Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(21)

“Party? But it’s…Sunday. We have school tomorrow,” I say, and Owen looks at me finally, then laughs. No other response.

Seconds later, the truck with his friend and Kiera race by us, the guy’s motor growling so loudly that it almost pops as he speeds by us, dust kicking up in Owen’s headlights as his friend passes him and moves back to our lane.

There’s no pause in Owen’s reaction. His right hand grips his steering wheel and he rolls his window up with his left, and the moment it’s closed, he punches the gas with a force that sends my back hard against the seat. My hands grip my seatbelt by instinct, holding onto it to make sure it’s tight—to make sure I stay in this vehicle.

“Owen, slow down,” I say, my heart starting to make my body shake with its beating.

Owen hears nothing, and he starts rocking forward and back with his eyes intent on the truck in front of us, like laser beams locked on the taillights leading our way.

“Owen,” I say, this time a little louder.

The grin on his face is maniacal. It’s actually maniacal—I’ve never seen that expression on someone before. We inch closer and closer to the truck in front of us, and Kiera leans over, draping her arm on the back of the seat in the other truck, her eyes on Owen, her mouth twisted into a tempting smile, urging him to do it, to be dangerous.

There’s a fast jerk to the truck as he veers to the other lane, and I hear his friend’s truck rev a little faster at the threat of being beaten. Owen leans forward and pushes his pedal to the floor, and after a few seconds, we’re dead even with the other truck.

“Owen!” I yell, but he can’t hear me. He’s somewhere else. His hand is pounding on the steering wheel, and I look at his lips and notice them moving, speaking quietly. “Come on, baby. Come on,” he’s saying, over and over.

His friend is laughing, his head tilted back, and Kiera is clapping. Everyone here is having fun. This is fun. This is what they do for fun. And I want to throw up. In fact, I might throw up.

“Owen, you’re scaring me,” I say, my voice coming out in a shrill. But he presses forward.

I have no idea where his other friends are. There were at least three other cars in that parking lot. But no one is near us—not in this race. We move about a quarter length ahead of the other truck, nowhere near enough to pass, and as we top a hill, I notice the lights coming at us in the distance.

“Owen!” I scream, my hands grabbing at the side and front of the seat now. Anything to brace myself. Anything to survive whatever is going to happen.

“Come on, baby. Come on,” he’s still whispering.

We’re racing, our engine fighting to be just a little stronger than the other guy’s, and the lights are coming closer to us. The other car is just over this hill, and we’re either going to veer off the road, or we’re going to die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

“Owen! Please stop! Owen! The car…that car! Stopppppppppp!” I scream. I’m grabbing his arm, trying to get him to change course, and he punches the gas with one last thrust, and our truck slides past his friend’s, only a second before the car coming at us head-on rounds the top of the hill and honks at us—the sound of the horn blaring and lasting for several seconds in the night air.

“Yeahhhhhh baby! Wooooooooooo!” Owen is shouting. He rolls his window down and holds his hand out the window, giving his friend the middle finger, and his friend reciprocates.

“Owen!” I yell, my body plastered to the vinyl seat, my heart stopped now from my near-death experience.

“Did that scare you?” he asks, his voice an odd kind of calm. Unable to speak, I merely nod yes to him, my arms still clutched to anything I can grasp, and my body no longer cold, sweat dripping down my back and arms.

“I told you to get out of the truck. You should have listened,” he says, his focus more calm now, his eyes back on the road.

A large farmhouse comes into focus, and we pull into the gravel driveway, followed soon after by his friend with the other truck. We sit in the truck cab, waiting for everyone to arrive, and there’s an awkward silence. Owen’s arm is resting on the window, and he’s pulled a bag of sunflower seeds from the front seat pocket. I watch as he spits the shells out the window meticulously, one at a time, like he’s aiming for some goal I can’t see.

I may as well be invisible. He hasn’t looked my direction once, and I’m too afraid to confront him—afraid of what he’ll do next. His friends finally pull into the lot around us, and Owen steps out when they do. I notice Kiera kiss the other guy, and I wonder how someone could jump from one boy to another so quickly. I also wonder how Owen can be so flippant about it—his friend is kissing the girl whose lips were on his only two days ago, and he looks as if he couldn’t care less.

I don’t want to be here. But I don’t want to be home, either, so when Owen shrugs over his shoulder for me to join them, I slide from the seat and close the door behind me. Everyone walks to the house, and Owen isn’t waiting for me. I linger behind; the temptation to walk back to the truck—to hide there for as long as the night lasts—is strong. I feel foolish suddenly, the adrenaline from what just happened catching up to me, and my body quivers with a rush of tears that I quickly squash with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. When I look up again, Owen is waiting for me at the door.