Dangerous Boy Page 2

  He smiles a much-too-innocent puppy dog smile that’s impossible to resist. I stare back at his dark, deep brown eyes for a long moment, until Bick clears his throat, shaking us from our all-too-public flirting session.

  What were we talking about? Oh, right…“I don’t know about the maze. I feel creeped out enough already with the stuff going on in town. I don’t think I’m up for it.”

  Adam shrugs. “Oh, come on. It’s just some pranks.”

  “It is kind of weird,” Allie says. “The police blotter has actual crime in it.”

  “It’s not really that weird. It’s just some idiot with too much time on their hands,” Bick says, leaning back in his chair so that it’s balancing on two legs.

  “Bloody bones left in mailboxes is not a joke,” I say, the revulsion evident in my voice.

  “They were cow bones,” Adam reminds me.

  Allie makes a disgusted face. “Yeah, but you know it must have looked like they could’ve been human, because the old lady called the cops.”

  I nod. “I don’t care what it was; I wouldn’t want to find it in my mailbox.”

  “It was probably just that guy who was peeping in windows. They arrested him three days ago, and nothing since,” Adam says.

  “The whole point is that there was a Peeping Tom,” I say, sipping my water. “We’re not supposed to have those in Enumclaw.”

  “Wasn’t the Green River Killer from around here?” Logan asks, spinning his straw around in his glass, so that the ice swirls.

  I shake my head. “No, he lived in Kent. I mean, the Green River runs just north of town, by your house, but I don’t think they found any bodies in that part.”

  “They found one near the golf course,” Allie says, snatching her unwrapped straw back from Adam when he tries to take it.

  I shudder. The golf course is only about a mile down the highway—the highway I can see from where I’m sitting. “Yeah, and who knows?” I say. “They said he killed so many people he lost count at seventy. There could still be bodies out there somewhere.”

  Bick lets his chair drop back down on all four legs. “It was twenty years ago. The guy is serving, like, fifty life sentences. Nothing ever happens here anymore.”

  “I dunno. I guess,” I say, twisting Logan’s errant straw wrapper in my hands. “I still don’t want to go to the maze. Why willingly creep myself out when someone else is doing a fine job with it already?”

  “That’s what makes it more fun,” Adam says.

  “We haven’t missed it in six years. You can’t skip it now,” Allie adds.

  “Besides, I’ll protect you,” Logan adds, slinging an arm around me and giving me a totally cheestastic grin.

  I meet Bick’s stare and roll my eyes—it’s impossible not to—but I actually find the sentiment kind of charming. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But for the record, I am doing so under duress.”

  Our sodas arrive then, and we fall silent as we overload on caffeine. By the time we’ve devoured the pizza, it’s pitch-dark outside. We push through the double doors and out into the brisk October night. I zip my jacket up to my chin and accept Logan’s hand when he puts it out for me, his skin warm against the cool autumn air.

  Then we pause as Bick steps off the curb. “See y’all tomorrow,” he says, crossing the lot. His dairy is the one next door, with the Mickey-Mouse-spotted-calf, so he’s walking home, across the grassy fields.

  “Bye,” I say, turning to Logan’s Jeep, my hand on the passenger door.

  “Have a good night!” Allie calls out.

  We say our goodbyes to Allie and Adam, and then it’s a short drive to the old farmhouse I call home. Along the way, we pass cattail-filled ditches, sprawling dairy farms, and narrow county roads. Then Logan pulls into the gravel driveway, parking near the edge of the back patio.

  I look up at the house. It’s dark. Empty. Just like always. My dad’s probably already asleep. He does the first milking of the day at, like, four o’clock, so it’s rare that he stays up past nine.

  A few years ago, before my mom died and Dad got so busy, he used to leave me notes before he went to bed, or in the morning before he disappeared into the barns and fields. Just little ones, with smiley faces or short messages like, “Have a great day!” and “Good luck on your test!”

  But he stopped doing that a long time ago. You know that saying about two ships passing in the night? That’s us. Now it’s always me and that house and total silence.

  Logan walks with me across the cracked cement patio, to the back screen door. I turn back to him, take in the seductive darkness of his eyes. Behind him, sprawling green pastures stretch out below the clear velvet sky, as a smattering of stars twinkles to life.

  He smiles, in that way that’s ours, and pulls me closer, his kiss whisper soft. I like the seductive feel of his lips curling upward as I kiss him back.

  He rests his forehead against mine, and I close my eyes, breathing him in, memorizing the feeling of being this close.

  I’ve never had this before—such an intoxicating relationship. A guy who seems to want me in the same way I want him. The complete inability to think clearly when he’s this close, and the tantalizing hope that he feels the same way.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  I nod, and he squeezes my hand.

  “We’re exclusive, right?”

  My eyes flutter open and I stare straight into the dark depths of his. “Um, are we?”

