Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(16)

Someone’s radio is blaring rap music. Not the radio-edited version, but the kind with full swearwords and demeaning lyrics. Kiera is out there, sitting on the hood of Owen’s truck, and she’s taking long drags from a joint, her head swaying side-to-side, not even remotely in sync with the beat. She’s ridiculous, and watching her gives me a thrill for about five minutes.

Owen doesn’t seem to be aware of her at all, which she doesn’t seem to care about because I’m pretty sure she’s high off her ass. He’s busy playing basketball. It’s barely in the fifties outside, but he’s not wearing a shirt. There’s a white T-shirt tucked into the back of his black jeans, hanging from the waistband like a rag, and his chest is dripping with sweat. They must have been playing all night.

Sliding against the wall, I let my head come to rest on the frame of the window, my hand tucked under my chin, and I watch. Owen is so focused out there playing this game of pick-up ball—this game that doesn’t matter anywhere but in his head. At one point, he’s arguing a call, shoving his friend in the chest and threatening him. They’re both tall, but Owen’s more muscular, his frame that of someone who looks as if he’s been in a street fight or two.

Their language gets more vulgar as the hour goes on, as more beer cans get crushed into a pile in my driveway. I wouldn’t be able to sleep through this even if I wanted to. I know if my father were home, he’d have the police here to haul everyone away. No one is older than eighteen out there, and I’ve seen at least three cases of beer go down, as well as two or three joints.

It’s one in the morning, and I hear one of the guys call out for the last game. Everyone pulls money from their wallets, handing it to Kiera, who stuffs it in her bra, and they pass the ball to Owen for the final game. He’s dribbling it, each bounce slower than the first as he points to guys and splits them up on a team, then he throws the ball to someone and jogs over to his truck, pulling a ringing phone from inside the cab.

There’s something about the way he’s pacing—the way his hand is on his neck and his eyes are down at his feet—something is wrong. For him to be agitated, it must be really wrong, like as in a kind of wrong I can’t even fathom.

“Yo, O! We doin’ this or what?” one of the guys yells out at him. Owen raises a hand, crouching down and pushing the phone more tightly to his ear. “O! Come on, man. Are you *ing out because you’re out two hunny?”

Two hunny…as in two hundred dollars? Owen stands up from his crouch, the phone still pressed to his ear, and he stares long and hard at the guy giving him a hard time. He doesn’t say anything to his friend—if that guy is even a friend—but something is communicated between them just from one look.

“Yeah, whatever man. We gotta go anyhow. Hey, Chris, grab my shit and let’s get out of here,” the guy yells over his shoulder.

Within minutes, Owen’s driveway is empty, and soon he’s racing down his front porch, dressed in a dark button-down shirt and a pair of gray jeans. His hair is wet; he must have raced through a shower. His keys jingle in his hands as he jogs to his truck and climbs inside, his engine roaring and his tires squealing from their rest.

It’s almost two, and my father will be pulling into the driveway any moment. He said he’d be home tonight, and I’m not so sure I want him to see the mess our neighbor left behind. I walk down the stairs to the kitchen and grab a large trash bag, pausing at the back door to gaze out at the shadows cast over my driveway by the bright floodlight. The ground is strewn with trash, piles of lazily crushed beer cans, and cigarette and pot butts. I can’t let my dad see this, and not because I care about Owen Harper getting in trouble, but because I don’t want to hear my father’s lecture about drugs, drinking, being out late—being a real teenager in general.

When I finally push through the back door, I’m too late, though, the headlights are sending new shadows over the drive as my dad pulls in. I’m already standing in the middle of the mess, so I bend down and start putting cans in the bag, my brain working fast at answers for the questions I know will come.

“Kensington?” So very many of our conversations begin with my name. And it’s never Kensi or Kens. It hasn’t been anything less than formal since the day I started playing the piano.

“Hey, how was the show?” I ask, buying myself time.

“Performance. Concert. Not show. This isn’t Broadway,” my dad says.

“Sorry, I meant concert,” I say, careful not to roll my eyes.

“It was good. We’re still having some trouble with the cellos. The replacements aren’t nearly as good,” he says, his voice growing fainter as he paces out into the middle of the mess. I’m done distracting now. “Kensington, what…is this?”

The funny thing is I know my father knows that this mess isn’t my fault. I don’t do anything wrong, and I’ve never been in any real trouble. I’ve been scolded, chastised for dreaming, for playing jazz during a practice session, for skipping a lesson, for not getting a scale just right, but serious trouble—like the kind you get from surmising the state of my driveway—that doesn’t mesh with me, and my father knows this.

“Yeah, well…” I say, looking over at the dark Harper house. “Our new neighbors…they kind of like to party? Well, or…at least one of them does.”