Wild Reckless

“Do me a favor,” Owen says, his eyes looking up, above my head. I turn to follow his sightline; he’s staring at my window. “Go home. Get inside, lock up, and sit by your window.”

“No, Owen. Come with me,” I say, but he shakes my arm, my hands cupped in his, urging me to listen.

“I’m going to make him leave, Kens. He won’t hurt me; I’ve been here—I’ve done this. And when he’s gone, I’ll go there,” he says, pointing to his window, “and I’ll find you.”

Every time I shake my head no, Owen counters with a yes, until finally, I’m walking away from him. I look over my shoulder every few steps, and he doesn’t leave his spot until I reach my door.

“Wait for me,” he says, and I clutch the strap of my heavy backpack, dragging it inside with me and locking the door behind me immediately. I don’t even move it away from the doorway, abandoning it, and racing up my stairs to my window, getting there just in time to see Owen step inside.

I’ll wait for you.

I’m waiting for you.

I hold my breath for minutes at a time, my head against the glass of my window, my eyes checking every door and window of the Harper house, waiting for any movement, any sound, or new light or shadows. It stays dark, just as dark as it always is—and nothing happens. Thirty minutes go by, and there isn’t a single sound. I text Owen, asking him if he’s okay, and I keep my phone close to my chest, waiting for his reply.

Ten more minutes—nothing.

Ten more.

Nothing.

My finger hovers over the emergency call button, knowing that if I called—if I said there was trouble at the Harper house—they’d come.

I’m waiting for you, Owen. Please…please come to your window.

The sound of Owen’s front door outside scares me, and I bump my head on the glass in my reaction. James is practically jogging down the porch steps, his long strides the same as his brother’s, and he pushes his hat low while he swings the door to his small sedan open. Within seconds, he’s racing down the road, and my eyes wait for Owen to appear.

When his light flicks on, I let out a small cry from everything I’ve been holding in, and when he raises the blinds and swings his curtains out of the way completely—I bite my lip and smile. This isn’t a flirtatious kind of smile, but rather one of deep relief. Seeing him, after the feeling I got when I saw his brother push a gun in his face, scratches something new inside me, something deep.

I hold my hand up, pressing it to the glass, and Owen sits down in front of his window, leaning forward, resting his head on his hands along the windowsill. We stare at each other like this for minutes, and I rub away the frost on the glass at least twice.

Keeping my eyes on Owen, I slide my phone into my lap, then look down quickly to type him a message.

Want to talk about it?

His response comes a few seconds later.

I think I just want to look at you for a while.

I put my hand back against the glass, this time Owen doing the same, and I stay there, for an hour, looking at him looking at me. And I’m terrified—afraid of what happened tonight, of everything I saw and of the thought that James might come back.

And I’m afraid I’m losing myself to danger—the worst kind, the kind that rules your heart.

I’m falling for Owen Harper, and I’m afraid he’s going to die.

Chapter 14

The chatter downstairs stirs me awake. My mom’s voice is somewhere between normal and a whisper, which can only mean one thing—my father’s here.

I’m awake and sitting up in seconds, but I’m not so sure I want to face that much drama this early in the morning. The moon is out, the sun still a half hour from rising. The sky has seemed darker lately, winter bringing a thick layer of darkness that takes over the starts and ends of every day.

My alarm will sound soon, so I push the clock button to at least spare myself the noise of morning DJs that are far too peppy to be real. I grab my jeans, a long-sleeved undershirt and my favorite T-shirt, a black one that reads Mozart Would Have Loved Miles Davis. It’s a test day, and I’m feeling unlucky. Actually, I’m feeling unprepared—so I’m going to need all of the superstitious things in my life to align. And clearly, my morning isn’t starting off on the right note.

My shower is hot, but the water runs out far too quickly, so I towel dry before my skin has a chance to get cold, drying my hair and scrunching the curl into it. I pull a knit hat over the crown, keeping the little part of my hair that’s still wet warm, then I take a deep breath and force myself to go downstairs.