Free Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) by Ginger Scott Page A

when I glance at my watch, it’s ten o’clock at night and somehow five hours of my life have passed and I missed it.
    I walk through the house to find a bathroom and stumble into a room where House seems to have filled whatever need Sasha had, and I feel a little tinge of regret that I didn’t give in. Her shirt is off, and her bare tits are staring at me. She’s clearly comfortable with her body, because she stands up from her straddling position on House, her lace underwear the only thing on, and steps toward me. House slaps her ass as she walks away, his drunken laugh a soundtrack to her strut.
    “Bathroom,” I stutter, somehow. She giggles and moves close enough to touch my chest with her index finger, dragging it slowly down my T-shirt and stomach until she runs it along my now-hard cock.
    “Down the hall one more door,” she smiles, pressing her palm flat against my jeans and pausing as I pulse. “Or you can stay…”
    “I’m good,” I breathe, aware of every sensation happening under the zipper of my jeans. I leave the room and hear her laughter briefly behind the door, but I keep my resolve, putting one foot in front of the next until I get to the bathroom where I take the most painful piss of my entire life—then spend about five minutes running water over my face.
    I quickly pass the room on my way back down the hall, not wanting to hear any sounds that might act as a siren and call me in.
    Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I twist the cap and drink about half of it before fishing my keys from my pocket. In a house full of people, I’m still alone, and I wonder if this is how Owen felt when he would come to these parties.
    I step out front and spend a half an hour throwing rocks from Sasha’s driveway into the thick forest abutting her property—listening to each rock fall through the cracked branches and onto the bed of dried brush and leaves. The first snow hasn’t happened yet, but it’s coming. I can see my breath.
    My breath.
    I cup my hands and smell as best I can. I’m sure I stink of whiskey. Or maybe not. I only had a couple shots hours ago, though, and I feel fine. Maybe a little bit of a headache, but fine otherwise.
    I climb into my car and turn the engine on, letting the heat seep into my sweatshirt and reach my skin. My knuckles are red from being cold, so I hold my hands over the vent for a few minutes, letting my bones thaw.
    When I glance to the empty seat next to me, I think of Emma. Shutting my eyes, I let my head fall back against the seat and imagine her there. I’m interrupted by the sound of my car door flying open, and I’m startled when House climbs in, laughing hysterically and talking a million-words-a-minute.
    “Fucker, get out of my car,” I push at him.
    “Yo…yo…no, listen,” he says, speaking through laughter. He’s drunk. And stoned. I’ve seen him like this a hundred times, and it’s always a pain in the ass. “I’m hungry. Like, really hungry. Take me to get a burger, dude. Come on.”
    “Go make a sandwich, and get the fuck out of my car,” I say, gripping the wheel, intent on not taking House anywhere .
    “Awwww, come on man. Here, here…I’ll give you some shit,” he says, pulling a sad-ass bag of weed from his pocket, giggling as he fumbles with it.
    “Dude!” I roll my eyes.
    “Fucker. You suck,” he says, reaching over the console and smacking my face hard enough that it stings and I’m sure it’s pink.
    I lunge at him, but he’s too fast, and is already out of the car walking back toward the house. I am pretty sure I’m okay not getting invited to another one of these parties.
    With a deep breath, I look back at the wheel and then to the once-again empty seat, trying to get back to the place I was—imagining Emma there. When it doesn’t work, I push the car into drive and do the next best thing, heading to her house.
    I expect the same empty driveway, the lack of cars in the street, the single light shining through