Wild Reckless Read online

  “I like that you look for me,” he says, leaning into me. I’m tempted to tell him that’s good, because I do it a lot. But I keep that thought to myself; instead, taking my opportunity to steal glances at him while he drives. It’s rare to see him without his head covered; he’s always wearing a hat or beanie or his hood from his sweatshirt. I think it’s like a blanket to him, gives him comfort. But right now, his hair is tasseled in all different directions, messy from his practice, damp with sweat, and possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  That’s the thing with Owen. He’s…sexy! I’ve found boys cute before, attractive, and sometimes tall and strong, but never sexy. The thought of Owen running into one of the guys from Bryce makes me giggle—and the small noise I make catches his attention.

  “What’s funny over there, Ken Doll?” I smack his leg at the use of that nickname. “I’m kidding, kidding! Just wanted to get you back for whatever it is you think is funny about me.”

  “I don’t think you’re funny. I was just thinking you were…cute. I think you’re cute,” I say, keeping it safe, a notch less embarrassing than the truth.

  Owen glances at me a few times, biting his lip, his eyes hazed and lowered. He’s about to say something back when we pull into his driveway and notice two cars pulled in before him. He pulls the keys out, but holds them in his hand, his eyes on the vehicles in front of us.

  “Mom’s home,” he says, his face oddly unhappy.

  “Oh, should I…just go home? Or, is she okay with me coming over? I would love to meet her…” Owen hasn’t moved, his posture rigid and his gaze stuck on something out the window. “Owen?”

  “Oh, yeah…sorry. You should totally come in. She’d love to meet you. Andrew sort of talked you up, before I could. She’ll love you,” he says, his smile short of being real. I get the feeling it’s masking something.

  I pull my bag over my shoulder as I exit the truck and follow Owen up the steps of the front porch. He’s about to turn the knob to the front door, when he just leans forward, his forehead resting on it and his sigh the kind that carries the weight of something serious.

  “My brother’s here, too,” he says, and at first I think Andrew. But then I realize—he’s talking about James. “I don’t know what you’re going to get, so just…” Owen rolls his head to the side until his eyes find mine. “Sorry…if this gets weird.”

  Almost every part of me wants to run, turn on my heels and sprint for the safety of my house. I play tough, and I’ve walked the line with Owen, but James—what I’ve imagined about James—scares me. My feet drag when he opens the door, and I consider my moment of hesitation, leaving, running, fleeing…Owen would understand. And then it flashes through my mind all at once—when Owen should have run away from me, when Gaby was confronting me, when my father was in my driveway banging on my door…he stayed.

  He stayed.

  Owen’s house is immaculate. I don’t know what I expected, but clean and bright wasn’t it. Given that it’s mostly Owen and Andrew at home alone, I thought things would be disorganized, maybe a little messy. I expected dark, and masculine.

  “O? Is that you?” I hear a voice call from the direction of the kitchen. Owen’s house is a mirror of mine, only where I have a piano setting he has an actual dining table.

  “It’s me, Ma,” he yells back, his eyes moving around his house, searching. He’s edgy.

  “Good! I have a few hours before…” His mother rounds the corner and sees me, her step and speech both stuttering. She’s tall, like Owen, and her frame is thin, like a woman who works long hours and never stops to eat. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing a security uniform, her feet only in socks.

  “Mom, this is Kensi. She’s our neighbor,” Owen says, shrugging at me slightly, I think not wanting to offend me.

  “Nice to meet you,” I smile, stepping closer to her and reaching out my hand. She rubs both of her palms along her pants, then smiles faintly as she takes my hand in hers.

  “Kensi, yes. I’ve heard about you. So nice to finally meet you. I’m Shannon. Is your family settling in okay?” Her eyes look to Owen for guidance, but he only raises his brows high. There really isn’t an easy answer for this one, so I lie.

  “Yes, we like it here,” I say, leaving words like parents, father and affair out of the picture.

