Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (37 page)

Eventually, the room clears, and for a small window of time, Andrew and I are alone.

“I didn’t fight, Emma,” he whispers, his voice still raw. I lay my head flat on his chest, the welcome stroke of his hand over my head and through my hair keeping time with the rhythm of his heart as I watch the lines zigzag up and down on the monitor.

“I know. Thank you,” I weep against his chest. His hand stills as he leans forward as much as he can, his lips finding my head.

“That man…he would have found me eventually,” he says, and I lift my head to look at him, my brow pinched.

“They said it was some bookie or something, and he thought you owed him money?” I stare deep into Andrew’s eyes, and his mouth falls into a peaceful line.

“It was my demon,” he says, rolling his arm over and motioning to the deep burn scar on his wrist. “He wanted to torture me one last time, I guess.”

My eyes hover over his scar, and I pull his arm to my lips, pressing a soft kiss over the round mark, wanting to hide it all with my love. I rest my head back against him, knowing any moment his family will be back to break up our small bubble. They miss him too, but I’m selfish.

“Someone else took care of your demon for you,” I sigh. “Owen can fill you in more, but I guess the investigators figured out where he lived, and when they got to his house to question him, they found him in the living room dead from a gunshot wound.”

Andrew’s chest pauses, and I tilt my head up to look at him. I don’t like it when he’s not breathing. Not breathing…it makes me nervous.

“Do they know who?” he asks.

I shake my head
no
and return my focus to the feel of his fingers in mine. Andrew does the same, and we both lay silently, our hands making long, methodic strokes along each other’s skin. I can never get enough of the feel of him—life beating through his body, love pumping through his veins.

“My brother thinks you’re cute,” he teases after several minutes of quiet. I smile against him, turning my head just enough to press a kiss over his heart. “I mean, I’d understand if you want to jump ship and get on Team Owen. You could probably take Kensi in a fight.”

“I like this Harper,” I say, pulling my legs up onto his bed with me so I can lie next to him and snuggle in closer. Andrew leans his foot to the side, tapping his toe into the tip of my shoe. It makes me giggle.

“You always did have a thing for my shoes,” he jokes.

I shove him lightly, then bury my face against his arm.

“Not true,” I say, bringing my eyes to his, blushing and glancing to the side of his face. “It’s the holes in your ears. I told you I liked them.”

He laughs, moving his hand up to feel the small plastic circle tucked in his ear. The hospital took the metal gauges out, so Owen brought him new ones.

“Yeah, I’m a pretty sexy beast,” he says, laughing and immediately wincing from the pain.

The chatter outside his door starts to build, and I know our time alone is done. There’s so much I want to say, so many kisses I need to give and embraces that I need to savor. But I guess I have time now. Andrew Harper was a gift, a friend when I was scared and alone, a savior when I almost lost everything, and the love of my life that I got lucky enough to find a second time. He’s all mine. And I’m his. And I am never letting go again.

His room fills with his family and Trent, Owen quickly putting a phone in his hand so he can talk to Kensi. Andrew tends to them all, hugging and talking and smiling for them—giving them light and hope—giving them the
good parts.
But he never lets go of my hand. And just when I think he’s losing his grip, starting to move his attention from me to the other amazing and deserving people in his life, he turns my hand to the side, smoothing it flat and writing in it a letter at a time.

FOR ALWAYS.

E
mma said
I didn’t need to bring a gift, but it felt wrong. The last time I was at her father’s house, I noticed it was dark. That’s half the reason we all used to pretend that house was haunted. When a home is built around the turn of the last century, the lighting is a little old.

It isn’t much, but I carry the wrapped box in my arms, hoping her father will let me install the light in the foyer later today. I think it will make him happy—to have a little brightness in his house.

I know part of the reason I need a gift, though, is because of my nerves. I’m still consumed with wanting her father to like me. I’ve spent five years not giving a shit about others’ opinions of me. Part of my own shelter, I just always assumed most people thought I was an asshole, so when they didn’t, I was pleasantly surprised.

But Carl Burke—I care about his opinion. I care about his daughter, and that’s the
only
reason I care about anything at all.

“Relax, he cooked all day, and he wanted you here,” Emma says, dusting snowflakes from my arm. I wore the only nice jacket I have—it’s black and wool…and hot as fuck!

