Wild Reckless Read online

  Owen reaches for his dresser, taking a small packet from the top drawer, tearing the package with his teeth. I glance again as he holds himself, sliding the condom on with his other hand, and as nervous as I am about the pain, I’m more hungry to move past it, to feel him.

  He kneels between my knees, his finger moving up and down my center, sliding in and out, relaxing me and exciting me all over again.

  “I want you, Kensi. Please, I have to have you,” he says, and I reach down, gripping his forearm, nodding at him, begging him.

  “I want you too. Just…go slow,” I say, my heart firing a billion beats per minute in my chest, my body clenching in anticipation of everything.

  Owen positions himself between my legs, his forearms holding him above me, then he sweeps my hair to the side and kisses the corner of my mouth softly, letting me feel his smile against me. His hand drops lower so he can guide himself into me, and as the pressure of him pushes into me, his lips find my ear.

  “Relax, Kens. I’ve got you,” he says, coaxing my body to obey. He moves beyond the tip, pushing farther inside me, my muscles adjusting, my body stretching to take him—all of him—until Owen gives one final thrust, taking me from innocent to his in the flash of a second.

  A single tear falls down my cheek, the pain stinging inside, and Owen notices quickly, sliding his thumb up to catch the drop as it falls toward his pillow.

  “I’ve got you, Kens. I love you, and I’ve got you,” he says, sliding back out from me almost completely, pausing to let my body relax again before moving into me slowly. The second time is easier—the stretching less, the sensation more—and soon, my body begins wanting Owen there, wanting to feel full from him, to take more of him, deeper.

  “What feels good? Tell, me Kens. What do you want?” he asks, his voice sexier than it’s ever been, the darkness there, but also a new kind of hunger. Owen may have the experience, but I have the control.

  “Touch me,” I pant, my eyes barely able to stay open as he moves slowly in and out from me. I feel his hand glide from my side, his thumb grazing my breast and traveling the length of my stomach until his fingers find my center and begin putting pressure on the rest of me, leaving nothing left untouched. Every bit of me is raw and open and on the verge, every push and stroke nearly ending me, until finally, I’m no longer able to hold on.

  “Owen, I’m…I’m…” I say, arching my back and pushing my hips into him, feeling more of him against me with every pulse.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls, every push of his body harder, his eyes shutting, his breath stopping and his face growing tighter. Owen pushes into me two more times, his breath leaving his chest in one powerful burst before he pulls out from me and lies flat on his bed next to me, our bodies sweaty and tangled and happy.

  We lie there for minutes, our hands linking, and our fingers teasing one another until finally Owen breaks our silence.

  “That was easily the very best moment of my whole entire life,” he says, his head falling to the side on his pillow, his hair tousled, and his eyes simply sweet.

  I let my gaze fall to the side, too, meeting him. “I’m so glad Andrew went to Matt’s,” I smile, biting my lip and giggling.

  “Me too,” Owen says, standing and walking to his door, pulling his pajama pants from the floor. “He fucking hates that Matt kid, so he totally did that so his brother could do it.”

  Owen flashes wide eyes, and he mouths “oh” as he laughs at me, backing away from his room. I reach to the floor and throw his pillow at him, which he catches at his chest.

  “Not funny! Oh my god, I don’t want your brother knowing about this, that we…do it,” I roll into the covers and pull them around my body and face. Owen leaps on me quickly, tugging the material away, pinning me to the bed and holding his mouth an inch away from mine.

  “Everybody is going to know that you are mine, and that I am yours. And if I have to do it with you all weekend to make sure that look of bliss is permanent on your face—I will. My brother just already knows what everyone else will by the time I’m done with you,” Owen says, his tongue teasing my upper lip before he moves away, standing to look down on me again, my body bare and ready to be touched again.

