There’s a chain of command in the club. A way of how things are done. A respect that must be given to the pecking order that’s been created. I’ve had a hard time with it for the same reason I never cared to become the leader of my group of friends. I find it challenging to follow as much as I find it challenging to lead. That’s why, as the board told me over and over again, I had the longest prospect period of anyone else in the club. I’m too unpredictable.
The door shuts and there’s two of us left in the room—me and Eli.
Eli’s eyes flicker from me to my seat. This time, I listen to his nonverbal request and sit. If only because the weight of what just happened is crashing down around me. “I want an answer.”
I need an answer.
Eli threads his fingers together and rests them on the table as he leans forward. “Four months ago, you agreed to join this club. Yeah, we had to vote you in, but you had to accept. You chose to be a part of this brotherhood. You chose to believe in this family. Are you saying those vows you made to us mean nothing?”
He’s questioning my loyalty, and maybe he should. “This is my family.”
“I know, and, Razor, you’re mine. This entire building is full of men who would die for you, but this back-and-forth—this rogue bullshit you pull when the wind blows east instead of west, it’s got to stop. You’re either with us or not. You either believe us or don’t. If you can’t trust us, we can’t trust you. There is nothing more this board wants than to trust you, but to be honest, we don’t. We voted you in because we know you love us, but we watch you with wary eyes. We don’t know what shit you’re going to pull next.”
When I was ten years old, it was Eli who came to me at Cyrus and Olivia’s before the sun had risen. Oz, Chevy and Violet had crammed themselves into the tiny twin bed I used whenever I stayed the night and each of them had curled up around me, providing a human shield from the emotional storm that had been brewing.
The three of them fell asleep, but I never slept a wink. When Eli walked into the room, he saw the four of us and lowered his head. Eli looked like the living dead himself, and when he met my eyes, he knelt and said the words that changed every thought, every emotion, every moment of my life. “I’m sorry.”
So was I. He didn’t have to tell me why Mom never arrived to take me home. I heard it in his tone. Noticed it in his eyes. My mother was dead.
“That detective,” Eli continues now, “showed to fuck with your mind. You’re smarter than him. Better than him. Don’t let him wedge a wall between us and you. Don’t let him destroy you and your dad.”
We all have choices to make; what lies we accept to believe. Since I was ten, I loved this family so much that I never questioned believing the lie that had been told to me—that Mom’s death was an accident.
But in this moment, the biggest lie I’ve chosen to believe is the one I tell myself: that I trust the Terror. I’ve always believed there was more, and the detective was correct—if I’m going to find any peace, I have to learn the truth.
“Who are you going to believe?” Eli asks. “Us or him?”
“The brotherhood,” I respond with so much ease it should scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t. The doubt’s always been present. I’ve just now decided to no longer live in purgatory. I’m going to discover what happened. Not sure how, but I’ll die trying.
I hold my hand out and, after a second of staring at the image of Mom’s car, Eli returns my cell to me. With a flick of my finger, the photo disappears.
“It’s my mom,” I say as if that can explain away everything that went down. As if that can absolve me from any sin I’ll commit here on out with the club. It’s a low thing to say to Eli. His mother, Olivia, recently died.
A shadow passes over Eli’s face and it’s an expression that’s all understanding. “I know, and I also heard what you came home to the other night. It’s been a rough few days for you.”
He allows me time to digest his statement and I wonder how many people are aware of the promise Dad made to me...or how many are aware he broke it.
“You and your dad—you two need to find some peace when it comes to your mom and you need to find some peace with each other, otherwise the entire club is going to suffer. That shit that went down with the detective—it wasn’t right. He disrespected you and your father, which means he disrespected this club. Trust me when I say we’ll take care of it.”
I should feel justified the board is pursuing some course of action with the detective, but the truth is I might need the cop. He might be the lone person willing to inform me what happened, and in the end I’m not sure I do trust the club to follow through.
The picture of Violet on Bragger did come down, not of my doing, but by the club’s. Regardless, it’s on the web forever. Even with my computer skills, I still can’t prevent copies from popping up. But what I’m really pissed at is that the club hasn’t figured out who’s responsible yet and nailed them to a cross.
Why should I trust them to watch out for me when they can’t bring justice for Violet or look me in the eye when I mention my mother?
“Pigpen warned us the detective fucked you up,” Eli says. “But we had no idea how bad. I’ll talk to your dad, tell him that you need time and space, but you need to work through this. You need to find a way to trust the club and you need to work it out with your dad.”
I nod, and when I stand, Eli stands with me. He walks around the table and pulls me into a strong hug. One arm high to keep from hitting my three-piece patch. It’s a sign of utmost respect and I return the gesture with the same amount of emotion.
The club has been my family, my rock, my port in a raging storm, and what I’m about to do might cost me my family forever.
Breanna
WE BYPASSED MY curfew of ten hours ago. This is the first time I’ve been out this late with friends without parental guidance and I have to admit it’s exhilarating.