  “I was going to have Kens stay for dinner. She treated me the other night, but I didn’t know…” he stops there, letting his eyes speak the rest as they move beyond his mom to the living room where the television is blaring.

  “No, please. Please stay, Kensi. We’d love to have you. And I was just ordering a pizza. It’s not much, but I don’t have a lot of time to cook, so…yes, please—I insist! What do you like? Pepperoni?” His mom is already dialing on her cellphone, her back to me, so I look to Owen, not sure what I should do.

  “I can go. Really, it’s okay,” I whisper to him, and his eyes are telling me it’s all right to leave. But then a new voice interrupts everything.

  “Haaaaaa, look at you, baby brother. Is this your new girlfriend?” James says, his body filling the entire frame of the doorway between the formal living room and the family area. His hands stretch up to touch the ceiling, causing his shirt to raise and show how thin his stomach is. His hair and eyes are dark like Owen’s, and his smile is equally tempting—a trait the Harper boys can use for good or evil at will, it seems. Unlike Owen, though, James seems to lack focus, his eyes wild and everywhere all at once.

  “James.” Owen’s greeting is curt and callus, and I feel as uncomfortable as I knew I would the moment he told me his brother was here. Again, I want to run.

  But I don’t.

  His brother holds Owen’s stare, the two of them having a private conversation with their eyes—one I know isn’t friendly. Eventually, James shrugs and turns to walk back to the family room and the television he has playing so loudly that the sound is distorting. Owen’s mom motions for us to join James in the living room while she moves back into the kitchen, and Owen grabs my hand, stopping me before I take a step.

  “You can go home. You don’t have to stay here for me. This…this is my life, Kens. And you don’t have to be here for this.” His hold on my fingers is rough, but purposeful, and he’s holding his breath, his nostrils flaring slightly while his pupils dial in on mine, begging me to leave. He thinks he’s saving me.

  “I’d like to stay,” I say quietly, my eyes never flinching or leaving his. I want to run, my stomach sinking when I speak, but I can’t leave him. I won’t.

  Owen swallows, taking a sharp breath in through his nose, then turns his attention back to the next room, his hand still linked with mine as he leads me into an older-looking room with family photos covering the wall. The frames are wooden and tattered, and the pictures of Andrew, Owen, and James seem to span most of their youth—stopping at what I’d guess to be four or five years ago. The back wall is a dark-wood paneling, and the television is propped on top of a coffee table that’s pushed against the wall next to the bricked fireplace.

  As old and dark as everything in this room seems, it’s still clean, and it still feels like a home. James is sitting on a large orange sofa with wooden arms, his legs propped up on another table that’s covered in magazines, keys, a wallet, and a gun.

  There’s a gun.

  On the center of the table, an inch away from James’s foot, there’s a gun. It’s black, and slick, and it looks like something a cop should be carrying. My body is reacting, a slow sweat building at the base of my neck, dripping deliberately down my sides, under my arms, my heart thumping wildly.

  “Dude, put that away. Mom doesn’t need to see that,” Owen says, gesturing to the weapon. James studies him for a few seconds, his finger holding the tip of a toothpick that he’s chewed into a bend, the other side locked in his mouth, mashed between his back teeth. Owen leans forward, his hand reaching for the gun, about to grab it, when James beats him to it, clutching it, his fin
ger at the trigger. In a blink, the gun is pointed at Owen’s neck, his brother standing in front of him, staring him down from inches away, his face threatening.

  My breath. Is gone.

  I open my mouth to scream, but nothing happens. My pulse is racing, and I’m looking around the room for someone, anyone. We’re alone, Owen’s mom just a room away.

  She’s only a room away! I’m trying to move my feet, to do something—anything—but I only end up with my back against the wall.

  James’s lips curve into a smile, and a slow, insane laugh starts to brew in his chest until it eventually explodes from his mouth. He cocks the gun back, away from Owen, and then tosses it back on the table, as if it were a remote.

  “You’re sick, and you need to leave,” Owen says, his stance never once wavering—the gun having absolutely no effect on him, nor the fact that it was just pointed at his throat.

