Wild Reckless Read online

  We both punch in our numbers for the lunch account and take our trays to a table near the window where Jess is waiting for us along with another couple I recognize from band this morning. Everyone sits—everyone…but me. I’m frozen, locked into where I’m standing, my elbows somehow unable to operate well enough to place the tray on the table in front of me.

  On the other side of the glass, Owen Harper is kissing a girl. She seems pretty—her hair a long, dark brown, very different from my wavy blond layers. I try to notice more about her, but I can’t take my eyes off the place where his hands are cupped around her face, holding her lips to his with this animalistic sense of ownership. It’s almost offensive, but it’s also…something else.

  His right hand slowly slides into her hair, and he tilts her face ever so slightly to one side, giving his mouth a better angle, as his lips grow more aggressive. I’m hypnotized by the power he has over her—over me. His lips move over her mouth with a sense of possession, and his grip on her upper lip with his teeth slides away with a slowness that simply oozes sex. I’m blushing—just standing here, a voyeur, and I’m blushing.

  I have never been kissed like that. I have never really been kissed at all.

  He moves down her neck next, his tongue blatantly sliding along the nape then under her jaw. Their friends are all standing nearby, but nobody is looking. I’m stunned no one else is seeing this. His hands are now clutched around her head and body, her shirt twisting up enough to reveal her bare midriff. It’s almost a soft porn show in front of the main window for the whole cafeteria to see. Yet, I’m the only one looking.

  And then his eyes open, in a purposeful haze, and he looks. Right. At. Me.

  My heart stops. My stomach feels sick, and my lip puffs out with the small gasp that escapes me from the shot of adrenaline now coursing through me from getting caught.

  Owen never stops kissing. His eyes toy with me for the brief seconds I stand there in shock. He’s laughing with those eyes. He’s teasing me—as if he knows that I am so far out of my comfort zone that I may pass out from humiliation at any moment. But I don’t. I look right back at him. I can’t help myself. And his eyes soften, but not in a gentle way. They become sexier, more daring—he’s daring me. Keep watching; go ahead. That’s what his eyes are saying now. The gray color suddenly looks like a storm brewing, and I’m caught in it, no chance for survival.

  “Earth to Kens! We’re down here. Tell them to get a room!” Willow says, pulling at the edge of my shirt, yanking me down into my seat, away from the danger tempting me on the other side of the window.

  “Sorry, that was…huh…I just guess couples never really did that sort of thing at my old school. You know…so…out in the open?” I say, forcing my eyes onto my tray.

  “Oh, they’re not a couple. Owen just does that sometimes. And girls keep lining up. Like lemmings,” says the small girl sitting with us. Her hair is cut into a sharp bob cut, and her eyes are lined in smoky-gray eye shadow. It’s a look I wish I could pull off, just once. “I’m Elise, by the way. I play the flute. And this is Ryan. He doesn’t play anything, but I like him anyway.”

  Ryan shrugs and gives a quick smile before turning his attention back to whatever seems to be interesting him on his phone. Elise ribs him with her elbow, and he rolls his eyes and puts his phone down on the table to give me a proper smile before turning back to her. “There, satisfied?” he says.

  She looks at him with wide eyes, then turns back to me. “Ryan is my ex boyfriend. I just dumped him because he was rude to my new friend Kensi,” she says, and Ryan sighs deeply, this time putting his phone back in his pocket and standing with his hand outstretched.

  “Sorry, just stressed. I’m waiting to hear about a college thing. And I’m not an asshole, despite what she says,” Ryan says, tilting his head toward Elise.

  I shake both of their hands across the table, and spare a glance back out the window as I do. The make-out session seems to have ended, but Owen is still looking at me. His arm is slung around the girl’s shoulders, and his thumb is caressing her bare skin.

  “It’s because the Harper brothers have wild hearts,” Willow says. For some reason, her statement sparks a collective sigh from her friends. “What? You guys know it’s true.”

