Walk the Edge

by Katie McGarry

  “You have the worst luck,” he says.

  It’s Razor and he’s cradling me in his arms. As my skin vibrates, there’s a part of me that agrees with his assessment. But a small dissenting voice wonders if, in this moment, I’m lucky.

  RAZOR

  TEAR TRACKS MARK Breanna’s face and mascara smudges near her eyes. The sight of her unhappy tugs at my soul. She’s light in my arms and her hands clasp around my neck. She grabbed for me as I caught her. By the shock on her face, she has no idea how her fingers have started to play with the ends of my hair near the base of my neck.

  It’s a tickling sensation and it’s causing me to want to hold Breanna much closer than she already is. “Are you okay?”

  Breanna nods, but the answer is no. She’s crying, she ran out of the club and she’s in an alley alone with me. No part of that equation adds up to okay, but girls never make sense.

  “I tripped,” she admits. “You scared me and I tripped.”

  “Sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “Let me get you over the glass.”

  She glances around, then trembles. Someone lost their mind in the alley and smashed entire cases of bottled beer along the walls and concrete.

  “Wow.” She cuddles into me.

  “Yeah.” The broken glass isn’t by happenstance. It’s the reason I tried to warn Breanna from coming here. New school year also means a new class of Army recruits. Drunk Army boys on a high after kicking another guy’s ass doesn’t spell a good night for a high school girl.

  The glass crunches under my boots and her arms wind tighter around my neck as I guess she’s noticing the blood trails along the wall and ground.

  “What happened out here?” she asks.

  “Army hazing.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  My silence is the answer. As we near the street, there’s a lump on the ground and the whimpers confirm it’s not a wounded animal. Thanks to the beams of light flooding from the parking lot, I spot the red of blood over skin.

  “Don’t look,” I tell her, but by the way she sucks in her breath, she’s already seen.

  “We have to help him.”

  Footsteps at the opening of the alley and one of the Army boys Breanna danced with slides into view. This guy ain’t bleeding, so that suggests he was one of the group doing the cutting.

  “I know him,” she confides.

  “Don’t look him in the eye.” If he had given his name to her and believes she can identify him, he might have a problem letting us go.

  G.I. Joe eyes me. His job is to keep the guy on the ground from standing. My job is to get Breanna the fuck out of here.

  “Razor,” she pleads as we reach the lump on the ground and the guy on duty.

  “I mean it. Don’t look.”

  “Please help him.” Breanna buries her face in the crook of my neck and I get a whiff of her perfume. It smells sweet, like honeysuckle, and it reminds me how delicate this girl is and how we’re both in danger.

  “Please,” she begs one more time, and her lips whisper against my neck. A shock wave registers through my body at a ten point oh. Helping this guy will bring hell. The Reign of Terror avoids Army drama and they stay out of our way. But the desperation in Breanna’s voice... I want to kick my own ass.

  The guy on duty angles his shoulder enough to show me he’s letting me through, but... “Your buddy’s had enough,” I say.

  “He’s had enough when we say he’s had enough.”

  True. “Friendly advice.”

  Pissed at my advice, he straightens. “Are you going to take me with her in your arms?”

  Breanna starts to move, but I readjust her to encourage her to keep her head down. She doesn’t need to see broken bones and she doesn’t need to know that the Army boy who made her smile earlier was taking a break from a sadistic ritual act.

  “Nope, but we will.” Chevy sounds like he’s asking the guy to drink with us, but that smile on his face as he steps out of the lamplight and takes his place next to me in the alley suggests he’s ready for a fight. Possibly itching for it more than me.

  Oz follows Chevy and his shoulder smacks Army boy’s as he goes to hover over the lump. Oz’s eyes flicker from Breanna to me, but he schools his expression. Saving girls, that’s Oz’s style, not mine, and her in my arms will make him jumpy. I’m the one he thinks is crazy.

  “Reign of Terror have never given us problems before,” Army boy says.

  “No problems from us,” announces Chevy. “Concerned civilians. Looks like a stray wandered into your woods and it appears we’re helping her out.”

  Chevy winks at me and I’d punch him in the jaw if I weren’t holding Breanna.

  “How about you take care of things?” Oz jerks his chin to the parking lot.

  How is it I’m the one who’s been jonesing for a fight and I’m the one carrying out the girl? I ease past and Chevy calls out, “Your girl’s bleeding.”

  I am never going to hear the end of this. Chevy and Oz know I don’t get attached, yet in less than three days I’ve made Breanna my business twice.

  I should carry Breanna inside, find her friends and dump her off, but instead I walk past the cars, past the bouncer and the line, and head to the back corner of the lot where we parked. She’s shaking and I won’t sleep tonight until I confirm she’s okay.

  Bleeding. Chevy said she was fucking bleeding. If she is, it’s going to really piss me off.

  “Is he okay?” Breanna inches her head away from my neck and onto my shoulder. The movement causes pieces of her hair to drift across my skin. My blood grows hot and suddenly my fingers become aware of her soft body.

