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m out, Harley,” I say. I hear Bill chuckle softly behind me, and I glance at him, shaking my head. “No, I’m serious. I mean it. I’m out. I’m sorry, but I’m not fighting this guy today. I’m done fighting.”

  The air grows thick with quiet, the sound of chatter in the main gym faint in the background and the repeated thump of a speed bag working down the hall blurring into the rest of nothingness that fills Harley’s hot office. He pulls his hat from his head, running his hand through his hair.

  He leans forward, his palms flat on his desk on either side of the envelope, and he begins to shake his head, laughing to himself. I hold my breath, though, because I know better.

  In a swift movement, he hurls the envelope at me. Money flies loose in all directions. He shoots his chair back against the wall, rounding his desk, slamming me into his door with enough force it closes behind me. His arm thrusts against my chest, knocking the wind from me. He slides it up my body until his forearm rests against my windpipe.

  He. Can’t. Hurt me.

  “What the fuck do you mean, you’re done? You are done when I say you’re done, you crazy head-case motherfucker! I have a room full of high-dollar customers out there—with money they want to spend…with me…and that pathetic chunk of change you waltzed in here with is not even close to covering it—do you understand?”

  I don’t react. I simply hold his gaze, my mouth in a hard line and my breath working hard to pass through my nose and find a way into my limbs.

  “You are going to get out there in an hour and stand in that goddamned ring and I don’t give a shit if you raise your hand once. You can let him hit you until you go fucking blind! I don’t care! All that matters is you go down in the fourth round, and then you can pack up all your shit and I never have to see your face again. Understood?”

  His nostrils flaring, Harley leans into me, and my fingertips tingle from the lack of oxygen. I never let my eyes slip from his, and he loosens his hold on me just enough that I’m able to shake my head no.

  He pushes into me again, this time rearing back and punching me in the gut and chest as his other arm brings renewed force against my neck.

  “No,” I choke out.

  “Not an acceptable answer!” he rages.

  “It’s the only answer you’re going to get,” I say, my words cracked and hard to hear, but Harley h
ears them. His nose to mine, he’s inches from my lips, and he reads them as I speak.

  I watch his pupils dilate as the wave of realization comes over him. He’s not going to win this battle. There’s nothing he can say that’s going to change my mind. Emma doesn’t want me in the ring with Graham, so I’m not going.

  “Fuck!” Harley says, punching a hole through the wall next to my head. His hand comes down three more times. I don’t flinch.

  “Harper, you better rethink this real quick! If you don’t get your ass ready…”

  “What are you going to do to me?” I interrupt. Harley flinches at my boldness, stumbling back a step or two, his brow lowering as his chest picks up speed, breathing in and out with more force. He opens his mouth, ready to lay into me again, but I ignore it all, talking right through him.

  “This isn’t about you, Harley. It’s about me, and doing right by someone. And I never wanted to shit on everything you’ve done for me, have given me by letting me come here. You’ve given me an escape, so many times, man. And I am aware and grateful for you and your lack of judgment. Believe me…you’ve saved me from the brink more often than you’ll ever know.”

  Harley looks up, his face still angry, his teeth gnashed.

  “You could almost kill me and the answer would still be no,” I say, and I watch as his chest stutters. “And that’s only because I know completely killing me wouldn’t do you any good either. You can’t rule me, Harley. You never could.”

  I look over to Bill, standing, arms folded, against the wall across from us, his eyes switching from me to Harley and back again. Bill’s doing his best to look armed and ready, but I can see the doubt and shock underneath it. He never thought I’d leave. I never thought I’d leave. Up until last night, I thought I’d be here today ready to pummel Graham, forgetting about the fourth-round rule, powering through until there was nothing left of him.