  “No, Will. None of us know it’s true. We just humor you. And you know I hate it when you start talking this mystical crap,” Jess says, standing with his empty tray. “Anyone need anything to drink? I’m not sure I can hear the wild heart speech one more time.”

  Willow pulls a pinch of crust from her sandwich and throws it at Jess before he turns to leave. He catches it at his stomach and throws it back, smirking while he does. “All right, I’ll be back in about seven minutes. That’s how long this usually takes,” he says. Willow squints her eyes at him and shakes her head as he leaves.

  “Wild hearts?” I ask, bringing her back to the point. I’ll admit, I’m curious.

  “Willow thinks because she was there when it all happened—that she knows, has some sort of inside knowledge on why the Harper boys are so fucked up,” Elise says, pulling open a bag of chips. She offers me one, but I shrug it off. I’m too intrigued by this story now to eat.

  “There’s more than just Owen?” I ask, wondering why the house next door always seems so quiet.

  “Yep, there are three. Owen’s the middle brother. His older brother James is a real loser—total druggie. And his younger brother Andrew is a freshman. You’ll see him around sometimes,” Elise says.

  My stomach sinks a little knowing that there are more of them living next door to me, and I turn to look out the window again. Owen’s attention is finally on his friends, but his arm is still around that girl, his thumb still stroking her arm like he’s keeping her on a leash, reminding her that he’s here and he’ll get back to her later.

  “So drugs…is that what makes them wild?” I ask.

  “Ohhhhh no,” Willow says, piling the remnants of her sandwich and the half-eaten apple up on her tray. “That happened later. And I’m pretty sure it’s just James that’s a druggie. Their problems started a long time ago, though.”

  Willow scoots forward, glancing once over her shoulder, and I feel like I’m learning some dark secret. With a slightly lowered voice, she starts to explain. “We were five, maybe not quite. And there used to be this carnival that happened every year—the apple fest. Well, I was there with my cousins, because they usually had cool rides and games and stuff. I was in line waiting for my turn to throw the rings at the bottles when my aunt grabbed ahold of my arm and pulled me close to her body. She was trying to shield my eyes, but she was too caught up in everything happening to do a very good job. I saw everything.”

  “I’m confused. What to you mean? What did you see?” I ask. Willow’s storytelling sucks. I’m starting to understand why Jess left. I’d leave too if I already knew how this ended. But I don’t; so I’m glued to my seat.

  “Well, Owen’s dad was Bill Harper. He was sort of known as the town’s crazy man. He talked to himself and did a lot of weird things—like posting strange signs in the back of his car telling people to leave him alone. Anyhow, apparently he finally snapped, and when my aunt pulled me away from the games, I looked up at the Ferris wheel, where everyone else was looking, and I saw Bill Harper standing out on one of the steel beams, about a hundred and fifty feet in the air. He was yelling out these crazy things; none of it made sense.”

  “What does this have to do with Owen?” I ask, my periphery catching a glimpse of my tall, mysterious neighbor still standing outside.

  “He was there. He was on the ride, in the cart, when his dad walked out of it, stepped out to the edge, and jumped. He killed himself right there in front of Owen. And the Harper boys have been ruined ever since,” she says, and I can’t help but hurt a little thinking of Owen as a little boy. I wonder what he was like then. And I wonder if Willow’s right—if he would have been different, wouldn’t have kicked rocks at me or would have helped me carry
my things inside if he hadn’t been damaged.

  “They’re not ruined,” Ryan finally says. “Owen’s a good guy. He just has to trust you; that’s all.”

  “You’re just saying that because he’s on the basketball team with you. You have to say that because he’s so good,” Willow says.

  “Yeah, he’s good. But honestly? He’s always been pretty decent to me. Maybe I’ve just never labeled him though,” Ryan says. I take note of the hint of disappointment in his tone over how Willow is talking about Owen, and it makes me wonder where the truth lies.

  “He has an arrest record,” Willow says, a little defensively.

