Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(5)

“Sorry,” she smiles, sheepishly.

I hold her stare for a few seconds, until she looks away blushing again. I love that she blushes. And I love that half smile she gives me. It’s unsure, cautious. She starts to move toward the office again, and I follow a few steps behind.

“It was more funny than not funny,” I say, not wanting her to feel bad. Honestly, that little stunt just gave me one more thing to be infatuated with when it comes to Emma Burke.

I follow her through the office doors, and Margot, the main secretary, lights up when she sees me. I don’t know many of the teachers here, but the office staff knows me well. They helped process the transfers and paperwork for the Excel Program, and I spent a lot of time waiting in the office for Owen my freshman year on days I didn’t have a full schedule.

“Andrew Harper, how’s that brother of yours?” Margot asks, leaning over the wraparound counter by the secretaries’ station.

“He’s good,” I smile. “I’m driving up with mom and Dwayne…I mean…Mr. Chessman…to watch his game this weekend. He’s starting.” I’m genuinely proud of Owen. In many ways, my brother was my hero. I think that’s why life sucks so much now that he’s gone. Of course, Emma is making things suck just a little less.

“You can call him Dwayne, sweetie. That’s what we call him, too,” Margot winks. She moves to a file at her desk, pulling papers together for Emma while continuing to talk to me. “And I hear you’re pretty damn good on skates, so maybe we see you starting for some university too in a few years?”

“Yeah, I don’t know…maybe. It’s more of a hobby,” I shrug. I’m not great at compliments, or attention, or…praise. Margot’s husband is one of the guys who shows up at the rink on weekends, and we usually play on the same squad. He’s a good guy, and a hell of a goalie for a forty-five-year-old. Their son plays for Northwestern’s club team.

“Right, well…as long as you’re having fun,” she smirks, reaching over the counter to hand Emma a folder of assignments. “That’s what I tell Robbie. Lord knows that man better be having fun, considering how little he can walk the day after one of your games.”

I chuckle as I tap the tabletop and offer a small wave when we leave. I feel Emma’s eyes on me as I hold the door open for her and lead her out to the parking lot. I open up the trunk of Dwayne’s car, a decade-old Buick, and slide my skates and stick to the back to make room for our bags. I could have thrown our things in the back seat—there’s plenty of room—but I wanted her to see the skates, because I kind of like the sideways glances she gave me when she found out I play hockey. And if she thinks that’s even remotely hot, I’m going to run with it.

I slam the trunk closed and look up to meet her eyes.

“Why do you have holes in your ears?” she asks, swiftly deflating my miniscule ego. She could care less about the skates and stick in the back of the car.

I chew at the side of my mouth, smiling through it, then turn from her and walk to the driver’s side while she moves to the passenger door. We both climb in at the same time, and before I put the keys in the ignition, I slide my hat back enough to see my ears as I look at them in the rearview mirror. I have small gauges in my ears. I got them because my brother’s friend House talked me into them a year ago. I thought they were cool…all the way up until now.

“I mean, what happens when you don’t want a hole in your ear anymore?” I let out a short laugh and run my hand over my face before turning to look at her.

“Did my mom send you here? Is that why you’ve come? Because, I swear to god, you sound just like her,” I laugh.

“Hmmmmm,” she says, her lips in a tight line, her eyes focused on my right ear for several seconds before they slide over to meet my gaze. We’re maybe a foot away from each other, and when she looks at me, the gray around her pupils is all I see. “I guess I’m curious how you can make such a huge decision about your body at sixteen.”

“It’s just an ear. Now, putting a hole in other parts?” She blushes at my innuendo and turns from me to face the front again. I let her off the hook and start the car, but just before the motor kicks in, she speaks.

“I like them…the holes, that is,” she says, blush growing and her lip back in her teeth.

“Thanks,” I say with a shake of my head as I shift the gear and back out from the parking space. “Where do you live?”

“Fireside and Barrel…do you know where that is?”

I know where it is. It’s the house—the big one everyone in town knows. There’s really only one. When I was a kid, Owen had me convinced it was haunted. For a while, I thought it was a museum. Then, one day, it went up for sale. It’s been for sale for about six years. I guess it’s not for sale anymore.

“Yeah, I know where that is,” I say, not looking at her or making a big deal out of it. I can tell she’s embarrassed about living in the town landmark. It’s not a mansion or anything, but it is incredibly old, one of those big houses that could be for rich people if only it hadn’t been forgotten. Now, it’s falling apart.

It’s silent for the first few blocks we travel—the only sounds, her shuffling her feet along the floor and messing with the heater vents, trying to make the air come out stronger.