Callum & Harper (Sleepless #1)

Callum & Harper (Sleepless #1) Page 2

"I don't know anything about mine," she said, studying her feet, then realized what she was doing. "Harper Bailey," she said cheerfully, holding out her hand, revealing a dimpled grin.

I buckled the clasp around her delicate chin, resting my hands on the top of the helmet playfully. "My name is Callum Tate and I’m going to take care of you, Harper Bailey."

Her extended hand dropped into her lap. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. "Wh...what did you say?"

Shit. Was that was too forward? "I'm sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I'm Callum Tate. It's a pleasure to meet you, Harper Bailey." I grabbed her thin hand and a shot of warmth crept up my veins and shocked my heart into a frenzy.

The smile that had so quickly faded before came back with a vengeance. She squeezed my hand in greeting and whispered, "It's very nice to meet you, Callum."

I climbed on to the front part of the seat and started the engine. Harper settled her hands on the side of my ribs and I couldn't think of anything I wanted more than her arms wound tight against my chest. Suddenly, I couldn't get on the road fast enough.

Harper

I think Callum Tate can read minds. It's either that or there was something seriously strange going on between the two of us.

He started the motor and pulled the bike up on its wheels, lifting it off its stand and balanced our combined weight effortlessly.

He turned slightly to face me, exposing a flirtatious off-kilter grin, “You might want to hang on.”

My stomach flipped in circles as I tightened my hands around his chest and I could feel his heart beat furiously against my palm which only served to make mine race faster.

“You okay?” He asked over the purr of the motor.

More than okay. “Yeah,” I try to say as coolly as possible.

He revs the motor before placing his left hand over mine. “Hold on tight,” he said as if I’d ever let go. As if I could ever let go.

Heat coursed through my arm and when he removes his hand, I felt a lacking I’d never known I could possess.

The wind whipped my hair behind me as I breathed in the warm summer air, letting it fill my lungs. With each breath he took, his chest expanded tightly against my stomach and hands and I can do nothing to stifle the tingling electricity that came with each one, sending my heart into violent trembles.

The Hope House is nothing like I thought it would be because it was worse, which is incredible as I expected awful. The building, though old and beautiful in architecture, was dark and extremely dirty, lines of sickly, equally filthy people huddled against the frame of the structure waiting and desperate to hear they have a place to rest their own heads in a cot for the night rather than the alternative and that was more than likely a cardboard box or a bench. I heard three gunshots go off as well as a woman’s screams but the hundreds queued paid no heed, obviously accustomed to the harrowing sounds.

“Hold on,” he said loudly before popping the curb and settling the bike near a lamp post.

He swung his leg over the seat and unbuckled the strap to my helmet before lifting it from my head. He grinned mischievously.

“My hair is stuck to my head at weird angles, isn’t it?” I asked, a blush already descending upon my cheeks.

He studied me carefully before bursting out laughing. “Maybe,” he teased. “Here,” he said, smoothing out the unruly mess. The contact he makes with my skin gives me an involuntary shudder. “Are you cold?” He asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Uh, no, just...just got a glimpse at where we were and gotta’ admit, I’m a bit un-enthused but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“Poor Harper,” he said with a slight frown. “You most certainly are not a beggar but I will admit we’ve not any choices,” he playfully winked, sending me into yet another frenzy. “Come on.” He placed his hands on my waist and lifted me off the seat.

“Good gosh, Callum!” I say, lifting my voice to the level of my now boiling blood pressure. His touch is intimidating, making me choke on the sharp inhalation its spark gives to me.

“What?”

I’m flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting you to lift me is all.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m acting too familiar with you and I just can’t explain why. I’m usually more polite than this. You just affect me differently than most.”

Don’t read too much into that, Harper.

“Alright,” he says, wrapping a large, thick chain around his bike and the post beside it before attaching the largest lock I’ve ever seen made. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the rows of people.

We walked toward the end of the line and sat in uncomfortable silence, each probably wondering if we knew what we were doing.

Callum

I don't know what I'm doing. I think I might have offended her by grabbing her waist without asking. I don't know why I did it either because the last thing I want is to offend this incredible girl.

"So, tell me, how were you orphaned?" I asked. Shock colors her face. Nice start there, goofball. Really sensitive. "I'm sor...," I start, but before I can even finish, she bursts out laughing.

"I've never actually had anyone ask me that so blatantly before yet it doesn't seem like such an unnatural question, seeming as we share the same plight."