  “Fuck, Will, so do I! Half this school has some sort of something on their record. We drive too fast, we get caught at parties with beer, we steal shit from the convenience store. It’s what we do because there’s shit-squat to do out here,” Ryan says, standing and kissing Elise on the head. “I’m just saying maybe we’re all a little fucked up, and the only difference is the world knows Owen’s story, because it happened out in the open. The rest of us…we all just keep our shit private.”

  Elise doesn’t add anything to Ryan’s speech, but she looks at her boyfriend with a sort of reverence when he speaks. With trays in their hands, they slide from the table together, leaving just Willow and me now to finish the story.

  “I guess Ryan’s sort of right,” she says, slipping her backpack over her shoulders and nudging me to do the same so we’re not late for class. “But…I don’t know, Kens. That guy? He has some extra crap going on. He lives on the edge, like he doesn’t have fear or something. I’ve heard he’s played that game, Russian roulette…you know, where people take turns holding a gun up to their heads with only one bullet inside? He does that at parties. I don’t think that’s normal, do you?”

  I shake my head no when she asks. No, that’s not normal. And I think I knew the first time I looked into his eyes that there was nothing normal about Owen Harper. But what scares me is I had this flash of an idea—a fleeting thought—that there was something special about him, too.

  When I dump my trash and stack my tray, I hold the door for Willow to walk through. I sneak one final look to the courtyard outside. Owen’s hand has finally dropped from the girl’s arm, and he and a group of five other guys and girls are walking away—away from the school completely.

  He’s wearing gray jeans, black Doc Martens, and a tight black, long-sleeved shirt that fits his frame perfectly. From a distance, he’s a shadow. I don’t know about the wild theory. But Owen Harper is definitely dark.

  And he sleeps thirty feet away from me.

  Chapter 3

  Why did he bother to show up at all? Why did he leave after lunch? Why did he miss his classes on the first day of school?

  Who did that?

  I can’t quit thinking about what Willow said. Ditching classes, three at least as far as I could tell from his absence during roll call in science, and flaunting his make-out sessions aren’t exactly things I would consider wild. But that last thing she said—about playing roulette with a loaded gun—I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around that. It frightened me, and it made me dread going home, being near someone who could do that.

  Mom was working the late shift at the hospital, and Dad wouldn’t be home until late in the evening, so I was going to experience my first ride on the country-bumpkin bus. It’s really more suburban than that, but compared to the city, where transportation options are waiting around every corner, this feels like I’m waiting for the tractor pull to swing by to give me a lift.

  Willow’s car slows at the curb next to me, and her honk makes me jump. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  She asks a lot of obvious questions.

  “Well, maybe my powers of deductive reasoning are flawed, but I was assuming that this was the place where one waited to take the bus home. You see, there’s this sign here,” I say, tapping my fingertips on the metal sign that reads BUS STOP. “Then, there was this gathering of students all in some sort of line-type formation. So I thought…”

  “Wow, you’re a smart-ass,” she says, reaching up on her visor and pulling a pair of sunglasses down to push them on her face. “Good thing I like smart-asses. Wanna ride?”

  I wasn’t really looking forward to what was shaping up to be a pretty packed bus, so I shrug on the outside and open the passenger door. Inside, I do a dorky happy dance over the fact that I have a friend…with a car…who is willing to take me home. Now, just to convince her to pick me up in the mornings.

  “So, where do you live?” she asks, and my mind jumps forward to thoughts of my neighbor.

  “About six blocks that way, right off of Eighty-seventh and Canterbury,” I say, waiting for her to realize where I live—who I live by—but she doesn’t seem to put it together. She turns her radio up and starts singing along with one of the hit songs on the pop station. That seems to be the most popular station around here. Not a lot of alt-rock listeners, it seems. That’s okay, though—I’m sort of good with all music. Habit of my passion, I suppose.

  “So, how do you like Woodstock, so far?” Willow asks. I look around at the brick and stone houses, the rows of trees and colorful leaves dusting the streets. Honestly, it’s beautiful here. But it’s still not the city, and I don’t know how to explain that to someone.

  “It’s nice here,” I say, inciting a quick laugh from my new friend. “What? I mean it. It’s nice.”

