Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(91)
I keep my eyes on hers, unable to blink. I don’t even know how to articulate what’s wrong, but something is just…wrong. And it won’t feel right again until I see him.
“I have to go,” I say, my eyes still wide on hers. I’m begging her with them.
“This is what I meant,” she says.
“I know,” I say, looking back at the crowd of shadows, the faint sound of roaring laughter and House’s voice in the distance. “But it’s different, Will. I can’t explain it, but I just know it’s different.”
“Whatever,” she says, her eyes rolling as she turns to walk away from me.
“Willow, please…” I start, but she holds up a hand, her pace steady, toward Jess. I feel like a lousy friend. I feel selfish. I am selfish, because all I want is my Owen back, the sweet one—the guy who sat on the piano bench with me and forced me to remember things I loved.
The Owen I love.
I pull my arms around my body tightly, my hands nearly numb from the cold. My coat is in the band room. But I can’t risk going to get it now. House—he might be gone by then.
He doesn’t see me coming at first, and I pick up on hints of their conversation as I approach.
“Sasha is such a f*cking skank,” one girl says, pulling the cigarette from House’s hands and putting it between her lips, dragging in slowly and letting a smooth trail of smoke stream from her lips as her chin tilts up to the sky.
“You’re just jealous,” says another girl.
“Whatev. I could be like her, totally hold some party so I could f*ck Owen Harper,” she says, handing the cigarette back to House, leaning forward toward her girlfriend. “But I don’t need to…been there, bitches!”
The other girl laughs loudly in response. They saw me coming, and that conversation was for my benefit. This morning, it might have been enough. But tonight, my issues with Owen are so much bigger than some girl trying to make me jealous. I’m close enough now that House notices me coming, too.
“Ken Doll,” he says loudly, an exaggerated laugh coming from the girl sharing his cigarette. “You ditching the punch bowl in the gym for some real shit?” He holds a bag out toward me, several rolled joints weighing it down. His eyes stay on mine with a heavy stare—he’s trying to provoke me. But he has something I need, so I ignore his efforts.
“Where is he?” I ask. He pushes the bag back into the front of his sweatshirt, then drops his cigarette to the ground. The girl sitting next to him pouts, so he leans over and kisses her hard, his hand running up her leg and stomach until he’s squeezing her tit in front of everyone.
That was for me, too.
“Get in the truck, baby,” he says to the girl, and she slides from his hood, dragging her hand over his crotch while she walks by, her gaze on me the entire time. She thinks she’s marking her territory. She can f*cking have House.
He steps forward, his heavy black shoes stomping the glowing ash into the pavement, then he spits to the side before bringing his eyes to me.
“He’ll be at Sasha’s,” he says, his smirk lingering. I wait for him to offer more, to say something more. But instead, he smiles—that stupid f*cking obnoxious smile that’s only halfway really there—his eyes barely slits, sleepy from whatever he’s been drinking or smoking. I don’t care how long he’s known Owen—House is a dick.
“Give me your keys,” I say, and he leans back, looking up to the sky, laughing hard once.
“If you wanna ride, get your ass in the truck. But I ain’t giving you my f*ckin’ keys,” he says, holding them on his thumb in front of me before clutching them. I stare at him, daring him. But House isn’t Owen; he honestly doesn’t have a line between right and wrong.
“Fine,” I huff, brushing by him, giving his body a hard jab with my elbow as I pass. I climb in through the driver’s side and slide to the middle, the girl waiting inside staring at me with a look as though I’ve just made her drink bleach.
“Who the f*ck are you?” she says, her breath practically flammable. I look her right in the eyes, then turn to face the front, my mouth never once breaking its hard line. I just need to survive ten or fifteen miles.
House climbs into the truck and starts the engine quickly, my hands still feeling his seat for a belt as he rounds the corner and peels out of the parking lot.
“I don’t have belts. Just hold on and keep your mouth shut,” he says, rolling his window down at the stoplight and leaning out yelling something to another car pulling up next to us. The rest of the people that were with their group are packed into an old Bronco, and when one of the guys flips House off and speeds by, he punches the gas fast without even thinking, running the red light right behind his friend, swerving us into the middle lane to regain his lead.
The dodging and darting for position happens between every stoplight until we get to the edge of town, when House finally punches the gas hard, his engine growling as we speed away from his friend, toward Sasha’s house, toward darkness. My hands are gripping the undersides of my legs hard, trying to keep my heart from bursting with fear, my stomach sour with adrenaline. I hold my breath for minutes at a time, saying silent prayers to a god I’ve never talked to before—the pounding in my chest actually painful by the time we slide into the dirt driveway of Sasha’s house.