Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(99)
I let my gaze fall to the side, too, meeting him. “I’m so glad Andrew went to Matt’s,” I smile, biting my lip and giggling.
“Me too,” Owen says, standing and walking to his door, pulling his pajama pants from the floor. “He f*cking hates that Matt kid, so he totally did that so his brother could do it.”
Owen flashes wide eyes, and he mouths “oh” as he laughs at me, backing away from his room. I reach to the floor and throw his pillow at him, which he catches at his chest.
“Not funny! Oh my god, I don’t want your brother knowing about this, that we…do it,” I roll into the covers and pull them around my body and face. Owen leaps on me quickly, tugging the material away, pinning me to the bed and holding his mouth an inch away from mine.
“Everybody is going to know that you are mine, and that I am yours. And if I have to do it with you all weekend to make sure that look of bliss is permanent on your face—I will. My brother just already knows what everyone else will by the time I’m done with you,” Owen says, his tongue teasing my upper lip before he moves away, standing to look down on me again, my body bare and ready to be touched again.
“Mine. All. Day,” he says, his hands holding at the frame of the door, his body filling it completely. I watch him walk away, and listen as the shower water turns on. After a few minutes, I step from the bed and open the door Owen left cracked for me to begin with, hoping I’d follow. I step inside the hot water with him and let him tattoo happiness on my face just like he promised.
Chapter 19
I don’t hear the sound of sirens or squad cars. I’m too caught up in my dream, asleep in Owen’s arms, the hour late. We spent the day playing house, Owen burning our steaks on the grill, me burning the macaroni and cheese, melting away the water on his stove while I made out with him.
The entire day and most of the night, a dream—a delicious fantasy that is suddenly crashing down around us in a drowning wave of reality.
Owen wakes first, the sharp movement of his body as he lifts his head stirs me. He’s to the window in seconds, then back to the bed, fumbling to put on his shirt and pants, sliding his feet into his shoes.
“What is it?” I ask, mimicking him, dressing myself quickly, my stomach sinking, sickness washing over me that something is wrong.
Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
“Cops. My driveway, the street, it’s filled with police. They have lights on my house. I’m not sure what’s going on,” Owen says, grabbing his phone in his hand, racing through his door, down the stairs.
I trail behind him, barefoot. There’s no time for me to find my shoes. He slings the door open, ready to march out in protest, but he’s met quickly with force, two large policemen standing guard at his door. One of them catches Owen, pushing him back into the house, knocking his feet off balance.
“What the f*ck?” Owen yells, trying to push through the officer again. I reach to grab Owen’s arm, to calm him.
“Stay in your house!” the officer yells, his finger pointed at both of us, his voice stern and loud.
“What the hell is going on?” Owen asks, pushing to see outside again.
“Sir, I’m warning you, get inside right now. Close this door, and find a safe place in your house and lie low, on the ground, hands over your head,” the officer says, pulling the door closed and barricading it. Owen pulls the door a few times, turning the knob with no luck.
“Owen, what’s happening?” I ask, my body tingling with nerves. Owen’s pacing, moving through the kitchen to his back door, looking through the window to see more SWAT officers positioned there. He rushes to the living room, to the windows that face the backyard, and spots another pair of officers, weapons drawn.
“What the f*ck landed in my front yard?” he says, running his hand through his messy hair, walking quickly from window to window, trying to get a glimpse of something, anything that will give him a clue what’s happening outside.
“Drop your weapon!” We both hear a voice yell from outside over a megaphone, this warning followed by an eerie silence. Owen turns to look at me, his face frightened, a look I’m not used to seeing him wear. He rushes toward me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me with him up the stairs, back to the safety of his room, and he pushes me to the far side, the other side of his bed.
“Kens, please! Get on the floor, under the bed if you have to,” he says, pushing me down, pulling blankets and pillows to cover me, as if the cloth could stop anything from harming me.
“Owen, stay with me!” I scream, my hands gripping at his floor, my legs kicking to push my body under his bed, my face flat against the roughness, eyes searching for Owen’s feet, to find out where he is. He sits low near me on the other side of the bed, so he can look out his window, out over the driveway.
And all at once, I see it—I see everything that is happening outside reflected in the absolute horror that suddenly paints Owen’s face.
“James,” he lets out in weak breath, his hand losing its hold on his phone, dropping it to the floor near me, his body growing weak in an instant. His knees fall from under him, and he grasps at the windowsill as he collapses, his arms just strong enough to hold his body to the window, his face pressed against the cold glass. His breath frosts it quickly, and he pulls a fist up, tucking the sleeve of his sweatshirt over it, wiping away the moisture in a manic circle.