Wild Reckless Read online

  What’s weird though is how quickly she lets me off the hook, how quickly she actually does go back to humming.

  I pull my science book out and spend the next twenty minutes cramming for my test, keeping with my theme of only doing lucky things for the rest of the morning. Studying has to be lucky.

  Willow’s early; I thank my karma for being able to leave the house of weirdness behind. I kick myself though when I realize I’m only getting into a car with a person who’s going to interrogate me for the next ten minutes.

  “So, how was practice and dinner with the Harpers? You never called, and I was up all night waiting for that phone to buzz, you bitch,” Willow says, pushing her glasses tighter to her face with the tip of her finger.

  “You’re so bad at playing tough,” I say, fighting off laughter at the way she said the word bitch.

  “Am not! Now, don’t disrespect me, or I’ll cut you, bitch,” she says, unable to say it with a straight face a second time.

  “Yeah, you’re one scary-ass mother,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm. “I think it’s the rhinestones on the wings of your designer glasses. Yeah, uhm…I’m pretty sure that’s it, the mark of a true bad-ass.”

  “Shut up, my contact ripped, and these are all I have,” she says. “Now, how was dinner?”

  “We never really made it to dinner,” I say, my throat closing at the memory of the night before. I can tell by the look Willow’s making that she thinks we detoured from dinner for a different reason—and as nervous as I am about being intimate with Owen, I would have given anything for that to have been the reason we didn’t make it to dinner last night.

  “Owen’s mom was home,” I say, clearing her innuendo out of the way quickly. “And James showed up.”

  “Oh, shit!” she says, giving me her full attention while we wait at the stoplight in front of the school.

  “Yeah, it was…well, let’s just say those rumors you mentioned seem to be pretty damned accurate,” I say, not sure how much about last night I should share. I think I can trust Willow, but still, it isn’t really my story to tell. I never liked gossip, and Owen’s kept my dad’s affair to himself.

  When Owen’s truck is parked in the lot, waiting in the spot next to Willow’s usual one, I’m hit with a smothering sense of relief, and I know it’s because of how scared I was the night before.

  “Well, it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job at turning those Owen Harper rumors around,” Willow says, her eyebrows lifted above the dark blue rims of her glasses. I suck in my bottom lip, but I let my smile slip through. If I am somehow this exception to the Owen Harper rule, I’m going to appreciate the role, cherish it, and cling to it.

  Owen isn’t in his truck, but his long legs come into view at the same table he was waiting at the day before. I admit to myself that I was looking for him—I was anticipating him, even before we pulled into the school’s parking lot.

  I was wishing for him.

  “I feel like maybe we were a little rushed this morning,” he says, standing and moving toward me, his thumbs looped in his front pockets, his gray jeans hugging his hips, the material gathering at his shoes.

  “Why do you always wear your hoodie or a hat or something? Like you’re hiding your identity?” I say, pulling the gray and black striped hood away from his messy hair so I can run my fingers through it. It’s something I’ve been dying to do, and Owen watches my face as I let my hands find their way, feeling the soft waves of his hair, gripping the thickness. He lets his face fall to one side, resting on my arm, his unshaven jaw scratchy, but his lips soft and tender when they kiss my skin.

  “Well, if I knew you had a thing for hair, I would have ditched the hat a long time ago,” he says, half a smirk underscoring his hooded eyes.

  “Just your hair,” I say, lifting up on my toes to kiss him good morning in a way I couldn’t do in front of my mom.

  “People used to look at me…stare at me. When I was a kid, after my dad…” he says, hand reaching up and running through his hair once before reaching for the hood to put it back in it’s place. “I started covering my head to hide. Sounds stupid, but I felt like people saw a little less of me. And habits stick, I guess.”

  Owen hides. I can’t fault that, especially when I have thought so often of hiding myself lately. I reach under his hood once more, running my fingers through the side of his hair and pulling his cheek to me. “I’m okay with being the only one who gets the boy without the hood,” I say.