  “Right—nice,” she says. “You mean…boring.”

  “Oh, no. I mean, well…yeah. Maybe a little boring. But that’s okay. I’m not really into crazy parties and nightlife. It’s just, in the city there’s always something going on, all the time. I guess I got kind of used to the noise. At night, it just gets so quiet here. That’s…that’s a little strange,” I explain, pointing to the street to make sure Willow makes the turn.

  The conversation is about to make a shift, because I can tell by the look on her face that she realizes who my neighbor is now.

  “Well it looks like you can kiss that quiet goodbye,” she says, nodding forward to Owen’s driveway. He’s climbing into a beat-up old pick-up, and the girl from earlier is sitting next to him, riding in the middle of the cab between Owen and another guy. He peels out of the driveway, his tires leaving a tuft of smoke and the smell of burnt rubber in the air. The girl screams something as they speed by us, Owen never once glancing our way.

  “Yeah…” I start. I unbuckle my seat and pull my bag to my lap from the car floor. “That’s sort of why I had those questions. I haven’t really officially met him yet, I mean…other than the rock kicking thing. He’s just kind of quiet…and, I don’t know, mysterious maybe?”

  “Kens, trust me on this one. Owen Harper isn’t quiet. You just haven’t given him a reason to be loud yet. That’s probably a good thing,” she says. “Just keep your eyes open, and watch out for James. He’s the one you need to worry about. That boy’s nothing but trouble.”

  “Great. Nothing like living next door to trouble,” I say with a deep breath. “Hey, thanks for the ride.”

  “Sure, I’ll be here at six-thirty or so to give you a ride in the morning. Be ready, though. I hate being late,” she says, reaching over to turn the radio back up to DEFCON levels. I can barely hear her singing along with the music as she backs out of my driveway and heads for the corner.

  The Harper driveway parallels ours, and I spend a few minutes looking at the dark black lines Owen left in his wake. There are fainter ones surrounding it, which means he must peel out often.

  Typical boy.

  The house is empty—every room is mine alone until at least midnight. I spend the first hour munching on peanut butter cereal and watching people reveal the real father of their baby on one of those talk shows. It’s an embarrassing obsession of mine, but watching shows like this is my greatest relaxation. There’s something about the circus of absurdity—I find it calming. Helps me put all of the drama I think I have in perspective.

 
My reading and math homework is a breeze compared to my nightly assignments from Bryce. I feel like I’m learning things I was taught last year at the Academy, and if I were a better student, one who was more driven by academia, I might care that I’m not being challenged. But as long as I get to play the piano every day, I really don’t care that my math and science and literature are simple. There’s nothing wrong with easy. And I think I’ve earned easy. Besides, I know all my parents will ask about is music anyhow.

  The sun sets around six, and unlike in the city, things actually get dark here. I almost find it charming—the soft rustling sound of the dried leaves being blown along the porch and driveway is strangely comforting.

  I leave the front door open, the porch screen closed to let in the chilled air. It’s making the house cold, but I like the cold. It justifies pulling on my sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt. If I knew how to light the fire, I’d do that, too. Summer is leaving, making room for fall. I spend a few minutes dumping a pack of powdered cocoa into hot water, then stirring, and I blow on my cup as I walk to the piano. I take a sip too soon, and the liquid burns the tip of my tongue.

  Once I set my cup down on the piano bench next to me, I pull out my sheet music from my boxes. There’s something that just isn’t right, and I’ve been dying to play through these lines—alone, without the critical ear of my father nearby to offer his opinion, or rather to point out that I should be perfecting my classics training instead of spending time doing the part I actually love.

  My eyes closed, I let my fingers find their home. It’s natural. It always is, the way the polished slivers of black and white feel slick to my touch.

  I crack an eyelid open and relent a smirk at my strange surroundings. This is not where I want to be, not where I want to play, so I close the eye again and pretend I am back in my practice room, my door closed and my sounds for nobody’s ears but mine. The rest just happens—fingers flying, pounding, stopping abruptly, and shifting from soft to quiet.