Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(63)

“Jesus, Andrew! What happened?” I pull away from Graham again, but he puts a hand over my chest, wanting to step in front of me. I wave him off, whispering that it’s all right, then reach up to touch the side of Andrew’s hoodie; he jerks away. I hold my palm flat, then move to touch the material again, pulling it back just enough so I can see the cuts and bruises on his face in the light. His eyes aren’t on me at all, though. He’s staring at Graham behind me.

“I got in a fight,” he says, a low rumbling laugh brewing in his chest, but never fully escaping his lips. His smirk never pulls into anything more, and his gaze can’t seem to leave Graham.

“Yeah, I can tell. Andrew, you need to see a doctor,” I say.

“That’s why I’m here,” he says, shifting his eyes to me, but only for a second.

“Em, you need me to call someone?” Graham asks, his hand flat on my back as he lets me know he’s right there behind me.

“She’s fine. Who are you?” Andrew’s voice is louder this time, but his face is just as hard. As beaten as he is, his eyes are still clear and threatening.

I look down, closing my eyes and wishing to rewind time. I’m just not sure how far back I should go. Maybe…maybe all the way before Andrew.

Graham reaches around me, his gesture protective, as he holds his hand out for Andrew. “I’m Graham Wheaton, a friend of Emma’s,” he says.

Andrew looks at his hand in front of me, his mouth seesawing back and forth as his eyebrows rise, then slowly his mouth slides into a smile. Never full, and never friendly.

“Graham,” he repeats his name, finally closing the distance and shaking, his muscles flexing to show exactly how little Graham intimidates him. I’m shocked he’s not pissing on him, just to really show what a man he is. “You’re the guy with the PowerPoint. A real hero, I hear,” he says, every word double-edged with meaning—he’s being affable as far as Graham is concerned, but I know better. He’s mocking me. His eyes move to mine, and my stomach sinks.

Graham chuckles. “Yeah, I guess that’s me,” he says.

I feel Andrew’s gaze as he steps closer to me. The amount of testosterone radiating around starting to suffocate me, and I need to extradite myself from it all.

“Graham, I had a really nice time. I’m okay, really. I think I need to help Andrew out, until my roommate gets home, but I’ll text you tomorrow. If that’s okay?”

My face is in no way a reflection of how I’m feeling. On the outside, I smile and look grateful for his protection, not worried at all over the guy standing—bleeding—next to me. Inside, I’m repeating swear words and praying that my roommate comes home early from her spin class. Glancing at my watch, I realize her class has just started, so that chance—it’s really slim.

Graham’s holding his position, keeping his eyes on Andrew, his head cocked slightly to one side. When Andrew notices, he mimics him, just before he leans forward and spits a bloody mess at his feet on the sidewalk in front of us all.

“She’s fine, Graham,” Andrew says with a small nod of his head.

Graham still doesn’t move, but he turns his face to look at me, his eyebrows raised. “You sure?”

I roll my eyes and sigh, glancing from Andrew and back again. “I’m fine. He isn’t here for me. But I can’t leave him out here waiting. I’ll text you,” I say, repeating my words from earlier, maybe also wanting to rub in the fact that I’ll be talking to Graham again, seeing him again, making more plans with him.

Graham is worth a second look. And maybe if I can go out with him without a mountain of anxiety dangling over me, I’ll end up liking him more.

Leaving his eyes on Andrew, Graham reaches to my chin and tilts my cheek toward his lips, kissing the side of my face lightly, the whiskers of his beard tickling me and making me smile.

I watch Graham step backward, his hands pushed in the pockets of his gray jeans, his sweater curled up around his neck, everything about him right out of the pages of an Abercrombie catalogue. He even smelled nice all night. I should have told him that.

I should like Graham. I should feel something.

But I also feel like maybe, just then, he was marking me—laying claim on his territory. And that makes me feel uneasy.

“So guys with beards…that’s what does it for you, huh?” Andrew says, not letting my mind stray too far. I turn back to him, Graham’s image still in my mind, a comical contrast from the rough, beaten mess standing before me now.

“You’re an *,” I say, shaking my head and stepping past him, pushing the glass doors open and greeting Sam at the front desk.

“Good evening, Miss Burke. Saved a copy of the paper for you; thought you’d like to see it today,” Sam says, as I stop to gather my mail and then pull the paper from him.

I smile politely and whisper, “Thanks,” but I leave the paper rolled. It’s a copy of the Tech Campus News, and I know why he saved it for me. I saw the reporters there last night, taking pictures. No need to see a reminder of what I look like when I’m being open and honest. I’ll just put it in the box in my closet with the others.

“What’s so special about the paper? More stories about how your PowerPoint hero came to the rescue?” Andrew says behind me as we both step into the elevator. The doors close on us, and instantly the space feels small. I don’t answer him, but I feel him—I feel him watching me from four feet away, his arms folded over his chest, his hood draped over his face, his body smelling as if he’s stumbled in from some alley.