Shamrock’s is a hole-in-the-wall. Hole. Like a dig-through-thirty-feet-of-slime-then-let-it-fall-back-in-around-you hole, and I’m loving every single second. The music pumps from the speakers and vibrates against the walls. Every corner is dark and strobe lights create this crazy movement of people like we’re pages flipped through a comic book. The stench of sweat from too many humans occupying one room mingles with the scent of something sweet.
I hated the smell when we arrived, but with a few more drinks and a few more songs, I don’t mind it nearly as much. What I’m loving the most is that the rumors are true. Army boys do buy drinks and they are glorious dancers.
“You know what I love?” I say to Addison as she wraps her arms around my neck in the middle of the dance floor. We start to slow dance with each other during a song that has too many beats and too many chords.
“What?” Strands of her blond hair stick to her face and a sheen of sweat covers her exposed skin.
“I am not number five tonight!”
“No, brat, you are not! You, girl, are number one!”
We take each other’s hands and spin like we did when we were six, except then it was in my backyard and the sun was shining. We slow, and when I search the room for Reagan, the world around me fades. I become concreted to the floor and my breathing hitches. He’s here.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. A body so ripped that every girl near him is gaping. It’s Razor. He’s in the corner on the opposite side of the room. His elbows rest on a raised table, and he’s staring at me.
As always, he’s the perfect mix of heart-stopping gorgeous and dangerous. His hair is styled so the longer bangs almost cover his eyes, but not quite. He wears his black biker cut and in the darkness it blends into the black T-shirt that hugs the muscles of his biceps.
My mouth dries out. I bet he can dance. I bet he could rival any Army boy here. I bet he’s every fantasy I’ve ever had and I bet he’s a fa
ntastic kisser.
I smile. He smiles. I melt.
Addison appears by my side and whispers in my ear, “What is up with you and Thomas Turner?”
I give her my best answer. “I don’t know.”
“He’s hot,” she says.
I agree, he is. I should stop looking at him, but I can’t, and I love that he hasn’t stopped watching me. He inclines his head as if he’s assessing my outfit. To show off my dress, I cock a hip and even lift my skirt like I’m about to perform a curtsy. I’m here to be seen, to be someone other than the Breanna everyone thinks they know, and I like being seen by Thomas Turner.
His response is a raised red plastic cup in my direction. The smile on my face grows and there’s a tingle in my blood as the corners of his mouth tip higher.
There’s a boldness I have in this moment I’ve never had before and I’m not done admiring all that Thomas Turner is. Not Thomas Turner—Razor of the Reign of Terror. “He’s trouble.”
“Sometimes a girl needs a little trouble.” Addison howls as she twirls me, breaking my connection with Razor. “I told you this year was going to be different.”
I’ve had three drinks tonight. My lips purse together. Maybe four. Is it normal to lose count? They were sweet and tasted like strawberries and I feel light on my feet and I also feel pretty.
I love my dress. It’s formfitting, except for the skirt, which ends above my knees and flares out at the hem. The dress is royal blue and it reminds me of the pretend games Addison and I used to play when we were five. We dreamed we were princesses and this dress swishes in a way that makes me grin. What I really love is how a few guys have studied me like I was someone worth giving their attention to.
I keep spinning, but my feet don’t and then my entire body jerks into something hard.
“Hi.” The voice is gravelly, and when I glance up, I frown. Yes, this place is wall-to-wall testosterone from the Army base and, yes, we are not the sole girls from school who decided this was the first pit stop for senior year, but boys from school should not be invited.
Well, Razor can be invited, but that’s because he’s the type of guy who would show because he wasn’t invited.
“Hi.” I push away from Kyle Hewitt. It’s not that Kyle’s disgusting to look at. He’s far from it. He has that grown-man baby face so many girls fall for, but after orientation I associate him with Satan.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” he asks.
“Do yours?” I retort.
He smirks as he leans back against the bar. We’re in the corner and beside him his friends regard me as they always do, as if they barely recognize me.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper the other night,” Kyle says. “It doesn’t make what I did right, but I’ve been under pressure. From my coach, from my teachers, from my parents...”
Kyle pauses on parents and there’s a shifting in the hate I have for him. I never entertained much thought involving Kyle until he cornered me and asked me to write his papers in exchange for money. But when he brings up parental expectations—family expectations—I can understand.
How many times have I wanted to scream at my parents that I’m not a live-in nanny nor their prize-winning state fair intelligent pumpkin, but never do? “It’s okay.”
“Good,” he responds.
I consider the conversation done and start to walk away, but evidently Kyle didn’t receive the memo that I’m not in a talkative mood—at least with him. “Bre, I need this help. What can I do to get you to write these papers?”
There’s the use of my nickname again—like he knows me, but he doesn’t. “I’m not writing your papers.”
“You’re smart.” He points to his temple as if trying to explain where my “smart” originates. “You’re getting out of Snowflake easy. Me? I’m not smart, but I can play football. I’m good at it. I understand it. If I don’t get my grades up, I’m going to be stuck in this dump town working in that mindless factory like my dad and his dad. I’m desperate.”