"And what plight is that?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't know. The one where we meet in the lobby of social services after being kicked out of our foster homes for being afflicted with the 'eighteen disease'. Not to mention the part where we're standing in line together at The Hope House, a relief center that can't accommodate the demands being asked of it."

"God, you're plucky," I blurted out.

"You know it, but to answer your question..."

"What question?"

"The one where you asked me how I became an orphan?"

"'Kay."

She took a deep breath, readying herself to spew the prepared speech all us orphans kept at the tip of our tongues. "I'm not truly an orphan. My mother is alive and I’m hoping well somewhere out there but I've never met her. She left me at the hospital she gave birth to me at, slapped the name Harper on me, before peacin' it out and wishing me the best.

“I was adopted almost immediately into a young family who thought they could handle the demands of an infant. When they discovered that they couldn't handle one addicted to drugs, they passed me over. At three, I began the tireless process of being passed around once a year in the foster system. I assume my dad is some deadbeat crackhead, probably doesn't even know I'm alive. Anytime I pass a dude beggin' for change, if he could be my father's age, I slip him a buck or two in hopes he sees something in me he could recognize."

"Has it worked?"

"Nah, but my fingers are crossed," she teased.

"Wow, that is a sad, pathetic story," I prod.

"Tell me about it."

"My story's better than your story, though."

"That so?" Both her brows are raised in challenge.

"Yeah, double the pathetic, quadruple the sad."

"No kidding."

“As I said before, my parents died in a car wreck when I was four. I barely remember either of them. From what I can gather from my limited memories, though, they were loving. I think my father may have been an attorney because he was always on the phone and I remember the words brief, client, and evidence were at the top of his vocabulary.

“I remember my mother was sweet and kind and that we'd always bake cookies on Sunday after church. It's my only distinct memory of her. I would sit at a kitchen island on a stool and we'd mix all the ingredients, then she'd ask me questions about whatever difficulty my four year old life could conjure up while they baked and when the bell tolled, no pun intended, we'd grab hot cookies, dip them in our milk and life would be peachy.

“I don't remember the day they died. I suppose I may have blocked it out but I was in the car with them and the car seat they paid a freakin' fortune for may have saved my life but left me utterly alone.”

Her breathing got deeper.

“My mom was an only child,” I continued. “My dad had a half-brother who was only ten at the time of my parents passing. He was raised by his maternal grandparents. So, basically, there was no one to take care of me."

“Damn, Callum. That’s tragic,” she said, the teasing losing its potency.

Suddenly, our attempts at trying to make light of our misfortune lost their charm. I hung my head against my chest and breathed deeply, exhaling acceptance with each blow. I was no longer interested in acknowledging my lot in life. I was in line, begging to stay on a revolting cot, that’d had probably slept a thousand others before me. The worst part was I had no idea if I’d get to have even that.

Sensing my discomfort, Harper took initiative and wrapped her hand within mine, squeezing reassurance into my heart. I looked over at her and smiled as lightheartedly as possible. She squeezed harder. It’s funny how this total stranger could relate to me better than anyone else I’d ever met. It was as if I’d known her my entire life.

“It’s like I’ve known you my entire life,” I stupidly admit.

But she doesn’t rebuff me as I anticipate. No, instead, she says, “I think, in some ways, we have. Only you could know what I’ve been through; the humiliation, the judgments, the unwanted pity and none of it at your doing. We may not have known each other our whole lives but we’ve definitely lived them in parallel.”

We waited in line for three hours, marking the time with idle chit chat that held no meaning whatsoever, but felt strangely vital to have at the time.

“Your favorite color?” I asked.

“Green,” she said. “Yours?”

“Same.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

She eyed me disbelievingly, “Mmm-kay.”

“I’m not! Seriously, it’s always been green.”

“Alright, I believe you, I guess.”

“Favorite food?” I continued, changing the subject.

“You first,” she says.

“Afraid of an unoriginal answer?” I teased. She raised both eyebrows. “Okay, my favorite food is Tex-Mex. Good, authentic Tex-Mex though and as you may not know, that does not exist in this city.”

“Have you ever even been to Texas?” She mocked.

“Yes, I have, miss. When I was sixteen, I went there for a Latin competition for school. So there.”

“A Latin competition!?” She scoffs.

“Don’t make fun!”

She attempts to straighten her face, “I’m sorry. Really.”

“Yeah, that burst of laughter your hiding is really convincing.”

She sobered up, after some effort I’m unhappy to report. “I didn’t even know they taught Latin anymore,” she said. “I thought it was considered a dead language.”

“It is not a dead language! Your language is based in it, Harper.”

“I’m sorry. I can see that this subject is a sensitive one for you.”