  “Mine. All. Day,” he says, his hands holding at the frame of the door, his body filling it completely. I watch him walk away, and listen as the shower water turns on. After a few minutes, I step from the bed and open the door Owen left cracked for me to begin with, hoping I’d follow. I step inside the hot water with him and let him tattoo happiness on my face just like he promised.

  Chapter 19

  I don’t hear the sound of sirens or squad cars. I’m too caught up in my dream, asleep in Owen’s arms, the hour late. We spent the day playing house, Owen burning our steaks on the grill, me burning the macaroni and cheese, melting away the water on his stove while I made out with him.

  The entire day and most of the night, a dream—a delicious fantasy that is suddenly crashing down around us in a drowning wave of reality.

  Owen wakes first, the sharp movement of his body as he lifts his head stirs me. He’s to the window in seconds, then back to the bed, fumbling to put on his shirt and pants, sliding his feet into his shoes.

  “What is it?” I ask, mimicking him, dressing myself quickly, my stomach sinking, sickness washing over me that something is wrong.

  Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

  “Cops. My driveway, the street, it’s filled with police. They have lights on my house. I’m not sure what’s going on,” Owen says, grabbing his phone in his hand, racing through his door, down the stairs.

  I trail behind him, barefoot. There’s no time for me to find my shoes. He slings the door open, ready to march out in protest, but he’s met quickly with force, two large policemen standing guard at his door. One of them catches Owen, pushing him back into the house, knocking his feet off balance.

  “What the fuck?” Owen yells, trying to push through the officer again. I reach to grab Owen’s arm, to calm him.

  “Stay in your house!” the officer yells, his finger pointed at both of us, his voice stern and loud.

  “What the hell is going on?” Owen asks, pushing to see outside again.

  “Sir, I’m warning you, get inside right now. Close this door, and find a safe place in your house and lie low, on the ground, hands over your head,” the officer says, pulling the door closed and barricading it. Owen pulls the door a few times, turning the knob with no luck.

  “Owen, what’s happening?” I ask, my body tingling with nerves. Owen’s pacing, moving through the kitchen to his back door, looking through the window to see more SWAT officers positioned there. He rushes to the living room, to the windows that face the backyard, and spots another pair of officers, weapons drawn.

  “What the fuck landed in my front yard?” he says, running his hand through his messy hair, walking quickly from window to window, trying to get a glimpse of something, anything that will give him a clue what’s happening outside.

  “Drop your weapon!” We both hear a voice yell from outside over a megaphone, this warning followed by an eerie silence. Owen turns to look at me, his face frightened, a look I’m not used to seeing him wear. He rushes toward me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me with him up the stairs, back to the safety of his room, and he pushes me to the far side, the other side of his bed.

  “Kens, please! Get on the floor, under the bed if you have to,” he says, pushing me down, pulling blankets and pillows to cover me, as if the cloth could stop anything from harming me.

  “Owen, stay with me!” I scream, my hands gripping at his floor, my legs kicking to push my body under his bed, my face flat against the roughness, eyes searching for Owen’s feet, to find out where he is. He sits low near me on the other side of the bed, so he can look out his window, out over the driveway.

  And all at once, I see it—I see everything that is happening outside reflected in the absolute horror t
hat suddenly paints Owen’s face.

  “James,” he lets out in weak breath, his hand losing its hold on his phone, dropping it to the floor near me, his body growing weak in an instant. His knees fall from under him, and he grasps at the windowsill as he collapses, his arms just strong enough to hold his body to the window, his face pressed against the cold glass. His breath frosts it quickly, and he pulls a fist up, tucking the sleeve of his sweatshirt over it, wiping away the moisture in a manic circle.

  “What is it? Owen, what’s happening?” I scream, my body working to move closer to him, to hold him, to see what he sees.

  “No! James, no!” Owen yells, his fist pounding at his window so hard he breaks it, slicing his hand, blood rushing down the length of his arm instantly. The sound of the glass, of Owen’s screams and pounding, is so loud it’s all I hear. It’s the only sound.

  Until it isn’t.