I hold my arm out for her to take as we walk up the main path to the house. I’m driving a twenty-year-old Volvo. It’s fast, and it sure as hell won’t ever break. But it’s not my Camaro.

When I got out of the hospital, my mom gave me a letter with a check inside. She said the man who delivered it was young, maybe mid-twenties, with blonde hair and a strong build. He told her he was from H and Sons, and they were handling the settlement from the insurance claim. But I know there was no claim, and I know it was just Harley’s way of making sure the universe was right between us.

My savings was just enough to buy a piece-of-shit from the auction, and Owen helped me tune it up a little before he left again for Germany. His season over there started a few weeks ago now, so I hope by the time he comes back, I can afford a Camaro again.

We spent the morning at my parents’ house. Dwayne hooked me up with new gear and skates. Maybe I can break them in this winter so I can find my way back to the ice with the rest of the team. Coach was able to work my scholarship out with the financial aid department, diverting my money to next season since I was given a medical withdrawal from most of my classes this semester. I asked to take my finals anyhow, knowing I could pass, but they were rather insistent. Emma has about seven million years of school left, so I’m in no rush to leave.

My life took one enormous hiccup—everything about it thrown in all directions—yet somehow, when the dust settled, things looked brighter. I only hope that trend continues for one more hour, or at least through the second Carl opens the door and welcomes me inside.

“He knows I’m coming, right?” I ask Emma, my free hand now deeply rooted in my pocket, my other clutching my poorly wrapped box like a teddy bear.

“My god, Andrew. For such a bad-ass, you’re pretty wussy right now,” she laughs.

I mock her laugh, then let my mouth fall to a straight line. “I fail to see the humor in this. It’s easy for you; you’re the daughter. Last time I was here, I pretty much slammed the door in your father’s face,” I gulp.

Emma nods, pursing her lips in a tight smile, then reaches up to straighten my tie. For all that’s holy, I’m wearing a tie. My jacket is a sweatshop and I have a noose around my neck.

“That was before he really knew you,” she says, her eyes wide and bright. I love the way she looks at me. I wish
everyone
saw me through her eyes.

Emma is so very strong. She calls me the fighter, but I don’t know—I kind of think that’s her. After she filed her police report, others came forward, and Graham was sentenced to two years of counseling. I could tell Emma was disappointed, but she never let it show. There was a plea bargain, with many—but Emma didn’t want anything. She only wanted to be sure Graham couldn’t do what he did to her again. Maybe, just this once, penance will work.

Graham’s mother ended up taking a position at Northwestern…something she said was
already
in the works. I have my doubts, but I’m thankful that Emma doesn’t have to face a reminder of her nightmares on a daily basis. Her heart was holding her hostage, but no more.

I’m not prepared, but the door opens anyway, and Carl and Cole stand side-by-side, both greeting us and ushering us in from the cold. They each take turns hugging Emma, and I step to the side, not wanting to be in the way.

“Well…we’re here. We’re…we’re all here,” Carl says, his voice sounding as nervous as I feel. He glances down, then back up to me. “Andrew…can I take your coat, son?”

“That’d be great,” I say, probably a little too anxious. Emma ribs me with her elbow, and I roll my eyes at her. “It’s so hot,” I whisper, and her mouth quirks up on one side with a smile.

I set the package down on the side table and pull my arms from my sleeves slowly, my movements still not as sure and strong as they need to be. My entire front was opened up in surgery, and the healing is slow. Seems the only thing that heals slower than muscle is a broken heart; over the last few months, I’ve healed both.

I hand my coat to Carl, and he folds it over his arm, patting it and breathing in through his nose. “I’m…I’m really glad you’re here, Andrew,” he says, his eyes down at my jacket in his arms.

“Me, too, sir,” I say, glancing to Emma then back to her father. He takes a slow step toward me, then raises his head to look into my eyes, his own delivering a heavy and honest message—an apology.

With one arm outstretched, Carl pulls me close, his heavy hand patting my back as he hugs me as if I’m his own. “I never thanked you, Andrew. What you did…” he starts, his voice clearly overrun with emotion. He’s referring to my time at Lake Crest, to the trade I made with his daughter there on that highway—the lie I told to save her from the dark, and I know he’s about to say more about it, but he doesn’t need to. His simple thanks…that’s enough.

“You don’t have to,” I say, hugging him in return, smiling at Emma over his shoulder before pulling away. “Really. I would do it all again.”

