One moment of recklessness will change their worlds

Smart. Responsible. That’s seventeen-year-old Breanna’s role in her large family, and heaven forbid she put a toe out of line. Until one night of shockingly un-Breanna-like behavior puts her into a vicious cyberbully’s line of fire—and brings fellow senior Thomas “Razor” Turner into her life.

Razor lives for the Reign of Terror motorcycle club, and good girls like Breanna just don’t belong. But when he learns she’s being blackmailed over a compromising picture of the two of them—a picture that turns one unexpected and beautiful moment into ugliness—he knows it’s time to step outside the rules.

And so they make a pact: he’ll help her track down her blackmailer, and in return she’ll help him seek answers to the mystery that’s haunted him—one that not even his club brothers have been willing to discuss. But the more time they spend together, the more their feelings grow. And suddenly they’re both walking the edge of discovering who they really are, what they want, and where they’re going from here.

There are lies in life we accept. Whether it’s for the sake of ignorance, bliss or, in my case, survival, we all make our choices.

I chose to belong to the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club. I choose to work for the security company associated with them. I also choose to do this while still in high school.

All of this boils down to one choice in particular—whether or not to believe my father’s version of a lie or the town’s. I chose my father’s lie. I chose the brotherhood of the club.

What I haven’t chosen? Being harassed by the man invading my front porch.

Praise for

Katie McGarry,

bestselling author of

PUSHING THE LIMITS

‘The love story of the year’—Teen Now

‘A real page-turner’—Mizz

‘A romance with a difference’—Bliss

‘McGarry details the sexy highs, the devastating lows and the real work it takes to build true love.’—Jennifer Echols

‘A riveting and emotional ride’—Simone Elkeles

‘Highly recommend to fans of hard-hitting, edgy contemporary and to anyone who loves a smouldering, sexy, consuming love story to boot!’—Jess Hearts Books blog

‘McGarry is definitely a YA author to keep an eye out for’—Choose YA blog

Also available

PUSHING THE LIMITS

CROSSING THE LINE (eBook novella)

DARE YOU TO

CRASH INTO YOU

TAKE ME ON

BREAKING THE RULES

THUNDER ROAD

NOWHERE BUT HERE

Find out more about Katie McGarry at www.miraink.co.uk and join the conversation on Twitter @MIRAInk or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/MIRAInk

Katie McGarry

www.miraink.co.uk

KATIE McGARRY

was a teenager during the age of grunge and boy bands and remembers those years as the best and worst of her life. She is a lover of music, happy endings, and reality television, and is a secret University of Kentucky basketball fan. She is also the author of Pushing the Limits, Dare You To, Crash Into You, Take Me On, Breaking the Rules, Nowhere But Here and the novella Crossing the Line.

Katie would love to hear from her readers. Contact her via her website, www.katielmcgarry.com, follow her on Twitter @KatieMcGarry, or become a fan on Facebook and Goodreads.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise for Katie McGarry

Also available

About the Author

Title Page

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Acknowledgments

Playlist for Walk the Edge

Copyright

RAZOR

THERE ARE LIES in life we accept. Whether it’s for the sake of ignorance, bliss or, in my case, survival, we all make our choices.

I choose to belong to the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club. I choose to work for the security company associated with them. I also choose to do this while still in high school.

All of this boils down to one choice in particular—whether or not to believe my father’s version of a lie or the town’s. I chose my father’s lie. I chose the brotherhood of the club.

What I haven’t chosen? Being harassed by the man invading my front porch. He’s decked out in a pair of pressed khakis and a button-down straight from a mall window. The real question—is he here by choice or did he draw the short stick?

“As I said, son,” he continues, “I’m not here to talk to your dad. I’m here to see you.”

A hot August wind blows in from the thick woods surrounding our house, and sweat forms on the guy’s skin. He’s too cocky to be nervous, so that dumps the blame of his shiny forehead on the 110-degree heat index.

“You and I,” he adds, “we need to talk.”

My eyes flash to the detective badge hanging on the guy’s hip and then to his dark blue unmarked Chevy Caprice parked in front of my motorcycle in the gravel drive. Twenty bucks he thinks he blocked me in. Guess he underestimated I’ll ride on the grass to escape.

