Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (10 page)

“Right…not bad at all,” he says, judgment oozing from his tone.

I sigh and open our pantry, grabbing a handful of almonds from an open tin. Then I shut the door and ignore my friend, knowing he’s going to ask me about the girl and the ID and my plans. I thought going to the warehouse would help me gain perspective. I was wrong.

“Look,” he starts as he kicks his shoes off and empties his pockets onto the counter. He leaves his shit in piles—drives me fucking nuts, and it’s not just because I’m in a bad mood.

Maybe it is. Whatever. I stare at his crap until he waves a hand to get my attention back to his face.

“Drew, man…if you weren’t really in the mood to hit on some chick, you shouldn’t have taken her ID. That girl is going to be freaked out and worried when she can’t find it, so at least just get it back to her.”

My gaze has drifted away from him again, back to his pile of stuff.

“Why can’t you dump your crap in your room? That’s what I do when I come home. I go to my room, put my things in there, and
then
I come out here.”

Trent cocks an eyebrow at me, staring for a few seconds, then moves back to the kitchen, scooping up his wallet, keys, and change and holds it up so I can see him and acknowledge it.

“Don’t forget your shoes,” I add.

He laughs once. Not a funny laugh. He’s pissed. I’m being an asshole. He can fuck off. He doesn’t have
her
ID in his back pocket.

Trent bends down and grabs his shoes, pointing one toward me as he goes to his room.

“Sometimes you’re a real dick, Harper,” he says. He lets his door slam closed behind him.

I turn my attention to the TV in front of the sofa and hold the remote up, turning on some bad teen soap opera and cranking the volume up to an obnoxious level. Might as well let this being-a-dick thing really run its course.

T
rent never came
out of his room, and I finally fell asleep on the couch to some protein-supplement infomercial. I woke up when Trent let the front door slam shut loudly. We have practice in thirty minutes, morning skate before our game tonight. We usually ride together, because Trent has a car. Looks like I’ll be walking today.

After a quick shower, I change into sweats and my long-sleeved tee and jog to the arena about two miles away. I shove Trent’s pads off the bench when I walk by his locker. He laughs, so I know he’s over being pissed at me. I also know that I still have Emma’s ID in my wallet.

Pre-game skate only lasts half an hour, so I can’t put things off any longer. I want to. I want to be so busy I can never go to 407 Clark Street, which yeah…is less than three miles from my apartment. Usually, I have to look the girl up to find her address—her license normally from another state, but Emma’s is right there on her license. She must be planning on living here for a while, or maybe she already has. How the hell I haven’t seen her in the year I’ve attended this school is a miracle.

Then again, I get the feeling Emma and I probably run in different circles. I know her building. It’s the big high-rise on Clark. Balconies, windows that look over the lake, a bellman at the front desk—a far cry from the rats and drug deals that go down out on the street in front of our apartment. It’s not like
gangland
or anything, just cheap rent and a lot of college kids who like to get high.

When I’m done skating, I rush through changing and just hold up a hand with her license for Trent to see. He smirks, figuring I’m off to make good on my dare. I’m really going to take my penance. Lesson learned—I’m never playing
this
game again.

The wind from the lake has a cold bite to it, so I pull my hoodie from my bag and throw it on over my beanie. Maybe I’m also shielding myself. I get to the front of her building, and my heart starts to race wildly, my throat dry, but somehow my mouth so moist I feel like I’m going to throw up.

The doorman is helping a group of girls when I walk by quickly, and he glances at me, probably memorizing what I’m wearing, but he doesn’t stop me when I pass. My hands are shaking in the elevator, and when I press the button for the ninth floor, I hold it down, afraid to fully commit.

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 around 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.