  “Come on,” Owen says, grabbing my hand and pulling me back through the house, through his front door, and down his porch steps. My body is shaking by the time we get outside, and I start to cry, cupping my mouth with my hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds.

  “Shhhhhh, it’s okay,” Owen says, pulling me into his chest quickly, his hands wrapping around my head, his lips finding my bare skin along my face, his voice working to soothe me. “He’s high. He’s always high. And he needs money. That’s why he’s here. I’m so sorry you had to see that. My mom, she isn’t supposed to let him in. But she’s weaker than I am. That’s why he came now. He knew I was gone.”

  “Owen, you have to do something. Call the police, something,” I say, my suggestion met with a roar of laughter.

  “Kens, that’s a really good thought. But the cops don’t come to my house when I call. They come for other people. The Harpers? They sort of hope we kill each other off,” he says, and I shake my head in protest the entire time.

  “No, they would come. Owen, let them help you,” I start, but he pulls me to him tightly again.

  “They don’t come for things like this. And even if they did…” he says, pulling back to look in my eyes, “there’s nothing they could do. He’s either going to go away and get help one day, or James is going to die.”

  “No,” I weep, shaking my head.

  “Kens, my family’s fucked up. I told you. Me? James? Even Andrew? We’re all just these time bombs, waiting to see if we turn into our dad. James is just helping it along so he can get to the end faster.”

  Owen’s words hurt. They hurt because I want more for him and Andrew, and they hurt because I know how true they are—I saw it, seconds ago. My chest is tight, and it’s becoming harder to breathe.

  “Do me a favor,” Owen says, his eyes looking up, above my head. I turn to follow his sightline; he’s staring at my window. “Go home. Get inside, lock up, and sit by your window.”

  “No, Owen. Come with me,” I say, but he shakes my arm, my hands cupped in his, urging me to listen.

  “I’m going to make him leave, Kens. He won’t hurt me; I’ve been here—I’ve done this. And when he’s gone, I’ll go there,” he says, pointing to his window, “and I’ll find you.”

  Every time I shake my head no, Owen counters with a yes, until finally, I’m walking away from him. I look over my shoulder every few steps, and he doesn’t leave his spot until I reach my door.

  “Wait for me,” he says, and I clutch the strap of my heavy backpack, dragging it inside with me and locking the door behind me immediately. I don’t even move it away from the doorway, abandoning it, and racing up my stairs to my window, getting there just in time to see Owen step inside.

  I’ll wait for you.

  I’m waiting for you.

  I hold my breath for minutes at a time, my head against the glass of my window, my eyes checking every door and window of the Harper house, waiting for any movement, any sound, or new light or shadows. It stays dark, just as dark as it always is—and nothing happens. Thirty minutes go by, and there isn’t a single sound. I text Owen, asking him if he’s okay, and I keep my phone close to my chest, waiting for his reply.

  Ten more minutes—nothing.

  Ten more.

  Nothing.

  My finger hovers over the emergency call button, knowing that if I called—if I said there was trouble at the Harper house—they’d come.

  I’m waiting for you, Owen. Please…please come to your window.

  The sound of Owen’s front door outside scares me, and I bump my head on the glass in my reaction. James is practically jogging down the porch steps, his long strides the same as his brother’s, and he pushes his hat low while he swings the door to his small sedan open. Within seconds, he’s racing down the road, and my eyes wait for Owen to appear.

  When his light flicks on, I let out a small cry from everything I’ve been holding in, and when he raises the blinds and swings his curtains out of the way completely—I bite my lip and smile. This isn’t a flirtatious kind of smile, but rather one of deep relief. Seeing him, after the feeling I got when I saw his brother push a gun in his face, scratches something new inside me, something deep.

  I hold my hand up, pressing it to the glass, and Owen sits down in front of his window, leaning forward, resting his head on his hands along the windowsill. We stare at each other like this for minutes, and I rub away the frost on the glass at least twice.