This guy doesn’t belong to our police force. His plates suggest he’s from Jefferson County. That’s in the northern part of Kentucky. I live in a small town where even the street hustlers and police know each other by name. This man—he’s an outsider.

I flip through my memory for anything that would justify his presence. Yeah, I stumbled into some brawls over the summer. A few punches thrown at guys who didn’t keep their mouths sealed or keep their inflated egos on a leash, but nothing that warrants this visit.

A bead of water drips from my wet hair onto the worn gray wood of the deck and his eyes track it. I’m fresh from a shower. Jeans on. Black boots on my feet. No shirt. Hair on my head barely pushed around by a towel.

The guy checks out the tats on my chest and arms. Most of it is club designs, and it’s good for him to know who he’s dealing with. As of last spring, I officially became a member of the Reign of Terror. If he messes with one of us, he messes with us all.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks.

I thought the banging on the door was one of my friends showing to ride along with me to senior orientation, not a damned suit with a badge.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says, and I’m impressed he doesn’t shuffle his feet like most people do when they arrive on my doorstep. “As I said, I want to talk.”

I maintain eye contact longer than most men can manage. Silence doesn’t bother me. There’s a ton you can learn about a person from how they deal with the absence of sound. Most can’t handle uncomfortable battles for dominance, but this guy stands strong.

Without saying a word, I walk into the house and permit the screen door to slam in his face. I cross the room, grab my cut off the table, then snatch a black Reign of Terror T-shirt off the couch. I shrug into the shirt as I step onto the porch and shut the storm door behind me.

The guy watches me intently as I slip on the black leather cut that contains the three-piece patch of the club I belong to. Because of the way I’m angled, he can get a good look at our emblem on the back: a white half skull with fire raging out of the eyes and drops of fire raining down around it. The words Reign of Terror are mounted across the top. The town’s name, Snowflake, is spelled on the bottom rocker.

He focuses on the patch that informs him I’m packing a weapon. His hand edges to the gun holstered on his belt. He’s weighing whether I’m carrying now or if I’m gun free.

I cock a hip against the railing and hitch my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans. If he’s going to talk, it would be now. He glances at the closed door, then back at me. “This is where we’re doing this?”

“I’ve got somewhere to be.” And I’m running late. “Didn’t see a warrant on you.” So by law, he can’t enter.

A grim lift of his mouth tells me he understands I won’t make any of this easy. He’s around Dad’s age, mid to late forties. He gave his name when I opened the door, but I’ll admit to not listening.

He scans the property and he has that expression like he’s trying to understand why someone would live in a house so small. The place is a vinyl box. Two bedrooms. One bath. A living room–kitchen combo. Possibly more windows than square footage.

Dad said this was Mom’s dream. A house just big enough for us to live in. She never desired large, but she craved land. When I was younger, she used to hug me tight and explain it was more important to be free than to be rich. I sure as hell hope Mom feels free now.

An ache ripples through me, and I readjust my footing. I pray every damn day she found some peace.

“I drove a long way to see you,” he says.

Don’t care. “Could have called.”

“I did. No one answered.”

I hike one shoulder in a “you’ve got shit luck.” Dad and I aren’t the type to answer calls from strangers. Especially ones with numbers labeled Police. There are some law enforcement officers who are cool, but most of them are like everyone else—they judge a man with a cut on his back as a psychotic felon.

I don’t have time for stupidity.

“I’m here about your mother.” The asshole knows he has me when my eyes snap to his.

“She’s dead.” Like the other times I say the words, a part of me dies along with her.

This guy has green eyes and they soften like he’s apologetic. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve received some new evidence that may help us discover what caused her death.”

Anger curls within my muscles and my jaw twitches. This overwhelming sense of insanity is what I fight daily. For years, I’ve heard the whispers from the gossips in town, felt the stares of the kids in class, and I’ve sensed the pity of the men in the Reign of Terror I claim as brothers. It’s all accumulated to a black, hissing doubt in my soul.

Suicide.

It’s what everyone in town says happened. It’s in every hushed conversation people have the moment I turn my back. It’s not just from the people I couldn’t give two shits about, but the people who I consider family.

I shove away those thoughts and focus on what my father and the club have told me—what I have chosen to believe. “My mother’s death was an accident.”

He’s shaking his head and I’m fresh out of patience. I’m not doing this. Not with him. Not with anyone. “I’m not interested.”