He steps back, clearing his throat and running his hand under his eye. “Yes, I know you would,” he says, pausing and lifting his gaze to mine. “I know you would, which is why I have peace.”

Emma and Cole are walking down the hall, but I hear his words to me. He moves on quickly, hanging my coat before escorting me down the hallway to their simple dining room. I let him talk about things he needs to do to the house, and I eventually make him open my gift early, loving the smile on his ragged and tired face when he sees the small chandelier. I offer to stay late tonight, to help hang it and rewire a few things, and Emma sits back and watches as I form a bond with her father, as he trusts me with his most cherished possession, and I promise without words to never take her for granted.

On a day made for family and selflessness, I somehow become my brother—wanting to give all I have so others can feel joy. But it’s not really selfless at all, because my heart is so full from it.

Full.

And beating.

And so very far away from
alone
.

I
first learned
about Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome during a drive home through the Arizona desert from my parents’ house on a late Sunday afternoon. I listen to a lot of NPR, and someone had done a story on one of the first long-term survivors of the Norwood procedure. I tuned in, my son napping in the backseat while we drove, and listened as I felt blessed that my son was born with a complete and working heart. The story was hopeful, inspirational and heartbreaking.

It left a mark.

I’ve wanted to weave this rare diagnosis into one of my stories for a while now. I just didn’t know when the fit would feel right…until I began plotting out Emma Burke. Emma felt like so many of the stories I’d read on the condition, and as I dug deeper, learning all I could from friends in the medical profession (thanks, Robin Meyers Bull!) and organizations that research and support HLHS, I knew this was the book for this very important story.

As I began plotting, I started following a blog on the Children’s Organ Transplant Association for Sadie Chapman. Sadie and Emma—they share the same diagnosis. And they’re both dreamers. Sadie wants to be an actress, Emma, a surgeon. As I was writing, Sadie was on a waiting list for a new heart. On July 8, 2015, it came.

The costs associated with transplant surgeries are tremendous. Beyond the surgery itself, there are medications and biopsies and endless doctors visits to ward off organ rejection and other complications. But COTA does an amazing job of helping those like Sadie share their stories with the public. She is one of so many in need of support. For more information, visit cota.org. For more on Sadie, visit cotaforsadiec.com.

And Sadie: we have never met, but the reach of your heart is far, and the beat is strong. It kicks throughout Wicked Restless, and I thank you for that.

Please note that Wicked is most definitely fiction—and Emma’s path is not necessarily that of the typical patient.

To say I love these Harper boys and the world they live in would be selling them short. Getting to dive back into their town, their family, this time through Andrew’s eyes, was pure joy. I have the readers who were hungry for Andrew’s take on life to thank for that. Thank you for loving the Harper boys as much as I do. It means the world to me.

I must also send thanks to Tracey Breeden, my go-to knowledge base on all things police procedure, protocol and general “but what if
this
happened—would he get arrested?” questions. I am so blessed to call you my friend.

While I’m an ESPN addict, when it comes to college hockey, there were some nuances I wasn’t so sure on—practice routines, schedules, conferences, travel. Thank you to Scott Young, director of hockey operations and assistant coach of the Boston University men’s hockey team, for taking the time out to chat up this tomboy and very girly romance writer! You filled in the gaps, and gained a forever fan for the Terriers (unless they ever face the Sun Devils).

As with every work, I would get nowhere if it were not for my team of amazing beta readers and editors. Thank you, Shelley, Bianca, Jen, Debbie, Ashley, Tina and Billi Joy Carson (Editing Addict) for steering me right. You ladies can drive me anywhere! And of course, thanks to the hubs and kiddo for putting up with the laptop at dinner, ballgames, practice, batting lessons, the trip to the East Coast (this list is endless). I love you both to the moon!

As with Wild Reckless, Wicked Restless tackles some very serious topics. I don’t believe in shying away from things—the effects of mental health and the far-to-common instances for assault and rape among college students is unfortunately not fiction. Below are some resources that specialize in helping you when you need it most. If someone you know could use a helping hand to find healing and strength, please consider passing these websites along:

As always, thank you for spending time on my book. If you enjoyed Wicked Restless, please consider leaving a review and/or sharing your recommendation with a friend. I’m thankful for every kind word, and I promise to work hard to give you more to swoon over. Consider this my foot tap to you ;-).

With love,

Ginger