Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (22 page)

I watch him.

“Oh! Damn! You scared me—” Lindsey jumps when she sees me in the bathroom, stuttering when she sees Andrew in here, too. Her eyes dart between us.

“I was helping him. He needed…stitches,” I say, looking for a sign from him, waiting for his eyes to look up to see me in the mirror. He turns the sink off, dries his hands then leans into her, never looking at me at all.

“I had a bit of a fight. Hockey thing. I’m okay. Emma stitched me up,” he lies, kissing the top of her head.

My eyes sting with jealous tears as his mouth touches her hair.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Lindsey says, quickly working her hands to appraise his wounds on her own. He flinches and steps away, but not far.

“Sorry, sore. But I’m okay. I promise. I just promised I’d come by. I didn’t want you to worry. I’m going to go home, clean up, and maybe knock myself out for the night,” he chuckles.

“Sure, yeah. I mean…you can stay…” She’s still taking all of him in.

“Thanks, but I’ll be better company tomorrow,” he says, touching the side of her face gently. His touch is tender. His performance is flawless. His instant hold on me is painful—but it’s real. And I hate Lindsey right now. I hate her so much.

She walks him to the door, and I start to follow behind, but my legs only carry me a few steps before they stop, like I’ve reached my limit—this is as far as I get to go on this journey.

They say a few things to one another, half whispering, and she begins to close the door as he leaves. His hand grabs the edge, though, and his gaze looks over her right to where I am, his eyes saying we have more to say—both of us.

We do. I do.
I have scars, too, Andrew. They aren’t evil like yours. Mine are miracles. But you need to know.

“Thanks for the stitches, Emma.” His voice is calm, his mouth a faint smile—all of it…
fake.

The door closes, and Lindsey begins speaking. I nod and respond, but I never once hear a single word. I pretend. I keep on pretending.

And when Graham sends me a text just to make sure everything is okay, I tell him it is, pretending for his sake too.

Because the lie is so much happier than the truth, and I only know a sliver of it.

I
got sent
home from work this morning. Seems the school doesn’t really want the people showing up to hang out with little kids in the morning to look like they just got the shit kicked out of them. I told them it was a hockey fight. It got me a pat on the back from the principal and a promise that he’d have to come watch me play sometime.

I still got sent home though. Whatever. I had eight grand in my pocket and could afford losing out on the ten dollars I’d get from coloring princess posters and playing kickball this morning.

Trent was asleep by the time I returned last night, and I always leave well before he’s awake. So far, I’ve managed not to have to deal with any of the shit on my body or in my brain. But hooray for busted lip and swollen eye! I got sent home early, and Trent is sitting on the sofa slurping the milk from his cereal, eying me, ready to make me work.

“Dude. You look like hell,” he says in between slurps. The bowl finally empty, he slides it in front of him on the coffee table. He’s going to just leave it there. I know it. I stare at it until he rolls his eyes, stands, and carries the bowl into the kitchen.

“You’re like a fuckin’ chick sometimes, you know that?” He actually rinses it and puts it in the dishwasher, which makes me proud. If I’m like a chick, he’s like a Labrador. Only, Labs learn faster.

“Let me get this straight: You’re calling me a woman because I don’t want to live like a homeless man in shit and filth?”

His sigh in response is overexaggerated, and it makes me laugh.

“You’re trying to distract from the point…and hey…
shit and filth?
Come on, it’s a dirty bowl. Hardly a crack house,” he says, collapsing back into his spot on the sofa, staring up at me, hands folded on his chest.

The shrink is in.

I rub my hand over my chin, and it hurts like hell. Trent chuckles at me.

“Do you want me to ask questions? Or…do you just want to tell me why in the hell you look like this?”

I hold his stare for a few seconds, because shit…maybe I want the ease of just saying
yes
or
no
to his questions. I shrug, shaking my head, and take the chair opposite him, turning it backward and laying my arms over the back, my forehead resting on them so I can shut my eyes. I’m exhausted.

“Did Emma do this to you? Or that Harley dude?” he asks.

“Neither of them
did
anything to me, ass monkey,” I say, not bothering to look up.

“Okay,” he says, his pause long and quiet and…why isn’t he talking? I glance up to find him staring at me, his brow pulled forward, his mouth a hard line.

“Coach isn’t going to like this,” he says.

“Whatever. It’s not like I’m you,” I shrug.

Dick thing for me to say, but it’s true. I’m the guy people expect to show up looking like this. Trenton is the face of the team. I’m just the guy who the crowd loves seeing get thrown in the box.