I push off the railing and dig out the keys to my motorcycle as I bound down the steps. The detective’s behind me. He has a slow, steady stride and it irritates me that he follows across the yard and doesn’t stop coming as I swing my leg over my bike.

“What if I told you I don’t think it was an accident,” he says.

Odds are it wasn’t. Odds are every whispered taunt in my direction is true. That my father and the club drove Mom crazy, and I wasn’t enough of a reason for her to choose life.

To drown him out, I start the engine. This guy must be as suicidal as people say Mom was, because he eases in front of my bike, assuming I won’t run him down.

“Thomas,” he says.

I twist the handle to rev the engine in warning. He raises his chin like he’s finally pissed and his eyes narrow on me. “Razor.”

I let the bike idle. If he’s going to respect me by using my road name, I’ll respect him for a few seconds. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

Damn if the man doesn’t possess balls the size of Montana. He steps closer to me and drops a bomb. “I have reason to believe your mom was murdered.”

Breanna

I HAD BUTTERFLIES.

It was a combination of the nervous type and the exciting type and then they died with the utterance of one question. It’s difficult to maintain eye contact with Kyle Hewitt as he continues talking, explaining why he’s asked what he has of me. He stands a safe distance away—a little over one purple locker’s worth. “I need your help with this, Bre.”

He uses my nickname, the name reserved for my two best friends and family. I hug my folder to my chest, uncomfortable he feels like we are familiar with one another.

People pass us on their way to the gym for orientation, but he acts as if we’re alone as his just-above-a-whisper words cram together. “English is tough... Writing papers is tougher... Football practice this year has been harder than normal... My parents have expectations... In two weeks there will be college scouts... You’re smart...everyone knows this... You can make life easier on me and I can make life easier for you.”

Easy. Natural. Meant to be. The smartest girl in school assisting the athletic golden boy. Two of the town’s finest helping each other succeed, but he hasn’t really given a fine example of how this plan will benefit me.

“I’m not suggesting anything romantic.” He waves his hand in a downward motion that suggests he’d rather slit his wrist than become involved with me. This guy seriously needs to reevaluate his selling methods. Nothing good can happen from insulting the potential buyer.

Kyle grins. It’s all teeth, and until this moment, I used to adore his smile. He has black hair like me, but he’s much taller than I am and, thanks to his lifelong dedication to the game of football, he resembles a brick wall.

He’s handsome. Always has been, but he’s never been the kind who notices me. For a few seconds, I had delusions of grandeur that the reason he called my name was because he appreciated my change in appearance and, in theory, my change in attitude.

I have never been so wrong in my life.

“What do you say? Will you do it?” Kyle shoves his hands into the front pockets of his Dockers as if he’s the one who’s nervous.

Like my younger brother wore for his junior orientation yesterday, Kyle sports a white shirt, nice pants and a tie. The football coach required his entire team to dress up on the day of their orientation. I think it makes them stick out, but my younger brother claims it shows solidarity.

School starts in a few days and tonight is senior orientation. My parents are currently in a meeting with my guidance counselor while I’m being propositioned.

Propositioned. My lips tilt up sarcastically.

My goal for this evening was to be noticed. Guess I succeeded. I was noticed, but not for my new choices in clothing, hairstyle, or because I dumped my glasses for contacts. Nope, I was hunted for my brain. All exciting and swoon-worthy romance novels start off this way, right?

Kyle misreads my body language and his dark eyes brighten. “So you’ll write my English papers for the year?”

Fifty dollars per paper—that’s his offer. Standing in my sister’s second-generation hand-me-downs of a sleeveless blue blouse, shorter-than-I’ve-ever-worn jean skirt and platform sandals causes me to consider his proposal if only for the course of a heartbeat. I’m the middle of nine children and, I’ll admit, new and shiny gains my attention, but this...this is wrong.

“Do you know this is the first time you’ve spoken to me?” I say.

He laughs like I told a joke, but I’m not kidding. Snowflake, Kentucky, is a small town and everyone tends to know everyone else, but just because we breathe the same air doesn’t mean we communicate, or act like everyone else exists.

“That’s not true,” he retorts. “We sat at the same table in fourth grade.”

I incline my head to the side in a mock why-didn’t-I-remember-that-bonding-moment? “My, how time flies.”

