Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(92)

Four or five other cars are out front, and the thumping of the music echoes around us. I don’t hear any people, though, which only makes me feel less sure about the place I’ve stranded myself—about what I’ll see when I get inside. House exits the truck first, then holds the door open and nods his head rigidly, urging me to hurry.

I slide out, my hand accidentally pressing on the horn as I pass the steering wheel, and House winces.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling my arm, his squeeze on me rough. He slams the door closed once I clear it. He meets the other girl at the front of the truck, reaching his hand into the waistband at the top of her jeans, his hand on her actual ass.

I trail behind everyone, entering the house last. Everything is exactly as I remember it. The lights dim, the drone of music drowns almost everything else. People are gathered around the couch and floor, smoking something from a liter bottle. A few others are pouring drinks at the kitchen counter while others make out in dark corners around the house.

My turn is slow, my eyes careful to catch every face, every outline, weeding out each profile that’s not Owen. But I don’t have to find him. He finds me, his voice haunting, his words harsh—if not indifferent.

“What are you doing here?” he says, the sound barely audible over the loudness of the music. His tone isn’t angry. It isn’t curious.

It’s nothing.

I step into the sitting room, toward the beanbag chair he’s sunken into, the familiar clear glass propped between his fingers on his knee.

“Decided the dance sounded lame,” I say, taking the seat across from him, leaning back into the softness, letting my arms fold across my chest, like a shield.

Owen keeps his eyes on me, and I let my mouth relax finally, but I don’t smile—and I don’t breathe. He pushes the plastic glass to his lips, the space between the vodka and his mouth paper-thin, then pulls it away, instead tossing it into the fire next to us—igniting a short burst within the flames.

“Have enough tonight?” I ask, the tightness in my chest relaxing with every second I’m here with Owen and he’s quiet.

“Something like that,” he says, his eyes lost somewhere off to the side. I want to get up; I want to move to him, to hold him and kiss him—to make him remember how he felt a week ago. But I’m so afraid of scaring him, of offending him—of the other Owen. So I wait, and I stare into the flames, catching glimpses of him from the side, waiting for him to move, to shift his eyes from whatever thought is holding him.

“My brother’s gone,” he says, his voice monotone, his gaze still on the blankness of the wall beyond me. “When I went home to check on him…” his head finally shifts, just enough, his eyes finding me—finally. “He. Was. Gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, still holding myself to my place, fearful of disrupting our connection, afraid he’ll close this door right back up. Owen is in a cycle. His family is in a cycle, but Owen more so than anybody else. And it’s killing him. I’ve watched it strip life from him in a matter of weeks.

“I wish he would just O.D. already,” he says, his words flowing with a small laugh, one he quickly hides, ashamed of it. But I know that laughter, it’s not the happy kind, it’s the kind that tries to hide pain, hide the need to cry.

He keeps his eyes fixed on me, but not my face, almost as if he’s not strong enough to look me in the eye. He watches my hands as I rub my arms, my body still cold from the ride here in House’s truck.

“You’re cold,” he says, sliding his coat from the floor over to me. I lean forward and grab it, wrapping it around my body. I mouth the words thank you, and Owen nods.

“You drive yourself here?” he asks, his eyes coming to mine in fits, dropping away quickly.

I shake my head no. “I came with House,” I say.

“You shouldn’t have,” he says, biting his tongue, his lips perched to say more, his mouth working to speak, but no sound coming out for several seconds. “I just meant it wasn’t safe…not…not that you shouldn’t have come,” he says, his eyes coming to mine again, holding longer this time.

“Jess said he saw you smoking,” I say, regretting it instantly, Owen’s gaze quickly falling away. He shrugs. “You…you smoke?”

He shrugs again, and it feels empty. It makes me feel empty. I’ve never seen him smoke. I’ve never tasted it on him. He told me his only vice was drinking. Drinking…and death.

“Just a few times…” he says finally, his head to the side. His eyes lost again to the flames. “Only recently. It calms me.”

I’ve seen Owen angry. He embraces it, lets it fuel him and carry him through anything. He’s fearless. But this Owen is far from angry. He’s beyond sadness.

“He says you bought drugs, too. Was that just about being angry, too?” I say, my hands squeezing my biceps, my arms hugging my chest tighter, my frustration building. This question, it seems to stir something, and Owen leans forward slowly, his eyes dark as his hands meet one another in front of him, his knuckles popping one at a time.

“Is this you trusting me? You get your friends to spy on me, spread rumors and come back to you with dirty little secrets?” he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching as his tongue wets the edges of his lip.

“Is it a lie?” I ask, looking at him with the same strength he’s showing, not backing away from his challenge. I wait, and Owen waits to. Never answering.