“Look, I can sit here and play twenty questions and never get close to what’s actually going on with you. How about you try this friendship thing out and maybe trust me with some shit, huh?” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I laugh and look away, but I can feel him looking. I turn back to see his face serious, so I lower my gaze, maybe a little ashamed.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out the envelope from my fight, holding it in front of me for a second before finally tossing it on the table between us. Trent watches it land in front of him, glances to me again, then looks back to it, pulling it in his hands. His eyes react when he opens the fold and sees how many hundreds are stuffed inside. He closes it quickly, tossing it back on the table before running his hands over his face. He can’t seem to bring his eyes to me now, and I know it’s because he’s thinking the worst.

“I need to know. Did you do something…illegal to end up with this?” What he means—is
am I selling drugs
.

“No…not…not really,” I shake my head. It’s not really legal, but my end…well it gets sketchy. I’m just doing a job. I get offered a fight and a purse. I do my thing; I go home with money. I’m not hurting anyone.

“Not really…as in you are just like…what…a middle man?” Trent’s voice grows louder, and he’s rubbing his hands together nervously. I can sense his temper, his patience waning.

I pull my face up to really look at him, my hands gripping the back of the chair. “Do I
look
like a middle man?” I say, arms out, my beaten body as evidence. “I fight sometimes. For money. Harley…he pays me,” I say.

Trent flinches, not expecting that answer.

“So you’re, what…like a boxer? Are you any good?”

“I can take a punch,” I say. “That’s why he books me. I’m like a practice fight for his real guys.”

“So you get paid to get the shit beat out of you?”

I nod slowly, letting my eyes drift back to the table, to the stack of cash peaking out from the yellow envelope.

“Yep,” I say, chewing at the inside of my mouth.

“Wow,” he says quietly. Slowly. He leans forward again and picks up the envelope, really flipping through this time. His eyes flash as the number he’s counting grows higher. “So…the worse shape you’re in, the bigger the payday? Is that how this works?”

He chuckles, handing me my money. I lean back and stuff it back into my pocket.

“Nah. Last night was sort of special. I fought a guy that’s sort of a big deal. Paid my tuition,” I say.

“That guy…he gave you that?” he asks, pointing to my crusty brow, the dark stitches sticking out. I touch it, and immediately think of Emma. I nod in response.

“Does Harley just stitch you up then?” he asks.

I purse my lips, tilting my head to the side.

“I…uh…I had
Emma
do this,” I say, finger back on her handy work.

Trent starts to laugh slowly, standing as it grows to a full belly laugh, the kind that makes him start to cough. He walks into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, guzzling half of it before finally calming himself down enough. My life is funny to him.

“Emma,” he repeats. I just nod.

“Not…what was her name?” He’s being an ass now.

“Her name is Lindsey. You know her name. Stop,” I say, standing, done with my little session. I flip the chair around and walk toward my room.

“A’right, a’right. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m helping, listening—go on, give me the story behind that part. Emma…you said she’s the girl. This is
the
girl? The one who you went to that group home for or whatever?”

“It wasn’t a group home. It was more like a reform school. And yeah…same Emma,” I say, folding my arms, protecting my heart. “Long story short, I took the fall for her, then I never heard from her again.”

“Oh that shit ain’t cool,” Trent pipes in. At least he’s on my side for this. I hold up a hand to spare him.

“Yeah, that’s sort of what I always thought, except…” I pause, shutting my eyes for a beat, picturing her face as I told her, as she filled in the gaps, as her heart broke hearing my pain. “Turns out she never knew. She thought I was just gone. I don’t know where, but just…gone. Not in some shit-hole wannabe prison getting the shit kicked out of me on a daily basis.”

“Oh…damn, bro,” Trent says, leaning forward to lean on the counter across from me.

“Yep,” I say, mouth tight. “Damn. Or damned. Whatever.”

I walk away and leave my friend with the synopsis of my hell. I toss my envelope on my bed along with my keys and whatever other crap I’ve collected in my pocket. I look around at the blankness of my room, the walls and dresser top void of anything personal. I don’t have anything personal. I’ve kept my life sterile. I don’t even have a favorite…
anything!

Except my car. I have that back.

And maybe I sort of have Emma back too. If I want her…

Do I want her?

Can I forgive her?

Is there really something to forgive anymore?

Letting go is proving harder than it should be. Or maybe it’s as difficult as I wanted it to be. I spent years building up the walls and anger—turning them into weapons against the
Emmas
of the world so I’d never fall victim to one again. To find out I did it all in vain—I just don’t know if I’m ready to believe that either. I don’t know what to believe. I’ve held on to that sourness, that poison, for so long that my insides aren’t sure what to do without it there.

I could fill it, though. I could fill it with her, with what we were supposed to be before that night ruined everything.

But would she even have me? Like this. What I am now? A hollow version of the boy my brother and mom spent years trying to protect to keep me whole and light and hopeful. One night was all it took to make my heart dark. One night, and a year of having my bones broken, my skin burned, my spirit shattered by an evil man and a group of boys just as damaged as I am.