He chuckles, then scratches the back of his head, causing his styled hair to curl out to the side. “You’re funny. I didn’t know that. Look, it’s not my fault you’re quiet.”

Kyle’s right. It isn’t his fault I became socially withdrawn. That blame falls solely on me. It’s a decision I made in seventh grade when I was publicly crucified.

Blending into paint for the past couple of years has kept me safe, but it creates the sensation of suffocation. Everyone says the same thing: Breanna’s smart, she’s quiet. On the inside, I’m not at all quiet. Most of the time, I’m screaming. “I’m not writing your papers.”

Kyle’s smile that had suggested he had a done deal morphs into a frown and acid sloshes in my stomach. Denying Kyle isn’t what bothers me as much as it worries me what he’ll mention to his friends. They’re the reason why I went voluntarily mute in seventh grade.

Heat races up my neck as the repercussions of refusing sets in, but I don’t even consider agreeing. Cheating is not my style.

Kyle surveys the hallway, and if it’s privacy he’s searching for, he’ll be sorely disappointed. He slides closer and a strange edginess causes me to step back, but Kyle follows. “Fine. One hundred dollars per paper.”

“No.”

“You don’t understand. My grades have to improve.” Easygoing Kyle disappears and desperation is hardly attractive.

I steal a peek into the school’s main office, hoping my guidance counselor will beckon me in. Half of me hopes she’ll have life-altering news for me, the other half hopes to end this insane conversation. “What you’re asking for is crazy.”

“No, it’s not.”

In an answer to the one million prayers being chanted in my head, my guidance counselor opens her door. “Breanna.”

Kyle leans into me. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is.” But he ignores my reply as he jogs up the nearest stairwell. Great. So far my senior year is starting out as the antithesis of my wishes—back at this tiny, strangling school with a group of people who think I’m beneficial for only one thing: as a homework hotline.

My attention returns to the main office and my guidance counselor has already settled behind her desk. Mom and Dad sit in two worn particleboard chairs across from her and neither of them acknowledge me as I enter and take a seat.

Dad stares at his loafers and Mom has become fascinated with something beyond the windows as she fiddles with the office ID badge for the hospital where she works. Only my guidance counselor, Mrs. Reed, meets my gaze, and when she subtly shakes her head, my heart sinks.

I bite my lower lip to prevent it from trembling. This was a long shot. I knew it when I pleaded with my counselor to discuss this opportunity with my parents, but I was stupid enough to have a shred of hope.

No point in acting as if I’m not aware of the resolution of their conversation. “High Grove offered me a partial scholarship. It pays for seventy-five percent of the tuition and I called around. I can make money in their work-study program and then I found this coffee shop that said they would hire me and would be flexible with my schedule and I could even study while things were slow and—”

“And you’ll be over two hours away from us,” Mom cuts me off, then smooths her short black hair in a way that shows she’s upset. “This is your senior year. Your last year home with us. I’m not okay sending you to a private school. It’s not right.”

“But did Mrs. Reed explain my schedule for this year?”

I’ve already mastered every class Snowflake, Kentucky’s lone high school has to offer. Because of how my brain is wired differently, there won’t be a challenge, and if I intend to preserve my sanity, I require a challenge.

I briefly shut my eyes and attempt to control the chaos in my mind. My brain...it never rests. It’s always searching for a puzzle to solve, for a code to crack, for a test to grapple with, and not having one, it’s like someone is chiseling at my bones from below my skin.

“Yes,” Mom answers. “But Mrs. Reed also assured us they’ll give you extra work and you’ll participate in some independent studies. Some of them for college credit.”

My foot taps the floor as hot anger leaks into my veins. What Mom’s suggesting, it’s everything that makes me stick out, everything that makes me the school freak again. “I need this. I need something more. I need a challenge.”

“And I need you home.” Mom’s voice cracks and she grimaces as if she’s on the verge of tears. My eyes fill along with hers. We’ve had this argument, this discussion, this tearfest several times as I was applying.

“You’re my baby,” Mom whispers. “I already have four of you out of the house and next year you’ll be gone.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. Next year, I plan to be hundreds and hundreds of miles north of here. Hopefully at an Ivy League school.

“Don’t cost me my last year with you.” The hurt in her voice cuts me deep.

“I’ll come home on the weekends.” I risk glancing at her. “I’ll call daily. I’ll still be around, just not as much.”