  Because of the way she’s turned into me, my fingers press into the smooth skin of her arm and it’s then I realize how warm my hand is on her leg. A peek down and I have to swallow the groan. Her skirt has ridden up and the sight of her thighs is enough to spur my brain to remember the fantasies I had of her in a dream last night.

  She asked a question. I should focus on that and on the ground. She asked about the wounded guy in the alley. The guy who joined the Army and for some reason has ticked off his squad. Will he be okay? Fuck no. He’ll receive worse later because we intervened now. “It’s taken care of.” For the moment.

  “What are your friends going to do?”

  Deniability will be her best companion. “Walk the guy on the ground out.”

  Breanna relaxes in my arms and a part of me hates that she’s reading exactly what I wanted into my answer. She’s too trusting. Like I’ve been too trusting of the club.

  I drove my bike, but Chevy and Oz rode in Eli’s truck. Chevy had plans to get hammered, but that field trip into the alley may be the release he was searching for. I lean Breanna into me so I can undo the latch to the tailgate, then gently place her on the bed of the truck.

  Breanna slides from my arms, and because she’s unsteady, I edge forward to offer her support with my upper body. Her hands slowly slip from my neck to my shoulders, then land on my chest. She looks up and those hazel eyes consume me like I’m some sort of savior.

  She has rose-petal lips. They’re perfect and begging to be kissed. I could do it. God knows she’s not thinking straight. I watched her down two drinks in less than a half hour and everything from her body weight to her reputation at school screams lightweight.

  Breanna tilts her head in invitation and suddenly I’m drawn to accept. This girl is gorgeous. There’s an exotic beauty to her with that dark hair and tanned skin. How have I missed her all these years?

  I hesitate. Tear marks and dark smudges around her eyes. Breanna was crying. That’s why she bolted from the club, why we find ourselves on the back of Eli’s truck.

  Chevy’s last words ring in my head. “Are you hurt?”

  Her for
ehead furrows. “What?”

  “Chevy said you were bleeding.”

  Breanna

  RAZOR’S TALKING, BUT the words aren’t registering. I’m guessing it’s because his palms are pressed against the bed of the truck, near my legs. His thumbs move—a brush against the material of my skirt. Each slow circle sends a jolt of electricity from my thighs straight to my stomach, and it’s a glorious feeling.

  He’s touching me. Thomas Turner, Razor of the Reign of Terror, is on purpose touching me. And if that wasn’t enough, his body is wedged between my legs and he’s leaning toward me, into my personal space. That angelic face is so close. Beautifully close. Close enough that seconds ago I was absolutely convinced he was going to kiss me.

  My body hums with expectation, with this secret uncontrollable desire. I’ve been kissed before—at a party. It was freshman year and it was Reagan’s birthday and there was a game. But that was awkward and this is a gravitational pull.

  “Breanna,” Razor says in this deep voice that rumbles to my toes. “Are you bleeding?”

  My eyes snap to my elbow and Razor steps back, taking my arm into his hands. Oh, God, my fingers had been lying against his chest. My face flushes hot with the idea of what has transpired between us and somehow that brief moment was important and I didn’t fully appreciate any of it because my mind is swimming.

  His rough fingers delicately sweep across the area near my elbow. “You peeled back the first thin layer, but it’s not too bad. Bet it burns like a bitch.”

  It does, a little, but I’m more interested in the tiny electric shocks happening with his caress. “I’m fine. I ran into the wall when you popped out.”

  Razor keeps his hold on my arm, sliding his fingers gently along the scrape, and he doesn’t talk. We look at each other and it feels oddly comfortable.

  I could get used to this type of comfortable.

  But then the entire world shifts and nausea twists my stomach. Strong hands grip my shoulders and I grab on to Razor’s wrists as an anchor.

  “The world’s moving,” I say. “And it’s moving fast.”

  “The alcohol’s taking over.”

  “I didn’t drink that much,” I whisper as the lights from a passing car blinds me. “At least I don’t think I did.”

  “You drank enough.”

  I continue to use him as an anchor and he continues to keep me from drifting off into this dizzying storm. Eventually the spinning stops and I inhale twice before trying to salvage my pride. I am never drinking again. “I’m serious. I only drank a little.”

  “So you’re a little drunk?”

  My spine straightens. Kyle said everyone at school laughs at me. Why would Razor be an exception? I release him and I do it with enough of a shove that he retreats.

  “Are you making fun of me, too?”

  He’s silent and I clearly hear the answer. Yes, he is. Yes, he thinks I’m a freak. Yes, I definitely made a fool out of myself.

  “No,” he says. “Is that why you bolted from the club? Was Hewitt talking shit?”

  Yes. Yes, he was. I throw my head back and appraise the stars. I could tell Razor everything. Tell him how Kyle demanded I write his papers. Tell him how he offered me the ability to be seen in a way that won’t be an encore of middle school, but where would that get me? Nowhere. Plus telling Razor would suggest we’re friends, and besides the people who belong to the Reign of Terror, he has never done friends, not even in sixth grade.

  The stars twinkle in the darkness and they remind me how small and insignificant I am. I came to the bar to kill off the old me and I ended up being reminded. It all feels rather hopeless. “Did you know we live in the outer edge of the Milky Way?”

