Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(65)

“You’re so bad at playing tough,” I say, fighting off laughter at the way she said the word bitch.

“Am not! Now, don’t disrespect me, or I’ll cut you, bitch,” she says, unable to say it with a straight face a second time.

“Yeah, you’re one scary-ass mother,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm. “I think it’s the rhinestones on the wings of your designer glasses. Yeah, uhm…I’m pretty sure that’s it, the mark of a true bad-ass.”

“Shut up, my contact ripped, and these are all I have,” she says. “Now, how was dinner?”

“We never really made it to dinner,” I say, my throat closing at the memory of the night before. I can tell by the look Willow’s making that she thinks we detoured from dinner for a different reason—and as nervous as I am about being intimate with Owen, I would have given anything for that to have been the reason we didn’t make it to dinner last night.

“Owen’s mom was home,” I say, clearing her innuendo out of the way quickly. “And James showed up.”

“Oh, shit!” she says, giving me her full attention while we wait at the stoplight in front of the school.

“Yeah, it was…well, let’s just say those rumors you mentioned seem to be pretty damned accurate,” I say, not sure how much about last night I should share. I think I can trust Willow, but still, it isn’t really my story to tell. I never liked gossip, and Owen’s kept my dad’s affair to himself.

When Owen’s truck is parked in the lot, waiting in the spot next to Willow’s usual one, I’m hit with a smothering sense of relief, and I know it’s because of how scared I was the night before.

“Well, it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job at turning those Owen Harper rumors around,” Willow says, her eyebrows lifted above the dark blue rims of her glasses. I suck in my bottom lip, but I let my smile slip through. If I am somehow this exception to the Owen Harper rule, I’m going to appreciate the role, cherish it, and cling to it.

Owen isn’t in his truck, but his long legs come into view at the same table he was waiting at the day before. I admit to myself that I was looking for him—I was anticipating him, even before we pulled into the school’s parking lot.

I was wishing for him.

“I feel like maybe we were a little rushed this morning,” he says, standing and moving toward me, his thumbs looped in his front pockets, his gray jeans hugging his hips, the material gathering at his shoes.

“Why do you always wear your hoodie or a hat or something? Like you’re hiding your identity?” I say, pulling the gray and black striped hood away from his messy hair so I can run my fingers through it. It’s something I’ve been dying to do, and Owen watches my face as I let my hands find their way, feeling the soft waves of his hair, gripping the thickness. He lets his face fall to one side, resting on my arm, his unshaven jaw scratchy, but his lips soft and tender when they kiss my skin.

“Well, if I knew you had a thing for hair, I would have ditched the hat a long time ago,” he says, half a smirk underscoring his hooded eyes.

“Just your hair,” I say, lifting up on my toes to kiss him good morning in a way I couldn’t do in front of my mom.

“People used to look at me…stare at me. When I was a kid, after my dad…” he says, hand reaching up and running through his hair once before reaching for the hood to put it back in it’s place. “I started covering my head to hide. Sounds stupid, but I felt like people saw a little less of me. And habits stick, I guess.”

Owen hides. I can’t fault that, especially when I have thought so often of hiding myself lately. I reach under his hood once more, running my fingers through the side of his hair and pulling his cheek to me. “I’m okay with being the only one who gets the boy without the hood,” I say.

“Ha…” he laughs, but quickly covers his mouth in apology, rubbing his chin and trying to tamper his grin. “Sorry, it was something about the thought of you under my hood. For the record, I still think it’s funny when people say balls too. Guys are all ten-year-olds at their core.”

“Clearly,” I say, pushing his chest once before I leave. He falls back on his feet, pretending to stumble, but catches his balance quickly and winks at me before turning to walk away.

“See ya in class, Ken Doll,” he says, turning around to stick his tongue out once.

“You are such a ten-year-old,” I yell. He turns and walks the long way back around the building, and I watch him until he’s out of my sight. I love the way he looks.

I’ve enjoyed the last few mornings of band practice. Apparently, we compete. And apparently, we also win—our trophy case is twice the size of the football team’s. It’s just in the music room, where nobody can see it.

We’ve been practicing our show to make it perfect, and I’ve added a few more instruments to my duties, offering to play the tympani drums and chimes to really sell our closing song. It gives me more things to practice, more things to distract me from my hour of independent study, more things to keep my hands away from the piano—off the keys that haunt me.

Owen’s feet are in their rightful place during English, but his head is covered with a hat, his hood pulled completely over it, only his chin visible—that and the wise smirk on his lips.