“But we need you here.” Mom scoots to the edge of her seat as if being nearer to me will alter my view, but what she doesn’t understand is I’m seconds away from dropping to my knees to beg her to change her mind.

“Joshua is more than capable of helping out around the house.” My younger brother by just over a year. I’m cushioned in the middle between four older-than-me and four younger-than-me siblings. Each older sibling has served their sentence as being the one in charge. Heading to private school would be the equivalent to handing in my two weeks’ notice.

“Joshua isn’t you,” Mom says. “He can’t handle the responsibility.”

“So you’re saying I should screw up and then you’d let me go to private school? Because that’s the logic of your argument. I meet your expectations and I have to stay home.”

“Mrs. Miller.” Sensing a full-on argument, my guidance counselor interrupts. “This is a fantastic opportunity for Breanna. With her photographic memory—”

“Just a good memory,” I correct softly. There’s no such thing as a photographic memory. At least it has never been proved, though there are people like me who can remember random information very well, but, in other areas, can struggle.

“Of course.” Mrs. Reed smiles at me, probably remembering the conversations we’ve shared where she insists on calling my memory photographic and I insist my memory isn’t quite that impressive. Since my freshman year, she’s performed an array of tests on me like I’m a cracked-out guinea pig.

“Regardless, Breanna has a fantastic memory and a high IQ. We can supplement her education, but High Grove Academy can offer her opportunities we are not prepared or equipped to give her.”

Exactly. I sit taller with Mrs. Reed’s well-thought-out, adult-validated argument, but Mom leans into her hand propped up by her elbow on the armrest and hides her eyes, while Dad...he remains quiet.

Gray streaks I’ve never noticed have marred his dark hair and he rubs at the black circles under his eyes. His typically fit frame seems smaller in his business suit. Dad’s been under extreme stress at his job and guilt drips through me that I’m adding to his burdens.

I open my mouth, close it, then try again. “Dad, I will do everything in my power to pay for this myself.”

“It’s not the money, Bre.” Dad raises his head and it’s like he’s aged ten years from when I saw him this morning. “It’s the timing. The company lost a huge contract, and if I don’t win over this next client, the whole town’s in trouble.”

Because over half the town works for the factory. They make paint. It’s a lot of chemical reactions going on in a small, contained space, but it’s a process that requires a ton of people.

“Your mom just received a promotion at the hospital and her hours are more than we thought they’d be. Give us a few months to get our feet underneath us and then, your mom and I, we’ll do everything we can to help you with the college of your choice, but for right now, we need you at home. We need you here. This family would be impossible to run without you.”

He offers a weak upward lift of his lips and Mom’s beaming as if she thinks Dad’s monologue will persuade me. As if his words will cause me to forget how each day that passes in this town makes me feel like I’m drowning under a million gallons of water.

This should be one of those proud moments—the ones I’ve seen on television—where I hug my father and tell him how I’m overjoyed by his faith in me, but on the inside I’m a rose wilting in fast-forward on the vine.

How do I refuse my parents? How do I explain that of our family of nine, I’m the one who’s never fit in?

“I understand.” I hate it, but there’s nothing else to say. “I understand.”

RAZOR

THE WORLD ZONES out as if I’m in a long tunnel encircled by darkness. The green of the trees and sunlight surrounding me becomes too far away to reach. In a mindless movement, I shut off the engine and the stillness becomes a weight.

“I have a file,” the detective says. “In my car. I’d like you to take a look at it.”

I slip off my bike and wait for him a few inches from the bumper of his car. There’s a voice in the back of my head. One I’m familiar with. One I understand. It’s tossing out warnings—tell him to talk to Dad, tell him to speak with the club’s board, tell him to go through the hundreds of different protocols that have been shoved down my throat on how any of us should deal with someone who’s not a member of the Terror.

But as he offers me the file, the sight of my mother’s name muzzles the voice. There’s silence in my head. A crazy, fucked-up silence. The type that can drive a guy insane.

“Open it,” he says. Mom said the same thing to me once. It was Christmas. The box was bigger than the other ones and it moved. Doubt I’ll find in this file, like I did with the box Mom gave me, a puppy inside.

