Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(63)

My breath. Is gone.

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing happens. My pulse is racing, and I’m looking around the room for someone, anyone. We’re alone, Owen’s mom just a room away.

She’s only a room away! I’m trying to move my feet, to do something—anything—but I only end up with my back against the wall.

James’s lips curve into a smile, and a slow, insane laugh starts to brew in his chest until it eventually explodes from his mouth. He cocks the gun back, away from Owen, and then tosses it back on the table, as if it were a remote.

“You’re sick, and you need to leave,” Owen says, his stance never once wavering—the gun having absolutely no effect on him, nor the fact that it was just pointed at his throat.

“Come on,” Owen says, grabbing my hand and pulling me back through the house, through his front door, and down his porch steps. My body is shaking by the time we get outside, and I start to cry, cupping my mouth with my hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds.

“Shhhhhh, it’s okay,” Owen says, pulling me into his chest quickly, his hands wrapping around my head, his lips finding my bare skin along my face, his voice working to soothe me. “He’s high. He’s always high. And he needs money. That’s why he’s here. I’m so sorry you had to see that. My mom, she isn’t supposed to let him in. But she’s weaker than I am. That’s why he came now. He knew I was gone.”

“Owen, you have to do something. Call the police, something,” I say, my suggestion met with a roar of laughter.

“Kens, that’s a really good thought. But the cops don’t come to my house when I call. They come for other people. The Harpers? They sort of hope we kill each other off,” he says, and I shake my head in protest the entire time.

“No, they would come. Owen, let them help you,” I start, but he pulls me to him tightly again.

“They don’t come for things like this. And even if they did…” he says, pulling back to look in my eyes, “there’s nothing they could do. He’s either going to go away and get help one day, or James is going to die.”

“No,” I weep, shaking my head.

“Kens, my family’s f*cked up. I told you. Me? James? Even Andrew? We’re all just these time bombs, waiting to see if we turn into our dad. James is just helping it along so he can get to the end faster.”

Owen’s words hurt. They hurt because I want more for him and Andrew, and they hurt because I know how true they are—I saw it, seconds ago. My chest is tight, and it’s becoming harder to breathe.

“Do me a favor,” Owen says, his eyes looking up, above my head. I turn to follow his sightline; he’s staring at my window. “Go home. Get inside, lock up, and sit by your window.”

“No, Owen. Come with me,” I say, but he shakes my arm, my hands cupped in his, urging me to listen.

“I’m going to make him leave, Kens. He won’t hurt me; I’ve been here—I’ve done this. And when he’s gone, I’ll go there,” he says, pointing to his window, “and I’ll find you.”

Every time I shake my head no, Owen counters with a yes, until finally, I’m walking away from him. I look over my shoulder every few steps, and he doesn’t leave his spot until I reach my door.

“Wait for me,” he says, and I clutch the strap of my heavy backpack, dragging it inside with me and locking the door behind me immediately. I don’t even move it away from the doorway, abandoning it, and racing up my stairs to my window, getting there just in time to see Owen step inside.

I’ll wait for you.

I’m waiting for you.

I hold my breath for minutes at a time, my head against the glass of my window, my eyes checking every door and window of the Harper house, waiting for any movement, any sound, or new light or shadows. It stays dark, just as dark as it always is—and nothing happens. Thirty minutes go by, and there isn’t a single sound. I text Owen, asking him if he’s okay, and I keep my phone close to my chest, waiting for his reply.

Ten more minutes—nothing.

Ten more.

Nothing.

My finger hovers over the emergency call button, knowing that if I called—if I said there was trouble at the Harper house—they’d come.

I’m waiting for you, Owen. Please…please come to your window.

The sound of Owen’s front door outside scares me, and I bump my head on the glass in my reaction. James is practically jogging down the porch steps, his long strides the same as his brother’s, and he pushes his hat low while he swings the door to his small sedan open. Within seconds, he’s racing down the road, and my eyes wait for Owen to appear.

When his light flicks on, I let out a small cry from everything I’ve been holding in, and when he raises the blinds and swings his curtains out of the way completely—I bite my lip and smile. This isn’t a flirtatious kind of smile, but rather one of deep relief. Seeing him, after the feeling I got when I saw his brother push a gun in his face, scratches something new inside me, something deep.

I hold my hand up, pressing it to the glass, and Owen sits down in front of his window, leaning forward, resting his head on his hands along the windowsill. We stare at each other like this for minutes, and I rub away the frost on the glass at least twice.

Keeping my eyes on Owen, I slide my phone into my lap, then look down quickly to type him a message.