  “Ha…” he laughs, but quickly covers his mouth in apology, rubbing his chin and trying to tamper his grin. “Sorry, it was something about the thought of you under my hood. For the record, I still think it’s funny when people say balls too. Guys are all ten-year-olds at their core.”

  “Clearly,” I say, pushing his chest once before I leave. He falls back on his feet, pretending to stumble, but catches his balance quickly and winks at me before turning to walk away.

  “See ya in class, Ken Doll,” he says, turning around to stick his tongue out once.

  “You are such a ten-year-old,” I yell. He turns and walks the long way back around the building, and I watch him until he’s out of my sight. I love the way he looks.

  I’ve enjoyed the last few mornings of band practice. Apparently, we compete. And apparently, we also win—our trophy case is twice the size of the football team’s. It’s just in the music room, where nobody can see it.

  We’ve been practicing our show to make it perfect, and I’ve added a few more instruments to my duties, offering to play the tympani drums and chimes to really sell our closing song. It gives me more things to practice, more things to distract me from my hour of independent study, more things to keep my hands away from the piano—off the keys that haunt me.

  Owen’s feet are in their rightful place during English, but his head is covered with a hat, his hood pulled completely over it, only his chin visible—that and the wise smirk on his lips.

  “Very funny,” I say, shoving his feet to the side. His laugh catches quickly, and when the teacher walks in, he’s quick to pull his hood down and toss his hat on the floor underneath his desk. It’s strange—at school, Owen is always respectful to the teachers.

  We’re discussing illusions from our reading today, talking about whether or not the main character of Crime and Punishment is actually good or evil, and how to spot the signs that tell us what to think. Everyone in the class is so quick to condemn Raskolnikov—convicting him without any chatter. I plan on playing devil’s advocate. I’d like to think that it’s my academic need to think deeper that spurs me to speak up, to interrupt the hanging ceremony everyone’s so quick to have. But I kind of think it’s more than that.

  “But what about his intentions?” I ask, only one or two students really hearing my question over the debate. Mr. Chessman hears too, and soon raises his hand to quiet everyone down.

  “Miss Worth, what was your point? I think the class needs to hear this,” he says, and I can feel everyone turn to stare at me.

  “Uhm,” I say, adjusting my posture in my seat, wrapping my fingers around the top of my desk. More than the class’s attention, I feel Owen’s—my stomach pounding to the rhythm of my heart. “I was just thinking, we’re not really considering Raskolnikov’s intentions. We’re prosecuting him based on the rules, based on laws. But is it really that simple?”

  “Interesting,” Mr. Chessman says, leaning on his desk and holding his hand to his chin. “Class?”

  “It doesn’t matter what his intentions were, he murdered someone. The rules are black and white, and he knew them. Case done, piece of cake,” says Cal Russell, one of the more outspoken guys in our senior class. Cal won homecoming king, and he’s had the same girlfriend for two years—she happened to win queen. It was all so very surprising when they won, according to Willow.

  “That’s a very narrow view,” I say, my foot bouncing under my desk, my temper—one of the trait’s I inherited from my father—trying to find a w
ay out.

  “Is it?” Mr. Chessman asks. “Explain, Miss Worth. I’d like the class to hear your thought process on this. I think this is opening up a great discussion.”

  Awesome. More talking, which is probably going to lead to more arguing. And I can no longer hear Owen’s breathing behind me. His shoe is resting against the foot of my seat, though, so I know he’s still here.

  “Well,” I say, taking a deep breath and thumbing through a few pages of my book. “Yes, you can say it’s premeditated, or whatever, because we read those chapters where he thought about the crime before committing it. But…”

  “But what? You just said it right there, he thought about it, and still did it!” Cal says.

  “Stop interrupting!” I say, too loudly. Temper winning. “Sorry,” I say a little more quietly. “Let me finish. He thought about it, and we got to read his thoughts. We know that he found good reason, he put the options on the scale, to see if the world was a better place with or without his crime, and he concluded, after much thought, that yes…the world would be better if he committed this crime.”

  “Murder. Not a crime, but murder!” Cal says.