  He looks down at me, a smile playing at the edges of his lips, making me want to kiss him again just so I can feel his smile, not just see it. “Do you want to be?”

  I swallow and nod. He pulls me against him, and I close my eyes, resting my cheek against his shoulder. “Then let’s. I don’t want to share you with anyone.”

  “Okay,” I say, oddly breathless.

  “Your enthusiasm is staggering,” he says.

  I laugh, slipping my arms around his waist and giving him a squeeze. “Sorry. You just make me nervous.” I giggle, and it sounds stupid and silly. But he must not take it that way because when I pull away, he’s beaming at me, smiling in a way that makes me want to melt into nothingness. Beautiful, blissful nothingness.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

  I reluctantly let go, and he steps away, walking to his Jeep just as I’m pulling open the screen door.

  “Hey!” he calls out. I turn around. “Sweet dreams.”

  Warmth unfurls inside me. “Like I’m going to be able to sleep tonight, thanks to you,” I say, grinning. “But sweet dreams to you too.”

  And then I slip into the dark, lonely house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning, I’m sitting at the chipped Formica counter when someone bangs on the back door. I jump, sloshing the milk in my cereal bowl. I can’t see him, but I know without looking that it’s Logan because he’s picked me up every day for school for the last two weeks, and now it’s this unspoken thing, as dependable as the incessant rain at this time of year.

  “Come in!” I holler, slurping another spoonful of cereal as he steps through the door.

  “’Morning, beautiful.” Whenever he stands in this house, it’s a reminder of our differences. He’s wearing crisp, practically new jeans and a button-down, the sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. As he leans a hip against our countertop, crossing his arms, I forget to swallow the food in my mouth.

  I blush. How can he call me beautiful when he’s dressed like that and I’m in torn blue jeans and an old Darigold T-shirt? When my nickname is DQ and his might as well be GQ?

  “Coffee?” I point to the coffeemaker, full to the brim. I started it ten minutes ago in anticipation of Logan’s arrival. When he smiles at me, those dark eyes trained right on mine, I’m glad I didn’t forget.

  I slurp another spoonful of cereal and watch as Logan pours coffee into the mug I’d set out for him. He picks the cup up to his lips and my stomach lurches—along the ed
ge, there’s a chip the size of a dime. It makes the whole thing look really cheap and country, even for me. Why didn’t I spot that before?

  Logan won’t care, but I do. I shouldn’t be so irritated by something that stupid, but can’t things—for once—be simple and clean and perfect? Like they probably would be if Mom were still around and Dad noticed anything inside this house?

  I guess Logan doesn’t notice or maybe he’s just too nice to say anything because the next thing out of his mouth is a compliment. “This is so good. It’s criminal that my uncle only buys decaf.”

  I don’t tell him that my dad does, too. That I bought coffee especially for him. I wonder if he’d think it was silly or sweet, if he knew.

  I decide on sweet. I slide back the stool and place my cereal bowl into the sink. It lands with a heavy clunk of ceramic on metal. “We should probably go. I don’t want to be late for politics and I need to run out to the barn to get lunch money from my dad.”

  He follows me through to the back porch, which is littered with a dozen pairs of rubber boots. The screen door slaps shut behind us as I walk across the gravel driveway, dodging mud puddles that never seem to dry up, except in August. Logan fires up the Jeep as I climb the cement stairs to the milking parlor.

  I slide the wooden door sideways on its track, flecks of peeling gray paint sticking to my palm. The methodical pulsing noises of the equipment greet me as I step into the parlor. There aren’t any cows here yet, so the cement is washed clean, and I don’t have to dodge any cowpies.

  My dad is in the pit, restocking the old, frayed washcloths that have already seen a hundred milkings. He smiles when he sees me, and I smile back without meaning to. It’s hard to be mad at him when he doesn’t disappear on purpose. He’s simply overwhelmed.

  “Feed the calves?” he asks, meeting my eyes.

  I look away, stare up at the chalkboard where a few cows’ three-digit identification numbers are listed. The cows on antibiotics, whose milk can’t go into the tank with the others’. “Yeah.” I get up before six in order to do a few chores before school. By the time Logan shows up, I’ve been up for an hour and a half. I’m always paranoid that by the time I climb into his Jeep, I smell like a cow. I mean, I take a shower and everything, but still. A guy like him can’t be used to farmyard smells. He’s too…perfect. Clean, crisp…

  Amazing.

  “I gave the wild-white on the end some sulfa. She didn’t look like she was doing too well,” I say, feeling awkward. My dad and I hardly talk these days.

  He nods. “I’ll check on her when I’m done in here.”

  “Cool. Can I get some lunch money?”

  “Oh.” He blinks. “Yeah. Sorry. I meant to leave it on the counter.”