She didn’t know. She said she didn’t know. Then she said she would have…what? Stopped me? Would I have let her? It’s easy to say that now. Sorry is a word. Actions…those are harder.

But maybe…maybe if she showed me something, a piece of who she was. Maybe if I knew she really cared.

“Hey. Let’s go hit the ice,” Trent says behind me, snapping me out of my self-pity and dangerous self-diagnosis. He’s holding my stick and my gear bag. His face is erased of everything I just told him. I stare at the stick in his grip, laughing lightly to myself. I just got my face tore up in a boxing ring and I want to make everything better by crashing my teammates into glass.

“I’ll drive,” I say, grabbing my bag from him and passing him in the hallway, my keys pressed in my palm.

“Hey, maybe I can take it for a test run sometime? You know…just up to the arena or whatever…” I stop at the door and laugh, then look at him over my shoulder, my lip raised. He already feels stupid for asking.

“No fucking way in hell,” I say, and I swing the door wide enough for him to follow me out, admiring my car on the road. In this mountain of shit I’m sinking in, that car makes me smile.

Maybe I’ll get Emma in it just once…for old time’s sake. Just to see how she looks here, in our past, in what we almost were. Maybe I can try
us
on.

I drive away a little faster, and I notice Trent’s smirk as I peel out.

I don’t know how I knew he’d be here. I just knew. I had to find a way to see him alone—without Lindsey. I need to know more. He needs to know more. And this need—it isn’t about my friend. Even though she’s precisely the reason I shouldn’t be here.

I’ve compounded this sham of Andrew and I not knowing one another to the point that there’s no escaping losing her friendship if it blows up now. No matter how I look at it, I’ve lied.

I lied to the girl who helped me bury my mother.

I suck in a deep breath, letting the cold harden my lungs—maybe my heart a little, too, just so I can hide it from the guilt brought on by thinking of Lindsey.

The Tech arena is colder than the one back home. It’s nicer here, too. The rink is surrounded by stands, different from the few bleachers that press up to the glass in Woodstock. I see his name on the marquee by the door. It isn’t one of the ones up top. It isn’t even in the middle. But it’s the first one I see.

I hear him before I see him, his voice carrying across the ice, his laughter—
his laughter.
I pause and take a seat in the front row on the opposite end, just so I can watch as he slides back and forth effortlessly, his stick working against his teammates, the ease with which he steals the puck away, the speed he shows when he chases—when he leads.

That vision right there, the man I’m looking at out there on this ice—that’s
my
Andrew. He rushes once more, the puck loose and coming toward me, and he stops hard right in front of me, his face looks up, his eyes finding mine at the last second. He’s breathing hard, and at first, it’s because he’s out of breath. But then he stops and stares at me a while longer, still breathing rapidly. That…that’s because of
us.

“Hey, Trent! Give me a sec, ‘kay?” he yells to his friend still skating on the other end with a few of the guys. Trent nods and begins lining up pucks on the ice to take shots over and over again.

I follow Andrew along the other side of the glass toward the opening. He’s wearing a dark beanie and his team jersey with a dark knit shirt underneath. Even the way he’s dressed reminds me of the boy he was, the man he should be.

“Hey,” I say. All this time, the walk here, the time thinking about coming here this morning, the hours awake last night, and the best I can come up with is
hey.

“Hey,” he says back, making me laugh. He grins, dimples denting both cheeks as he lowers his head and looks down at his skates. He’s a solid foot taller than me right now.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” he asks, looking at me sideways, his lip curled on one side of his mouth. I like him better like this—happy. Or at least
not
angry. He isn’t being mean.

“You used to go to the rink at home…you know…when you were stressed, or whatever,” I say, my bottom lip tucked in my teeth, my face flushing from his closeness. I’m assuming he’s stressed. I’m stressed. Last night, what he told me—that was a hell of a lot of stress-inducing crap, surely.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning against the opening from the ice. “Some things don’t change, I guess.”

His gaze lingers on me after he says this, his smile subtle…special. Different. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

“I was hoping…maybe…we could talk a little? I…I don’t know. I just…last night? I have so many questions. And I thought…” I’m stammering, my stomach all twisted and my confidence suddenly nonexistent. I’m afraid he thinks I’m being silly, that I’m being a child. That I got all the answers I deserve and that’s where it all ends.

“I’d like that,” he breaks into my thoughts, dipping his head lower to force my gaze back up to his. “I would
really
like that,” he repeats, and this time he’s wearing a real smile, a full one.

“It doesn’t have to be now. You have practice, and your friend is here…”

“Nonsense,” he laughs, cutting me off. “Yo, Trent! You know Emma, right?”