I can tell by the hurt in his eyes that he is, but writing his papers for him is wrong. Cheating is wrong. All of this is wrong. “I can help you. I can read over the papers you write. Give you some advice and pointers—”
“I’ll tell your parents you were here,” he cuts me off. “If you don’t write the papers for me, I’ll tell them you were drunk.”
I laugh even though I shouldn’t find his statement funny. “I am not drunk.”
He smiles and it baffles me. Maybe he’s not as bad as I think. “Yeah, you are. Come on. What do you want? A date to senior prom? Everyone knows Reagan talked one of her friends into taking you to junior prom. He told everyone she begged.”
My stomach lurches and my hand lands on my midsection. I didn’t know that and my forehead wrinkles as I try to figure out if it’s true.
“If you don’t want me to take you to prom, then tell me what guy you want as a date and I’ll make it happen. Then I’ll make sure no one but you, me and him knows. Hand to God, no one else will find out. Do you want to be on the homecoming court? I’ll convince my friends to vote for you. I saw you joined Bragger. Do you want everyone at school to follow you? Consider yourself followed. Name your price.”
I told Addison that for my senior year I wanted to be seen, but not like this. There’s a dip inside me and it’s like plunging into a ravine.
“Everyone’s talking about you,” he says. “That outfit you wore at orientation, how you were flirting with Thomas Turner today—”
“What?” I blurt. “I was not flirting.”
Blood drains from my face. Oh, God, was I flirting with him? I was flirting with a biker. I’m breaking so many rules and they are not the ones to destroy.
“Being here tonight,” he continues, “you’re trying to be someone different. I can help make that happen and not in the way that will make people laugh.”
Everyone’s talking about you... Make people laugh... Trying to be someone different... People are laughing at me and I wasn’t pretending to be anyone else, I was attempting to be on the outside who I feel like on the inside.
The colors and sights of the club merge. There’s too many people. Too much noise. A few feet away a trio of girls from school are staring at me—watching me and Kyle. One gestures toward me. The other two laugh.
Nausea knots my intestines. I didn’t mean to be the girl people laughed at. In fact, I craved the opposite. I wanted to be me for once, but to be me without the judgment and hate.
Wetness stings my eyes and I pivot away from Kyle. His fingers circle my wrist and he slides in front of me again. “Don’t be upset. I can make this better. For one year, don’t you want to be someone more than the weird smart girl?”
Sadness sinks past my defenses and creates an ache of pain, but then a flash of anger whips through me like a storm gale through trees. I tilt toward him as if he should be scared of me. “I am not that girl!”
“When did you stop? New clothes don’t change who you are, but I can help.”
He said it. Out loud. My fingers form into a fist. I should hit him. I should throw a punch into his face and hurt him exactly how he’s torturing me.
“Let me get you another drink.” His grip on my wrist lightens and his thumb slowly moves across my pulse point. His touch sickens me. “And we’ll talk.”
“Leave me alone.”
Kyle releases me, then sags like I crushed him and I find him confusing. He’s the one causing me to suffer. He’s the one causing the tears flooding the rim of my eyes.
“I’m not trying to make you cry.” He crams his fingers into his hair. “I’m saying this wrong. Doing this wrong. I swear, I’m not trying to make you cry.”
I’m terrified to peek across the room again—afraid the girls from school will be cackling like hyenas. I desperately tr
y to cling to the anger, but it slips through my fingertips.
I turn and there’s Addison. The elation that was on her face wanes as her eyes crazily take me in. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” My lungs burn and I want so badly to curl into a ball and cry, but I can’t. Not in public. Not with everyone gawking.
When she spots Kyle, she rolls her shoulders back. “What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I say, and I’m moving. Through the crowd. Past guys who ask me to dance. Past Reagan, who’s all smiles and tries to snatch my hand to join her and another friend. Past tables and chairs. I run past my name being called by multiple people.
I need air. I need to disappear. I need out of Snowflake and out of my home and out of this life and out of my skin and just out, and with a push of my hands on the door, I am out.
I suck in a breath when my heels click against the blacktop, but then the door bangs shut and my heart jumps. No, I went out a side door. Not the front door. I spin and my fingers graze the smooth steel where a handle should be. It’s a security door and I’m officially locked out.
“Crap!” I shout into the night, but no one is around to hear.
To the right is a Dumpster. To the left is another alley. Both are shadowed. I choose left and pray once I reach the corner there will be light. But as I go to walk, the world becomes disoriented. I throw my hand out to the wall when stumbling seems easier.
“Alone again?”
My head snaps back to the entrance and a surge of adrenaline shoots through my veins. Emerging out of the darkness is a large, looming figure. I stagger back. Away from the night of the alley, toward my hope for light, but there’s a crunch of glass under my feet. I trip, my ankle twists and a spasm blasts from my foot up to my leg.
My already bad balance is completely thrown. My arms flail, there’s a pain near my elbow as it connects with the brick and my body topples back.
I close my eyes, bracing for the impact of the ground, but as fast as I was falling, I hit something and then I’m ascending. My eyes fly open and I’m greeted by the most beautiful blue eyes. But then I shiver. Those eyes are as frozen as ice.
Walk the Edge Page 9