  His eyebrows rise like I’m crazy, but, hey, I probably am. “Astronomers think there are over a hundred million stars in the Milky Way and they also think there are anywhere between one hundred billion and two hundred billion galaxies, so that means there are...”

  I pause because I should be able to add a hundred million stars to a hundred billion galaxies, but my train of thought floats away. Maybe I am drunk. “That there are...”

  “A shit ton of stars.”

  “Yes.” I point at him and my lips lift. “That. Do you want to know something else?”

  “Sure.”

  What makes my smile grow is how his blue eyes that are always frozen slightly thaw with this brilliant light that somehow represents laughter. Not the mocking type of those girls inside the bar, but the type that lends itself to warm fuzzies.

  “The closest star to our sun is Alpha Centauri, but it’s not the brightest star.”

  “It’s not?” Razor appears honest-to-God interested and I must be misreading him. No one is fascinated by my worthless knowledge. Not even Addison.

  “Nope, that’s Sirius.”

  “Gonna be an astronomer?”

  “I don’t know what I want to be yet, but whatever I do, it won’t be in Snowflake.”

  Razor reclaims some of the space between us but leaves room. He has this sexy sway as he cocks a hip against the tailgate, then lazily hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.

  Razor screams confidence. The way he talks. The way he walks. The way he stands. It’s like he doesn’t care about anyone or anything and I wish I could be him.

  “Then why the astronomy lesson?”

  There’s a pain in my chest. The internal warning I’ve learned to live by. The one that’s kept me from being tortured. It’s the voice that has meant survival in the wild jungles of school hallways. Stay quiet. Stay unknown. Hide who you are. Keep yourself safe.

  But tonight was for risks. I was supposed to break out of my mold and, for a few minutes tonight, I was a girl full of life. Maybe the clock hasn’t struck midnight yet. Maybe there’s some magic remaining in this night. “I came here hoping to be kissed.”

  Razor’s face goes blank, and it’s clear out of all the things he was expecting me to say, that wasn’t it. He scratches his jaw and my lips twitch at his baffled expression. I confused a biker. There should be points to be won for this.

  “Did that happen?” he asks in a low voice.

  I shake my head. Sadly, no. I did dance, though. I danced and danced and danced to the point my feet hurt and it was tiring to smile, but when the guy eased close enough—his body practically on mine and the energy began to build—I lost the courage to raise my head and accept what I possibly could have been granted.

  In the end, I wussed completely out.

  “Why would you want to come here and do something like that?” he demands.

  “People do it.”

  “What?”

  “Kiss.”

  He nods like he understands what I’m neglecting to mention. That people at school and TV and books and movies show that people kiss just to do it and it’s normal and obviously I’m not normal. My lips squish to the side. I bet Razor’s beyond normal and has kissed plenty of girls.

  Razor inches toward me and the thoughts of him kissing me reenter my brain. “I would’ve thought you’d be the type who only kissed someone she had feelings for.”

  “Because I’m a prude? Because I’m weird?”

  “No, because you come off as a person who thinks things through.”

  “That’s me,” I say, heavy on the bitterness, “the logical one.”

  Razor appears unhappy with my response, but his happiness isn’t my problem. But what he said, about kissing someone I cared for, that would be awesome—falling in love with somebody, but I don’t have hopes of that happening anytime soon. If ever.

  Sadness becomes a weight as I admire Reagan’s borrowed dress. The dress is gorgeous and I love it, but Kyle was right. I’m playing dress-up, just like I did at orientation. I’m not being myself. Tonight was fun, but lik
e choosing silence at school, visiting the bar was a different type of escape. I thought I had the courage to be me, but I’m still hiding behind a facade.

  “Most of us regret it,” he says.

  My eyebrows knit together. “What?”

  “Kissing just for the sake of kissing. Most times, people regret it.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not true. If it were, there would be more people like me and I’m obviously not the epitome of cool.”

  “Think what you want, but I’m telling you how it is.”

  Razor moves and it’s slow and he regains my attention. My heart patters with each gained centimeter in my direction. Eventually, he’s in front of me again and so near that my knees brush against his thighs. He reaches toward me and smooths my hair behind my ear. His fingers lightly graze the skin of my neck and I suck in a breath with the beautiful teasing tickle.

  “Why here?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Just wanted to be wild tonight. To act differently than I normally do.”

  “Wild?”

  “Wild,” I repeat, and I can’t help the smile that accompanies the word. I must sound insanely silly to him.

  “Kissing a strange guy at a bar isn’t wild,” he says. “It’s cliché.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is.”

  He stares at my lips like he’s having blush-worthy thoughts that involve me. I should say something witty or intelligent, but I’ve been placed on mute.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he continues. “If you want wild—if you want a kiss that breaks the rules, I’ll give you one, but not here, not now.”

  I think my heart exploded. Razor of the Reign of Terror—the guy all the girls have dreamed about for years—has offered to kiss me. “When?”

  “When I say.” His lips edge up, sending a thrill through my bloodstream. “If you have the nerve.”

  “I’ll have it,” I exclaim.