  “Yes, murder—in this case. But, I think as readers we need to think of the larger message,” I say, my voice gaining strength. I’ve read this book a dozen times, and I know my argument well. Cal isn’t going to break me. “There’s a reason that, despite committing murder, the reader still loves the protagonist. What Dostoyevsky did was paint a portrait of the most heinous crime he could think of, yet open our minds to the possibility that perhaps the criminal isn’t so black and white, that maybe we judge without really seeing everything.”

  “How can you possibly know the facts, know that he murdered someone, and sit there and defend him?” Cal says, turning his feet to face me in his seat, he’s trying to intimidate me, and my heart is pounding faster. I think it’s working.

  “I’m not defending Raskolnikov, I’m defending the idea that we ignore other facts and judge people based on what we think is convenient,” I fire back.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he says, rolling his eyes and moving to turn his attention back to our teacher.

  “No…it’s not,” Owen says, his voice behind me that familiar tone, the one he uses when he reveals things. Just the sound of it breaks me a little and fills me with confidence and pride all at once.

  “Mr. Harper? Care to expound?” Mr. Chessman says, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, his mouth a small smirk. He likes Owen; I can tell.

  I hear Owen clear his throat and shift in his seat, so I turn my head to the side, letting my eyes see him from a periphery. His head is down, and he’s sucking in his top lip while he thinks.

  “What Kensi’s saying is that we sum people up based on a small set of facts, and we use those facts and apply them to every action, every case, every word a person says,” he says. I tuck my chin low, trying to hide the smile he’s building on my face. “And when you’re so quick to convict someone, you run the risk of ignoring their innocence.”

  There’s a quiet over the room, and Cal spends a few seconds looking at Owen, hard. His focus shifts to me and then to our teacher, then back to Owen, and it’s when he’s chewing his bottom lip, sawing on it, his thoughts right on the tip of his tongue, that I know he’s going to fire a bullet.

  “You mean like the way we all just assume you’re a piece of shit because you stole a car, robbed a store at gunpoint, and then held that same gun to your own head later that night just to prove you’re nuts just like your old man?”

  Cal only has enough time to find his balance and get to his feet before Owen is in front of him, his hand gripping the fabric of his shirt collar, his weight pushing him backward until his body hits the wall with a heavy thud. Owen forces him into the wall twice, just to make sure the air completely clears his lungs, then twists his hand around Cal’s shirt, choking him before finally releasing.

  Mr. Chessman’s hand is on Owen’s back within seconds, and Owen lets the crumpled shirt fall back in place along Cal’s chest. Before he steps away, he stares long and hard, his nose practically touching Cal’s, he’s so close. “Exactly,” he says, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged—and his fingers flexing, wanting to destroy.

  “That’s enough, Owen. You know where to go,” he says, his head tilted slightly to one side, his expression caught somewhere between pride and disappointment.

  “Yeah, I know,” Owen says, turning to leave the class. As he passes me, he drags one finger along the length of my desk, brushing my fingertips as he passes. But he never looks down at me. The door swings open wildly, banging into the hallway wall.

  “Cal?” Mr. Chessman says, his eyes falling on the smug blonde asshole still straightening his shirt at the front of the classroom.

  “What, me? Are you serious? He attacked me!” Cal defends.

  “Yes, but you also broke the rules…and what was it you said?” Mr. Chessman’s smile shows again. “Ah, yes…they’re black and white. Case done. Piece. Of. Cake.”

  He pushes a pink slip into Cal’s chest at his last word, then motions for him to leave the room. Cal grumbles a few swear words as he leaves, and when he reaches my desk, he gives me a look that proves he’s already summed me up, too, just by my relationship with Owen. I’m pretty sure I can sleep at night knowing I don’t have Cal Russell in my corner. Maybe I’m making my own snap judgments, but I’m pretty sure he’s the dark side in this one.

  “Well…” Mr. Chessman says, leaning back to sit along the edge of his desk. His arms folded in front of him. “Kensi brings up a very good point, despite the debate we had just a few minutes ago. I’d like you all to think about that as you finish the next three chapters, and come prepared to discuss—without fisticuffs—tomorrow.”