  The shot fires, but only once. Owen falls to the floor, his body nearly lifeless with pain, with sorrow, with grief, with guilt. Everything hits him all at once. I pull myself the rest of the way out from under his bed, rushing to hold him. I pull him to my lap, wrapping his sheet around his hand, doing my best to slow the bleeding from cuts I know are deep.

  Owen lets me, his body weak in my arms, his heart—broken.

  “Somebody! I need help, please! He’s hurt. Help me!” I scream as loudly as my lungs will let me, my voice growing hoarse, raspier with every shout, until finally two officers and a medic come rushing through Owen’s door.

  “Please, help him. Please, he hurt himself, on the window. There’s glass in his arm; I think some of it’s still in there,” I plead, my arms not wanting to let go of their hold on Owen. His face is strewn with tears, his gaze lost out the window, to the scene below.

  I’m afraid to look.

  The medic works to stabilize Owen’s bleeding, tearing cloth and rewrapping his arm, removing what glass he can. He speaks into a radio strapped to his shoulder, asking for help transporting Owen, and soon two more firefighters arrive, carefully placing Owen’s arm in a splint, urging Owen to lie on his back, on the stretcher, so they can carry him down the stairs.

  Owen fights them, unable to say actual words other than “no” and “leave me alone.” He eventually walks with assistance down the steps, to his living room, his mom rushing in the door, meeting him with her own tears.

  Horror. Both of their faces…horror.

  And I can’t help.

  James was high. He was high, and he was scared. He stole a car from a mall parking lot three towns over, then led police on a chase along the highway, hitting several cars, leaving a trail of injuries and damaged vehicles along the roadway as he exited the wrong way up a ramp. He raced down the two-lane roadway to his home, down the dark stretch of country road Owen had once raced on carelessly with me, down the strip of roadway James had taught Owen to drive fast on as a kid.

  He swerved through his mother’s front yard, clipping the bumper of Owen’s truck, and spinning the stolen car to the side, stopping near the end of the driveway—sideways, the hood bent open and the wheel crushing the brick of the house.

  Police had him then. He was circled, the three cars that had followed him collapsed on him, six officers opening their doors quickly, drawing their weapons and ordering James to just. Stay. Put.

  But James was high.

  And he was scared.

  And that gun, the one Owen once held to his own head in a dare, the one that I saw James threaten Owen with only a few weeks ago—it was in James’s hand.

  The police called for back up, and SWAT came quickly. That’s when Owen woke up. James held the gun to his side, his other hand behind his head, scratching at his hair, rubbing his neck vigorously, his brain trying to think under a fog of impairment, his heart desperate for a solution, for a way out of this hell.

  More guns were drawn. James became agitated, holding the gun up over his head. This is when officers began to order him to drop his weapon, when Owen and I ran up the stairs.

  It all happened in seconds, slices of time that felt as though they took hours to pass. Owen saw his brother out that window, he saw how frightened he was, how cornered he was, and he knew there was no way out.

  Owen knew.

  He saw it coming before James lowered his arm just enough, tilting the gun just right, the barrel pointed to his head. He knew a millisecond before his brother drew his finger back, pulling on the trigger with the right amount of pressure.

  Owen knew his brother was dead the minute he came home from school two days ago and saw James was gone. He didn’t know how it would happen. But he knew it would.

  And he knew he’d feel like it was his fault in the end.

  Chapter 20

  My father hasn’t been back to the house, and I haven’t asked my mother when or if he’s coming. I don’t care any more. He can move in here, and my mom can give in, live in her self-made prison. I hope she doesn’t, but either way, in six more months, I won’t be here to see it.

  I haven’t resolved myself to college or the road, but whatever it is, it will be my choice—of my doing. The only person I care about disappointing is myself.

  And Owen.

  Owen hasn’t been to school, and I’ve noticed the piles of homework left in Mr. Chessman’s class for him. Every day, the pile is gone, so someone is taking Owen his work.

