Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(30)
“Dude, do not tell me you blew that chick off just to get your fix at the gym.” He’s leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.
“I had a guy who wanted to work on some things with me,” I lie.
“Yeah, like seeing how many stitches he could rack up on your face?”
“Fuck off; it’s not that bad,” I say. He reaches at me, poking my tender jaw, and I wince and slap his hand off me in one motion.
“Right…not bad at all,” he says, judgment oozing from his tone.
I sigh and open our pantry, grabbing a handful of almonds from an open tin. Then I shut the door and ignore my friend, knowing he’s going to ask me about the girl and the ID and my plans. I thought going to the warehouse would help me gain perspective. I was wrong.
“Look,” he starts as he kicks his shoes off and empties his pockets onto the counter. He leaves his shit in piles—drives me f*cking nuts, and it’s not just because I’m in a bad mood.
Maybe it is. Whatever. I stare at his crap until he waves a hand to get my attention back to his face.
“Drew, man…if you weren’t really in the mood to hit on some chick, you shouldn’t have taken her ID. That girl is going to be freaked out and worried when she can’t find it, so at least just get it back to her.”
My gaze has drifted away from him again, back to his pile of stuff.
“Why can’t you dump your crap in your room? That’s what I do when I come home. I go to my room, put my things in there, and then I come out here.”
Trent cocks an eyebrow at me, staring for a few seconds, then moves back to the kitchen, scooping up his wallet, keys, and change and holds it up so I can see him and acknowledge it.
“Don’t forget your shoes,” I add.
He laughs once. Not a funny laugh. He’s pissed. I’m being an *. He can f*ck off. He doesn’t have her ID in his back pocket.
Trent bends down and grabs his shoes, pointing one toward me as he goes to his room.
“Sometimes you’re a real dick, Harper,” he says. He lets his door slam closed behind him.
I turn my attention to the TV in front of the sofa and hold the remote up, turning on some bad teen soap opera and cranking the volume up to an obnoxious level. Might as well let this being-a-dick thing really run its course.
* * *
Trent never came out of his room, and I finally fell asleep on the couch to some protein-supplement infomercial. I woke up when Trent let the front door slam shut loudly. We have practice in thirty minutes, morning skate before our game tonight. We usually ride together, because Trent has a car. Looks like I’ll be walking today.
After a quick shower, I change into sweats and my long-sleeved tee and jog to the arena about two miles away. I shove Trent’s pads off the bench when I walk by his locker. He laughs, so I know he’s over being pissed at me. I also know that I still have Emma’s ID in my wallet.
Pre-game skate only lasts half an hour, so I can’t put things off any longer. I want to. I want to be so busy I can never go to 407 Clark Street, which yeah…is less than three miles from my apartment. Usually, I have to look the girl up to find her address—her license normally from another state, but Emma’s is right there on her license. She must be planning on living here for a while, or maybe she already has. How the hell I haven’t seen her in the year I’ve attended this school is a miracle.
Then again, I get the feeling Emma and I probably run in different circles. I know her building. It’s the big high-rise on Clark. Balconies, windows that look over the lake, a bellman at the front desk—a far cry from the rats and drug deals that go down out on the street in front of our apartment. It’s not like gangland or anything, just cheap rent and a lot of college kids who like to get high.
When I’m done skating, I rush through changing and just hold up a hand with her license for Trent to see. He smirks, figuring I’m off to make good on my dare. I’m really going to take my penance. Lesson learned—I’m never playing this game again.
The wind from the lake has a cold bite to it, so I pull my hoodie from my bag and throw it on over my beanie. Maybe I’m also shielding myself. I get to the front of her building, and my heart starts to race wildly, my throat dry, but somehow my mouth so moist I feel like I’m going to throw up.
The doorman is helping a group of girls when I walk by quickly, and he glances at me, probably memorizing what I’m wearing, but he doesn’t stop me when I pass. My hands are shaking in the elevator, and when I press the button for the ninth floor, I hold it down, afraid to fully commit.
Number 907.
I’m nine stories away from the girl who ruined my life.
My plan is pathetic. I’m not going to ring the bell. I’m not going to knock. I’m just going to slide the ID under her door, then get the f*ck out of here. I thought about leaving it with the doorman. But I have to see. There’s something that’s pushing me forward, some part of me that just needs to get close, to know exactly where she lives, what her door looks like.
When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, I pause briefly, considering riding it back down and going with the other plan—leaving her license at the front desk. But the hallway is quiet, and that silence coaxes me through the doors that fall closed behind me.
Breath held, I glance back down at her picture in my hand, the sharp edges of her license digging into my skin as my hand closes on it, squeezing it so hard I bend it a little. Signs on the wall guide me down the hallway to the right, so I walk by a few doors until I get to her number, slowing down before I’m fully in front of the frame. I don’t want her to see me here—not through a crack in the door, not through a peephole.