  The bell rings only minutes later, and the rest of the class quickly goes back to their routine, everyone chatting about lunch plans, weekend dates, parties. I wait for the classroom to clear before gathering my things and heading for the door.

  “For the record, Miss Worth,” Mr. Chessman says, stopping me just before I open the door. “I think you made a very valid point.”

  My breathing suddenly feels easier, and I let my smile respond for me, then open the door and move into the crowded hallway. It’s lunch, and I know Willow, Jess, Elise and Ryan will be wondering where I am, but I have to make sure Owen is okay. I dodge backpacks and elbows through the busy hallway until I see the glass door of the principal’s office swing open, Owen stepping through, his own pink slip crumpled in his hand, his eyes still dark, angry.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, walking up to him, my steps coming quicker. He grabs my hand fast, his grip on my fingers tight, almost painful, and pulls me behind him through the thick crowd in the hall until we reach the back door, near the loading zone for the cafeteria. He pushes down hard, forcing the door open, then pulls my arm, leading me around a corner to a line of recycling bins.

  “I’m so sorry…” I start, but Owen’s hands find me fast, his fingers wrapping around my shoulders, his force moving me back until I’m flush with the wall, and then his lips crash down on me.

  His hands slide from my shoulders to my neck and into my hair, his mouth covering mine as if he needs my air to breathe, and he closes the small distance between us, the warmth and hardness of him pressing into my body, my hands operating on their own instinct, finding his sides and back until I’m clinging to him, grabbing bunches of his black sweatshirt all at once.

  Owen’s hand moves to his head while he’s kissing me, and he tosses his hat to the ground to the side of us, and I let my fingers move to his hair, weaving the strands in and out, letting the softness of them curl around me.

  This is the best kiss of my life. Every kiss with Owen has been the best kiss of my life. But this one—it’s full of something more. His lips work mine for long seconds, his tongue passing over mine slowly, his teeth dragging over my bottom lip, my top lip, tugging on me and pulling me into him even deeper. I c
an feel his heartbeat through his shirt, and I let my hands roam over his chest and around his back again, the feel of him exactly as it is every time I dream.

  He finally pauses, his mouth still resting on mine, his lips barely parted as they struggle for air. Owen’s eyes are closed, and his forehead is resting on mine, his thumbs still gently caressing my cheeks.

  “I…,” he says, his breath stuttering, his lips quivering, his body relaxing into me. His head falls heavier into mine, and I can actually feel his entire body shaking.

  Owen doesn’t finish the sentence, instead kissing me again with the same intensity as before. For the entire lunch hour, his lips work mine until they’re practically raw; when the bell rings to resume class, he pulls my hands up to his lips, clasped tightly within his, and he kisses them once before pressing them to the side of his face, looking at me with eyes that have cleared, eyes that aren’t full of rage and hate.

  I’m honest with Elise when she asks where I was.

  “Making out with Owen,” I say, and she laughs, but it soon fades when she realizes I’m serious. Our conversation is short, cut off by the bell to begin class. I notice Owen isn’t in here, that he never came after our last kiss behind the school. He said he’d see me later, and I was too stunned to register or even ask what that meant.

  Our teacher passes out our tests, and I notice that she sets one aside and write’s Owen’s name on it. Despite my lack of studying, I finish mine quickly, somehow pulling mostly correct answers from the depths of my brain.

  When the ending bell rings, I don’t wait for Elise, my mind still reeling from Owen, his kiss, how I felt—how he felt. Then it turns to wondering where he is, wondering if he’s okay, to Cal—to the things Cal said.

  “You look like an actual ghost,” Willow says when I meet her at her car.

  “Yeah…I feel like one,” I say, my eyes not really able to focus on anything, too busy looking for Owen, for answers. I climb into her passenger seat and buckle up, and I feel her gaze on me as she buckles, then starts her engine. We get to the light at the school exit, where we wait for cars to pass so we can pull out on the road, before I’m able to articulate anything.