Page 5 of Wicked

April rolls her eyes.

Man, this girl isdramatictoo.

“I’m right here, April. No need to tell Ryker everything.”

April ignores her.

“Well, which is it, mister? Are you her boyfriend or not?” She taps her tennis shoes.

Impatient. Curious.

But I don’t miss the hope in her eyes. Behind her, Harper is shaking her head. Smirking, I give the little girl what she’s wishing for. Do this, and I’m crossing my fingers she lays off and doesn’t make my life a living hell for the next three Wednesdays.

“Yeah, I’m Harper’s boyfriend.”

Her little shoulders relax, and she uncrosses her arms. “Harper never spoke of you until yesterday. She said you’d be meeting us here.”

“Harper’s a private person.” An assumption.

I don’t know jack shit other than her choice in clothes is limited to the color black, she isn’t at Prescott U on scholarships, she’s in an intense program (which one, I’m curious), and she spends too much time roller skating and trampoline jumping and not enough on taking in calories.

Harper is thin, but not unhealthy thin. She’s toned. Has an athlete’s body. And I’m guessing her healthy slim isn’t from skating and jumping on trampolines.

Is she a runner? If she is, she better be wearing reflective gear over her black running clothes. Otherwise, we’ll be having us a talk on safety. Does she run with another coed? If not, I’ll tack on safety in numbers to our discussion. Harper is small. An easy target. Jerks like me equate small with weak.

“Want me to help you with your skates?” Harper pulls the little girl to her, her arms circling the girl’s waist from behind.

Harper’s kindness hits me smack dab in the chest, resetting and reawakening something inside me I’ve long ago boxed away and put a lock on—giving a flying fuck.

I rub at the spot over my heart. I shouldn’t give a care how nice Harper is. I’m not into a girl for her kindness. I’m looking to get her under or on top of me.

“I’m fine. Thanks, Harper.”

Harper’s mini-me untangles out of Harper’s hold, yanks on her skates, and disappears into the crowd.

Harper nods at my shoes. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to skate?”

She undoes the laces on her combat boots, slides them off, and tugs on a pair of in-line skates that are NOT black. Her skates are purple, for fuck’s sake.

“Yeah, sure, but you might have to hold my hand. I haven’t skated in eons.”

“Or you can rent a walker.” She tilts her head at the line of little kids in front of the walker rental window.

“I’d rather hold your hand. That is, if you’ll have me.”

If you’ll have me? I groan. What the hell kind of shit is coming from my douchebag mouth? She nods, a slow up and down of her head. Yeah, this isn’t my norm.

It doesn’t take me long to get the skates. Or to put them on. I also opted for the in-lines. Together, we make our way onto the rink.

April breezes by us, skating backward with her hands on her hips, looking cool as shit. I shoot her the thumbs-up sign and am rewarded with her laughing in her hands.

“Don’t.”

I cast Harper a sidelong glance. She’s smiling, but steel underlines that one word.

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