  There wasn’t a funeral. Funerals are expensive, and no one would show up for James, Owen said. I go over to his house every night, and we sit in his room, perched on the edge of his bed, holding hands, but not talking.

  We never look out the window.

  His mom is home—time to grieve. But even she doesn’t seem broken. They just seem as if they’re going through motions, carbon copies of themselves—the same tired and exhausted bodies, but spirits and hopes completely washed away. Owen’s taking care of the “paperwork” and filing death certificates; investigating old credit accounts in James’s name and calling relatives. His mom began cleaning out his room within a few days.

  Neither of them has cried again like they did the night James put the gun to his head. I just don’t think they can anymore. They’re…empty.

  Willow and Jess don’t know what to say. Even now, days later, they walk along with me out to the parking lot, making plans, talking in half sentences, afraid everything they say might offend me. Everyone’s heard the story. Things like this, they spread quickly in Woodstock.

  The Harper boys—they’re wild. What James did has only cast more eyes on them; I see them look at Andrew when he comes to our school in the morning, before he takes the bus to his school. I bet they look at him there, too.

  I bet they’d look at Owen like this. That’s why he doesn’t come.

  “Are you…still in for the competition Saturday? I think Mr. Brody would understand. You know, if…if you can’t perform?” Willow asks. Eggshells—everyone is walking on eggshells.

  “I’ll be there,” I say, smiling, eyes wide.

  “Okay, but, if you can’t…” she says.

  “Ohhhhh my god!” I yell, tossing my bag into my passenger seat. “Please. Not you. Please, Will…just be normal. I need you, you out of everyone, to act normal. I’m begging.”

  She’s standing before me, her arms folded in front of her, her fingers picking at her elbows nervously, her eyes searching mine. I know this is awkward for her. It’s awkward for me, but I’m not Owen. When she sees him, then she can get all uncomfortable and formal and careful. But now, when it’s just her and me and Jess and our friends—now is the time to be blunt, to pop her gum, to pretend I don’t have other shit happening in my life.

  “So I’ll pick you up at six?” she asks, a shrug of her shoulder to punctuate her question.

  I smile and nod. “Yeah, six. And bring snacks for the road trip,” I add. I get in my car and watch as she and Jess get into hers from my rearview mirror. Driving away, I don’t look at her again, because that small exchange was normal, and I don’t
want to ruin it. I hold onto it for the few miles to my house, and then I pull into the driveway and see Owen’s truck and forget all about normal.

  His house is first, and I leave my backpack in my car and don’t bother going to my own home. My mom is home today, but she’ll see my car out front. She knows where I am—where I’ve been every day. She’s been trying to help with paperwork, answering Owen’s questions about where to file things, how to handle closing accounts, who he needs to notify.

  James didn’t leave a very big mark on this world electronically, and erasing what there was of him wasn’t very hard.

  I don’t bother to knock, instead just stepping inside Owen’s home. His mom is labeling boxes at the table, taping things closed, and moving them to the front porch one at a time. She marks FOR DONATION on the last box, and I pull it from her arms and take it to the porch for her. When I come back inside, she’s still standing at the table, her hands pressed flat against the now-clear surface, her eyes intent on the center.

  When I move closer, she flinches, snapping awake again, and runs her hand once over the smooth tabletop before pushing the chair underneath. “Thank you for helping with things this week, Kensi. O and I…we appreciate everything you and your mom have done,” she says, her eyes never able to meet mine completely. “Can I get you something to drink? I think we have…”

  She opens her fridge, pausing when she sees it’s empty. She starts to laugh lightly, closing it, and backing away until the backs of her legs hit the table. She stumbles a little and catches her balance, then turns to me, a full smile on her face, her laugh coming out harder.

  “We have nothing,” she says, her lips squeezing tight, trying to hold onto normal. Her body begins to shake with laughter again. “Oh my god, we have…nothing!”