Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(53)
I walk behind the sofa with my gear, hell bent on not stopping or taking his bait.
“You’re in over your head, Harper. What are you doing?” he asks, and mother f*ck! I stop. I stop because he knows more than I thought he did. And since he has the bad shit all figured out, maybe he can help me wrap my head around what the hell is wrong with me—and why I’m still so angry.
I reach over the sofa and take the half-empty beer from his hand, claiming it for my own. I drop my gear behind the sofa and walk the rest of the way around the couch, sitting on the corner of the coffee table across from him.
My eyes are on his chin for the longest time. It’s like when you’re a kid and you know you’re wrong, and you’re about to get your ass chewed, but you just don’t want to give in to the adult and take your licks. I don’t want to have to face his goddamned honest face, so I keep my eyes on his chin and take a long sip from the beer I commandeered, draining it almost completely.
“I don’t know, Trent. She was there. It was her, and I don’t know, but I can’t f*cking stop,” I say.
“Drew…who the hell is Emma?” He says her name, and my chest flips inside out, my heart running through an irregular rhythm of several fast beats followed by nothing at all.
“I’ve told you,” I lie.
“No, Drew. Not the drunken version you tell when you think you’re being honest. I mean the real story,” he says. I give in and look up the inch it takes to meet his eyes, and I hold his gaze while I wait for my heart to begin working again. I don’t talk about Emma. It started as a promise I made to myself that night, and then it grew into a rule I made to protect myself. I’m not so sure what would happen if I broke it now.
“There was a girl,” I say, letting my eyes wander over to the TV, which he’s conveniently muted. There’s a pile-up of cars in the race, one is on fire, and I can’t help but find some kind of sick humor in the many ways that scene mirrors my own life. “I got screwed over by the law…” I start, my eyes moving back to his, the recognition in his expression already there. He knows the story. And now he’s filling in the details.
“Harp…” He shakes his head, literally biting his tongue, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, as if this is somehow stressful for him. I’m about to tell him to drop the empathy act when there’s a soft knock at our door.
It’s probably one of the guys, wondering why we’re not celebrating at Majerle’s. I use it as an excuse to get out of our conversation, and as Trent moves to the door, I walk into our kitchen to get each of us another beer. When I come out, she’s standing in the doorway, and Trent is rubbing his chin.
“Over your head,” he says under his breath as he trades spots with me near the door. He takes one of the beers from my hand and pauses to make sure my eyes meet his, get the warning in them, before he moves back to his spot on the couch.
“What are you doing here?” I don’t even waste time with being nice. I’m so pissed she’s at my door. It means she knows where I live, and she doesn’t get to know things about me. That’s not how this works.
“Why are you doing this, Andrew?”
I hear Trent scoff behind me, and it pisses me off that he’s hearing any of this. I slide my beer on the small shelf nearby and grab my jacket from the hook on the back of the door, motioning for her to get the hell out of my way. She takes a step back as I move outside with her and hand her my jacket. She looks at it like I just handed her a slab of meat.
“It’s forty degrees out here, and your teeth are chattering. Just put the damn thing on,” I say, walking down the path toward the road. Our street is filled with cars nestled up next to meters, and graffiti mars the sidewalks. It’s a far cry from the tree-lined cobblestone walkway that leads to Emma’s front door. I live in the real world.
Emma joins me near the roadway, but she’s still holding my jacket in her hands. I nod at her hands to put it on, and she scowls.
“Seriously, don’t make this a thing. It’s a twenty-dollar winter coat from Target. Just wear it for five minutes for f*ck sake.”
She takes in a sharp breath before shoving one arm into a sleeve. “I don’t even know who the hell you are anymore,” she mumbles.
“Isn’t that the point? We pretend we don’t know each other?” I move in close, and she takes a step back. She wants to keep distance between us, which only makes me want to shatter her comfort more. I advance again, this time a little aggressively as my chest rumbles with light laughter. She doesn’t move this time, instead her shoulders sagging as she lets out a slow breath.
“Is that the point? Why is that the point, Andrew? What are you doing? Do you want me to pretend I don’t know you? I mean…I thought that’s what you wanted. I thought you really liked Lindsey. But then you keep doing things and saying things and you’re so—”
“So what, Emma?” I challenge her, waiting for her to say it. Her toes are matched with mine, and I feel her shoe against the tips of my own. My lip curls, unable to stop from grinning when I tap my foot against hers softly. Her eyes wince, just a little, but enough that I see it. She’s drowning in the fog of my breath, and I exhale once hard just to erase her. She backs down, her eyes falling to both of our feet as she takes a step back.