I do open the file, and I trudge in slow motion for the porch as my eyes take in the typed words and the handwritten notes. With a flip of a page, I slump until my ass hits the top stair. It’s a picture of my mom. A hand over my face, then I focus once again on the picture—of her, of my mother.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask. It’s of Mom smiling. A real smile. The type where her eyes crinkled. I loved it when she smiled like that. It meant her mood wasn’t fake.

“Your dad gave it to the local police force...when she went missing.”

Went missing...

That night, Dad and the club had been out for hours searching, scouring for a trace. Dad left me with my surrogate grandmother, Olivia. My three best friends stayed with me at her place. I was ten and they watched me pet my puppy over and over again.

I crack my neck to the side to bring me back to the present—back to her picture. I resemble Mom. I’m more like Dad in build and height, but I have her blond hair and blue eyes. Problem is when I peer into the mirror, I don’t see the deep warming blue of her eyes. I see ice.

“Does the club ever discuss what happened that night?” From where the detective stands, he blocks the sun, so I can look up without squinting. “About what they saw?”

An uneasiness tenses my shoulder blades. “Why would they?”

He doesn’t answer. It’s apparent pages and photos are missing from the file. There’s a picture of Mom’s smashed-up car, but not one photo of her inside. A report that is mostly blacked out and a slew of papers that appear like they should go together, but pages two, five and seven through nine are absent.

“What’s this?” I show him a page full of gibberish. Numbers and letters in odd combinations spread like a crossword puzzle.

“I’m hoping that’s where you can help me. Several of those have come into our possession, and we have reason to believe it’s messages from within your club.”

The edge in his voice slices through my skin. Your club. There’s an insinuation there. One that causes a dark demon within me to stir. Your club.

“The Reign of Terror looked for your mother the night she went missing,” he says. “They reported a problem with her way before normal people would have known there was an issue. She left work, and a half hour later they were on full alert. Sound normal to you?”

“Sounds like they were concerned.”

A growling, disgruntled noise leaves his throat. “Sounds like they knew exactly what was going on. Especially since they were the ones who found her.”

The second part of his statement trips me up and causes me to pause on the word died in the middle of the page. They were the ones who found her. The club had kept me in the dark on that piece of information.

“I’ve been investigating the Reign of Terror for the past year. Longer than you’ve been a member. The club claims to be legit, but they protest too much. There are secrets in this club. You know this, and so do I.”

I’ve been a patched-in member for only a few months, but I’m a child of one of the club’s leading men. Dad’s the sergeant at arms. It’s his job to protect the club, to protect the president. You have to be a crazy MFer for that job. He’s insane enough to love the position.

I was born and raised in the Terror clubhouse. This bastard thinks he knows the club because he’s been “investigating” us. He knows nothing. He’s one more asshole attempting to destroy what he doesn’t understand.

“Aren’t you curious how your mother died?” he asks.

“It was an accident,” I snap.

“You believe it was an accident because you were told it was an accident.”

It’s better than the alternative—that Mom took her own life. I meet his stare, and we become statues as we carry on the eye showdown.

“I didn’t come here to get into a pissing contest with you. I’m here to help you,” he says like he’s my priest ready to grant absolution. “Maybe give you some peace.”

“Who says I’m torn up?”

“This involves your mother.” He allows a moment for his words to sink in and for my stomach to twist. “A boy never gets over losing his mother. Some things are universal. Black, white, poor, rich, college-educated to thug.”

I raise an eyebrow. I’m guessing I’m the thug.

“You’ve thought about your mother’s death. Maybe you’ve even been tormented. I’ve been on this case for a while, so I don’t come here lightly. I know what people say—that your mom killed herself—”

A storm of anger flares within me. “It was an accident.”

“It was no accident. I believe there’s one of two ways that night went down. There were no skid marks. Nothing to prove she tried to stop. Your mother either went off that bridge on purpose or she went off thinking going over was her better chance at survival.”

My throat tightens. She died. My mother died.

“I’ve talked to people. They say your mother was unhappy. That she had been unhappy for months. They say she was preparing to leave your father and she was going to take you with her.”

A strong wave of dread rushes through my blood, practically shaking my frame. “You’re full of shit.”

“Am I?” he asks. “People say your father worshipped you. That he wasn’t going to allow her to leave with you. Don’t you want to know how she died? Don’t you want to know if the people you claim as family were involved? If you work with me, we’ll find the answers you’ve been searching for.”