  He digs into his pockets, producing a crumpled dollar bill and five quarters. Enough for a soda and the pizza pocket I get every day.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I nod and turn on my heel. Years ago, just after my mom died, I might have tried to hug him, but not anymore. It only took a few wooden embraces for me to realize that he wasn’t going to try to fill my mom’s role as the resident family hugger. So for the last six years, we’ve kind of just kept to ourselves—him in the parlor or the barns or the fields, and me in the house, sticking his dinner in the fridge before I do my homework or go hang out with friends.

  I climb the ladder at the end of the pit, and through the dingy window, I see Logan’s red Jeep rolling to a stop. It occurs to me that he really gets what it’s like to go without a parent. It’s one of those things he and I have in common. That we’re basically all alone family-wise. Only difference is that Logan lives with his uncle because both of his parents passed away. Then again, I live with a father who barely speaks to me about anything other than milking cows, so it’s almost the same thing.

  I take another look at my dad’s bent form, sigh, and then shove the door shut behind me. The pulsating sound of the vacuum pump quickly dies out as I scurry to Logan’s Jeep. He’s waiting for me like the knight in shining armor that I imagine him to be. I roll my shoulders, forcing all thoughts of my mottled family life from my mind, and climb into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me.

  We leave my driveway and head right, toward Enumclaw High School. Sitting alongside Logan immediately makes me feel more relaxed, calmer. He squeezes my hand.

  Then suddenly he’s distracted.

  “Look,” he says, pointing out the windshield. “What is that?”

  I lean forward and look up, to where a lime-green aircraft is gliding above us. “It’s an ultralight.”

  “A what?”

  “They’re these super light airplanes. Up close it looks like a three-wheeled Go Kart attached to wings. There’s an airstrip down the street, so they fly over my house a lot.”

  “That’s so cool,” Logan exclaims, the enthusiastic longing evident in his voice.

  I snort. “If you have a death wish.”

  Logan darts a glance at me, then stares back up at the airplane. “You think so? I’d love to fly in one of those someday.”

  “No way,” I say, shaking my head quickly. “It’s on my list.”

  “What is on what list?”

  I feel my cheeks redden. “Uh, flying. It’s on my list of fears.”

  Logan coasts to a halt at a stop sign and then turns to me. “You have a list of fears?”

  I nod. “Um, yeah. I mean, sort of. Okay, yeah.” I cringe and turn away, watching the airplane high above us. Only I would make a brand-new boyfriend think I was meant for the loony bin.

  Oddly enough, though, Logan doesn’t seem fazed. He places his thumb against my cheek and gently shifts my gaze back to him. “How many things are on your list?” he asks tenderly.

  “Ten.”

  “And flying is?”

  “Number ten.”

  A car honks behind us, so Logan pulls away from the sign. “Are you going to tell me the rest?”

  “No way,” I say. “I didn’t even mean to tell you that one. Allie and Adam know I’m a chicken, but they don’t know I have an actual list. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “Hey,” Logan says, and I turn back to meet his eyes. “I won’t tell them. You can trust me.”

  I swallow and nod, realizing I do. Trust him, that is.

  “But you have to share the rest. How else am I supposed to be sure you confront all of your so-called fears?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not a bucket list.”

  “Well it should be. Any person who cares enough to keep track of the things that they’re afraid of obviously thinks about said things. Right?”

  I give him a blank stare.

  Logan takes this as his cue to continue. “Come on, Harper. Conquer your fears. Seize the moment. Carpe diem or whatever.”

  I laugh. “You swear you won’t tell Adam or Allie? Or Bick? Adam already thinks I’m a wet blanket. And I don’t know what Allie thinks. Probably the same thing.”

  “She does not,” he says.

  “I don’t know. She’s way more adventurous than me and doesn’t understand why I’m not into riding horses and stuff.”

  Logan adjusts his rearview mirror. “It’s a deal, on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to tell me the rest of your list.”

  I smile and, feeling more adventurous than I do ordinarily, decide there’s little harm in playing his game. I trace my finger down along his arm, letting my fingers tangle with his just long enough to give his hand a squeeze. Then I let go so he can shift gears. “Ask me tomorrow, and maybe I’ll tell you another one.”

  He bursts into an ear-to-ear grin, excitement and satisfaction swirling in his eyes. Then he flicks a blinker on and turns on Cole Street, the main drag through town. “Fair enough.”

  The base of my neck grows hot and tingles creep up my spine as I turn back toward the window in an attempt to maintain a calm and collected exterior, at least temporarily. I watch as we glide past our little town newspaper, the post of
fice, antique shops, and a few modest mom-and-pop restaurants.

  I’m still staring out the window, my mind wandering, when Logan abruptly hits the brakes. The tires screech on the concrete. I sit up straighter, peering out the windshield, to the view that has Logan dumbstruck.

  Birds. Hundreds of them.

  And they’re all dead.

  CHAPTER THREE