Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(41)

“Like…money? Or drugs?” I say, now sitting up in bed.

“Not really money. But I’ve bailed him out once or twice. And I got him off the hook with a dealer he owed some serious money to. It’s usually a problem when James calls,” he sighs.

“But you answer,” I say, my words practically filling in the blank space left at the end of his.

“Every. Time,” he says.

“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask, hoping, for selfish reasons, that it’s been a while. Willow said James was the one to stay away from, and now I’m not sure I want him a house away from me.

“The other night. He didn’t come here. But he was f*cked up out of his head, and he was in a bad place, with some bad people. I had to leave in the middle of a basketball game to go haul his ass back to his apartment,” he says, and I close my eyes, remembering that night I watched him get a call in the middle of playing basketball. I remember how angry he was, how fast he drove away, and how vicious his eyes were when he got back.

“That isn’t fair to you,” I say, my arms pulling my pillow in close to my chest, my mind imagining Owen’s heart beating through it, wishing it were him I was holding.

“Nope,” he says.

I hold my pillow for several long seconds, letting my face slide against the coolness of the pillowcase. Ryan is so right about Owen; people don’t have him pegged right at all. And as much as I want to tell everyone that, I also want to keep it to myself—keep Owen to myself.

“So, you were thinking about practicing tonight…when I walked in?” Owen finally says, cutting through the silence. I think I may have been drifting off to sleep with him in my fantasy.

“Oh, yeah. I was…sort of, ” I say, squeezing my eyes tightly, trying to force a little more awake time from them. “I can’t seem to figure out what to play. It probably doesn’t make sense to you. But, it’s just that I was sort of on this directive, had all of these goals, and they all centered around the things my father wanted me to play. And now that he’s out of the picture…”

“Those aren’t your goals anymore,” Owen finishes for me.

“I don’t think they ever really were,” I say. I know they weren’t, but admitting this out loud, saying it without someone on the other end protesting—it feels nice.

“Do you still like playing?” he asks.

“Yes, of course I do,” I say. “But not any of the things he would want me to play.” Saying that feels good too, and it makes me stretch and move my fingers in anticipation.

“So play for you. Tomorrow. Play for Kensington. I’d like to hear you. I mean…if that’s something you’re okay with. Someone listening to you play?” The nervous, fumbling Owen who’s unsure of his words seems rare, but he makes my heart race.

“I could do that. I mean, unless it’s not cool for Owen Harper to be hanging out with a band geek,” I joke, my palms actually sweating. I can’t tell if I’m excited at the thought of playing for Owen or terrified.

“I’ll make an exception,” he says, his laugh even raspier than before, and his voice saturated with sleepiness.

“Well look at that,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re finally tired,” I smile, satisfied, as if I actually did something to help Owen find sleep. His effect on me was just the opposite, and now all I want to do is tiptoe downstairs and play my piano.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Hey, thanks,” he says.

“For what?” I ask.

“I’m not really sure. But I know I should say it anyway,” he says, one final yawn escaping his throat.

“Good night, Owen Harper,” I say, loving every syllable of his name on my tongue. Owen drifts off before he can say another word, and I leave my phone on for a few more minutes just to listen to him breathe.

He isn’t scary at all.





Chapter 10





Owen must have worked all day Sunday because I never saw him again. And I looked—constantly. My mom seems to have found a way to put on her performance face at work, but at home, she’s simply…manic. When I woke for school this morning, she had started ripping out pipes from under the sink, and all of the cabinet doors were down. She said something about finally getting her hands into something, making it her own.

If it keeps her from crying on the foot of the stairs, I guess tearing apart our house is a good alternative.

Willow’s horn blaring outside saves me from having to help with my mom’s latest plumbing emergency, so I yell that I’m leaving, grab my backpack, and rush out the door. Being in band means we always have to get to school early, and though the first few weeks had me grumbling from waking up before the sun, this morning, I’m practically skipping. I’m skipping because Owen’s truck is in the driveway, which means he’s probably going to school today.

“Wow, look who’s all happy this morning,” Willow says, snapping the gum in her mouth twice and chomping loudly while she analyzes me and my happiness.

“Had a good weekend,” I say, meaning it. True, Friday night was a nightmare, but my short-lived basketball career made up for the unwanted visit from my father and from Gaby the week before.