Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(67)
“You mean like the way we all just assume you’re a piece of shit because you stole a car, robbed a store at gunpoint, and then held that same gun to your own head later that night just to prove you’re nuts just like your old man?”
Cal only has enough time to find his balance and get to his feet before Owen is in front of him, his hand gripping the fabric of his shirt collar, his weight pushing him backward until his body hits the wall with a heavy thud. Owen forces him into the wall twice, just to make sure the air completely clears his lungs, then twists his hand around Cal’s shirt, choking him before finally releasing.
Mr. Chessman’s hand is on Owen’s back within seconds, and Owen lets the crumpled shirt fall back in place along Cal’s chest. Before he steps away, he stares long and hard, his nose practically touching Cal’s, he’s so close. “Exactly,” he says, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged—and his fingers flexing, wanting to destroy.
“That’s enough, Owen. You know where to go,” he says, his head tilted slightly to one side, his expression caught somewhere between pride and disappointment.
“Yeah, I know,” Owen says, turning to leave the class. As he passes me, he drags one finger along the length of my desk, brushing my fingertips as he passes. But he never looks down at me. The door swings open wildly, banging into the hallway wall.
“Cal?” Mr. Chessman says, his eyes falling on the smug blonde * still straightening his shirt at the front of the classroom.
“What, me? Are you serious? He attacked me!” Cal defends.
“Yes, but you also broke the rules…and what was it you said?” Mr. Chessman’s smile shows again. “Ah, yes…they’re black and white. Case done. Piece. Of. Cake.”
He pushes a pink slip into Cal’s chest at his last word, then motions for him to leave the room. Cal grumbles a few swear words as he leaves, and when he reaches my desk, he gives me a look that proves he’s already summed me up, too, just by my relationship with Owen. I’m pretty sure I can sleep at night knowing I don’t have Cal Russell in my corner. Maybe I’m making my own snap judgments, but I’m pretty sure he’s the dark side in this one.
“Well…” Mr. Chessman says, leaning back to sit along the edge of his desk. His arms folded in front of him. “Kensi brings up a very good point, despite the debate we had just a few minutes ago. I’d like you all to think about that as you finish the next three chapters, and come prepared to discuss—without fisticuffs—tomorrow.”
The bell rings only minutes later, and the rest of the class quickly goes back to their routine, everyone chatting about lunch plans, weekend dates, parties. I wait for the classroom to clear before gathering my things and heading for the door.
“For the record, Miss Worth,” Mr. Chessman says, stopping me just before I open the door. “I think you made a very valid point.”
My breathing suddenly feels easier, and I let my smile respond for me, then open the door and move into the crowded hallway. It’s lunch, and I know Willow, Jess, Elise and Ryan will be wondering where I am, but I have to make sure Owen is okay. I dodge backpacks and elbows through the busy hallway until I see the glass door of the principal’s office swing open, Owen stepping through, his own pink slip crumpled in his hand, his eyes still dark, angry.
“Are you okay?” I ask, walking up to him, my steps coming quicker. He grabs my hand fast, his grip on my fingers tight, almost painful, and pulls me behind him through the thick crowd in the hall until we reach the back door, near the loading zone for the cafeteria. He pushes down hard, forcing the door open, then pulls my arm, leading me around a corner to a line of recycling bins.
“I’m so sorry…” I start, but Owen’s hands find me fast, his fingers wrapping around my shoulders, his force moving me back until I’m flush with the wall, and then his lips crash down on me.
His hands slide from my shoulders to my neck and into my hair, his mouth covering mine as if he needs my air to breathe, and he closes the small distance between us, the warmth and hardness of him pressing into my body, my hands operating on their own instinct, finding his sides and back until I’m clinging to him, grabbing bunches of his black sweatshirt all at once.
Owen’s hand moves to his head while he’s kissing me, and he tosses his hat to the ground to the side of us, and I let my fingers move to his hair, weaving the strands in and out, letting the softness of them curl around me.
This is the best kiss of my life. Every kiss with Owen has been the best kiss of my life. But this one—it’s full of something more. His lips work mine for long seconds, his tongue passing over mine slowly, his teeth dragging over my bottom lip, my top lip, tugging on me and pulling me into him even deeper. I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, and I let my hands roam over his chest and around his back again, the feel of him exactly as it is every time I dream.
He finally pauses, his mouth still resting on mine, his lips barely parted as they struggle for air. Owen’s eyes are closed, and his forehead is resting on mine, his thumbs still gently caressing my cheeks.
“I…,” he says, his breath stuttering, his lips quivering, his body relaxing into me. His head falls heavier into mine, and I can actually feel his entire body shaking.
Owen doesn’t finish the sentence, instead kissing me again with the same intensity as before. For the entire lunch hour, his lips work mine until they’re practically raw; when the bell rings to resume class, he pulls my hands up to his lips, clasped tightly within his, and he kisses them once before pressing them to the side of his face, looking at me with eyes that have cleared, eyes that aren’t full of rage and hate.