  Keeping my eyes on Owen, I slide my phone into my lap, then look down quickly to type him a message.

  Want to talk about it?

  His response comes a few seconds later.

  I think I just want to look at you for a while.

  I put my hand back against the glass, this time Owen doing the same, and I stay there, for an hour, looking at him looking at me. And I’m terrified—afraid of what happened tonight, of everything I saw and of the thought that James might come back.

  And I’m afraid I’m losing myself to danger—the worst kind, the kind that rules your heart.

  I’m falling for Owen Harper, and I’m afraid he’s going to die.

  Chapter 14

  The chatter downstairs stirs me awake. My mom’s voice is somewhere between normal and a whisper, which can only mean one thing—my father’s here.

  I’m awake and sitting up in seconds, but I’m not so sure I want to face that much drama this early in the morning. The moon is out, the sun still a half hour from rising. The sky has seemed darker lately, winter bringing a thick layer of darkness that takes over the starts and ends of every day.

  My alarm will sound soon, so I push the clock button to at least spare myself the noise of morning DJs that are far too peppy to be real. I grab my jeans, a long-sleeved undershirt and my favorite T-shirt, a black one that reads Mozart Would Have Loved Miles Davis. It’s a test day, and I’m feeling unlucky. Actually, I’m feeling unprepared—so I’m going to need all of the superstitious things in my life to align. And clearly, my morning isn’t starting off on the right note.

  My shower is hot, but the water runs out far too quickly, so I towel dry before my skin has a chance to get cold, drying my hair and scrunching the curl into it. I pull a knit hat over the crown, keeping the little part of my hair that’s still wet warm, then I take a deep breath and force myself to go downstairs.

  I’m pleasantly surprised when I’m greeted by Owen’s back, his feet propped atop the footrest on the stool by the counter, my mom’s coffee mug cradled in his hand. Everything pleasant turns to anxiety, though, when my mom makes an obvious detour in the conversation, coughing to announce my entrance into the room.

  “Ohhhh, you’re up early. Good morning, Kens. You want some bacon? I made some for Owen, and there’s some left; it’s still warm.” She’s already putting it on a plate and pushing buttons on the microwave. Owen smiles at me, leans forward, and presses his lips to my cheek while my mom’s back is to us.

  She made him…bacon?

  “Why are you here?” I whisper, my voice quiet but not quiet enough to keep my mom from craning her neck slightly at
my question. She’s spying.

  “I was awake early; Mom left for work, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Didn’t want to wake Andrew up yet, so I was waiting on your porch,” he says.

  “I found him out there,” my mom says, topping off Owen’s coffee cup—her coffee cup, which she gave to him. This is all so….

  “Thanks,” he nods, taking another drink. The two of them hold each other’s eyes, something strange passing between them, but I can’t tell if it feels like bad news.

  “Have you heard from your brother?” I ask as soon as my mom is out of earshot. Owen only shakes his head no.

  “I’ve gotta get Andrew moving,” he says, sliding his half-filled mug over to me to finish. I smell it, and can tell it’s strong—I drink my coffee with more milk than coffee. I stand to pour it in the sink, then turn to walk Owen to the door, but my mom is already showing him out, thanking him for something.

  When she comes back in, she’s humming—humming.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, that uneasy feeling too much to ignore.

  “Well, I’m dog tired, and I have forty-eight hours off, so I’m planning on napping until about noon, then I’m in for a marathon of HGTV to see if I can turn this kitchen reno into something other than a condemned piece of property,” she says, laughing at her mildly funny joke.

  “I meant with Owen. What’s going on…with Owen?” I ask, and she purses her lips, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s trying to buy herself time. My mother has a hard time being anything but honest, and when I think back on it, I realize she tilted her head when she told me we were moving, when she said she was excited about it, and when she told me I’d love my new school just as much as Bryce.

  “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to know,” I decide. If whatever she’s keeping to herself is anything like the crap that’s unraveled on me over the last six weeks, then I don’t want to know; I’m better off not knowing. She can go back to humming.