Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(22)
“You almost killed us!” I yell, stopping in my tracks.
“But I didn’t,” he says, holding the door open and waiting for me to follow him inside, where everyone else has gone. He waits, his eyes rested on mine for several long seconds, and I notice them shift. In the truck, there was a determination in them, like a warrior—the kind you send in for the toughest kill because you know they won’t feel any of it. It was like nothing else existed. But for these few seconds, they soften, and he’s actually looking at me. And he looks afraid.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he says, his teeth biting the tip of his tongue as if he wants to say more, but he stops himself. His eyes stay on mine, and my body freezes, my mind not sure what to say. I’m empty. I have nothing—feel nothing. I nod at him, and shuffle my feet closer and step through the door. My back brushes against his chest as I pass him through the small space, and I can’t help but notice how warm he feels. Maybe I’m just cold.
“Don’t do it again,” I whisper, glancing sideways at the nearness of him. I won’t look at his eyes; I’m not sure how they’ll look, and if I’m going to follow him inside, I need to feel safe—the way his eyes felt seconds ago. Instead, I focus on his chin, and neck and the way his dark shirt hugs his chest. His lip ticks, finding its comfortable place back into that sinister smile, but he doesn’t respond, so I step inside.
The house is dark, and I follow Owen to a large, sunken living room where everyone is sitting in front of a television that’s barely audible. A joint is already being passed around the room, as is a bottle of clear liquor. I have no idea what it is, but I know the moment it makes its way to me, it’s going to start a conversation, because I don’t drink. And Owen Harper, he’s not the boy who’s going to pressure me into something.
“Ahhhh, new girl. Yeah, new girl needs to drink,” says the guy from the truck race. He holds the bottle out in front of me, but I nod no and shrug it away. “Fuck, O. You brought this prude to hang out? What the f*ck is wrong with you?”
He takes a big swig from the bottle and runs his sleeve along his mouth when he’s done, then hands the bottle to Kiera. She’s lightly laughing at my expense, but I don’t care.
“I don’t drink,” I say, standing my ground early. “I like my brain cells.”
Kiera spits out a little of the drink at my response, and her new boyfriend starts to laugh loudly.
“Dude, O! Seriously, are you like…f*cking with us with this chick or something?” he says, his speech already sloppy, proving my point.
“I didn’t bring anybody. She hijacked my f*cking truck and wouldn’t get out,” Owen says, letting his long body flop into a beanbag across the living room from me, his legs stretched out and a small golden drink in his hands.
“Good thing I did. I’ll drive your ass home,” I say, letting my eyes zero in on him as he raises his glass to his lips. He holds it there as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes mocking me.
“Nobody drives my truck. And we’re not leaving for hours, so I’ll be fine,” he says, brow raised before tilting the glass back and letting the amber liquid flow down his throat. He keeps his stare on me as he sets the glass down and settles into his seat.
“We’ll see about that,” I say.
“Yeah, we’ll f*cking see about a lot of things,” he says, pulling his arms behind his neck and leaning sideways as he stares at me for several long, uncomfortable seconds.
His friend from the truck reaches for Kiera’s hand, lifting her to stand, and the two of them leave their seat on the sofa and walk up the stairs. The casualness of it all feels so sad—maybe even a little gross—and I can’t help the face I make in reaction to it.
“You have a problem with House hooking up with Kiera?” Owen says, bringing my attention back to him.
“His name is House?” I ask, keeping the focus on the easier topic.
“Matt House. We’ve been friends since kindergarten. I call him House. He calls me Harper. Whatever. And you clearly have issues with people having sex,” he says.
“I don’t give a shit who has sex,” I say fast, my response not really a lie. I don’t care who does what, but that doesn’t mean I understand how little importance people place on something like sex. My face is red; I know because I can feel my cheeks tingling. But the darkness shrouds me.
“You’re a virgin,” Owen says, his lips taking their time with that word. My cheeks burn stronger, and for the first time, I feel flustered from the embarrassment.
“So.” That’s all I can think to say. At first, I consider adding more, defending myself, but the more time that passes, the happier I am with that response. I won’t make apologies for not being easy.
“Your daddy would be so proud of you, proud of his little girl keeping her snatch all sewn up, waiting for her prince charming,” Owen says, the cruel look glimmering in his eyes and curling his lips.
His words make me want to cry, and I can feel the pressure building, the water wanting to spill down my cheeks, but I won’t let him have this. I breathe long and slow, and I hold his gaze, meeting his challenge, until I know I can speak without my voice wavering.
“Nobody likes you. They all think you’re crazy. They feel bad for me, because I have to live next to you,” I say back. I’m expecting Owen to wince, to feel my words on some level, but he only leans forward and lets his grin stretch larger across his face.