My cell buzzes in my pocket and the distraction breaks the tension between me and the cop. I pull it out and find a text from Chevy. I’m late meeting him and evidently he was worried: Pigpen and Man O’ War coming in strong.

“Do you hear that sound?” I say.

He’s got that lost expression going on. “What sound?”

The phone in the house rings and the welcome rumble of angry engines echoes in the distance. He turns toward the road and I beeline it into the house. Two seconds in, the file is open and I snap as many pictures as I can.

“Razor!” the guy shouts from the other side of the screen door. My back’s to him and he sure as shit won’t walk in without a warrant or probable cause. “Bring that file back out here.”

“Phone’s ringing,” I yell, knowing full well he can’t see what I’m doing. I close the file, then wave it over my shoulder to prove he and I are good. The house phone goes silent, but then my cell’s ringtone begins.

I answer and it’s Oz on the other end. He and Chevy—they’ve been my best friends since birth. “You got trouble?”

“Could say that. How’d you know?”

“You’re late to orientation, and Pigpen saw someone with Jefferson County plates headed down your drive. He gave you a few minutes to show on the main road, and when you didn’t...”

Oz drops off. He doesn’t have to explain. The club, as always, has my back. Especially Pigpen. The brother adopted me as his protégé.

The detective bangs on the door. “Come out here or tell me I can come in, but if you leave my sight with that file in hand, I will bust down this door.”

“I gotta go.” I hang up and stride out onto the porch. The cop snatches the folder from my fingers and his hand edges to his holstered gun as Pigpen and Man O’ War burst off their bikes and stalk in our direction.

Pigpen earned his name as a joke because the girls fall over themselves to gain his attention. Blond hair, blue eyes...a late twentysomething version of what I hope to be. Man O’ War acquired his road name because when he’s in a fight, he’s famous for causing pain.

“Got a warrant for something?” Pigpen asks in a low voice that’s more threat than question. Less than a year and a half ago, the guy was crawling around in the muck in some foreign country as an Army Ranger. Even though he was recruited by the Army because of his mad computer skills, it was a bullet in the shoulder and chest he took saving someone in his squad that brought him home for good. The brother is damn lethal.

“Just having a conversation,” the cop answers in a slow drawl, “and I was leaving.”

Pigpen climbs the porch and Man O’ War lags behind on the grass. I lean against the house and stay the hell out of the way. Most people say my wires are crossed, but even I know to grant a wide berth when these two are pushed into irritable.

Pigpen slides into the man’s space and goes nose to nose. To the cop’s credit, he doesn’t flinch.

“He’s still in high school.”

“Razor’s eighteen,” the cop bites out. “Legal age.”

“Leave and don’t come back. You have questions, you bring them to the board. I hear you’re slinking around him again, you’re dealing with me.”

“Is that a threat?” The cop cocks his head to the side like he doesn’t give a damn Pigpen’s in his face. What I find more interesting is that the two are talking like they’ve met before, or are at least familiar with each other.

Pigpen grins like a crazy man. “Yeah, it is.”

The cop slips a white card out of the file and holds it out to me, but I keep my arms crossed over my chest. With his eyes locked with mine, he drops the card and it floats like a feather to the porch.

He walks down the stairs, across the yard, and within less than a minute his Chevy Caprice is crackling rocks under rolling tires.

Pigpen releases a long breath and glances over his shoulder at me. “Am I going to want to know what that was about?”

I shake my head.

“Will the board?”

The club’s board—the group of men who oversee the members. They tackle the day-to-day operations of the club and they tackle any problems that arise. The detective suggested the club killed my mom, so, yeah, guess they will want to hear about this. I incline my head in affirmation.

“Shit.”

Sums it up.

“Get to orientation. I’ll set up a meeting with the board soon.”

Pigpen swipes up the card, but I catch a peek as I head past him to my bike. The cop’s name is Jake Barlow, and not only is he a detective, but he’s part of a gang task force.

We’re a legit club. We don’t dabble in illegal nonsense. We aren’t the clichéd MC that sells guns, drugs, or deals in prostitution. We’re just a group of guys who love motorcycles and believe that family can mean more than the blood running through your veins. This guy, he was fucking with me. Just fucking with me.

“Razor,” Pigpen calls as I straddle my bike.

When I meet his eyes, he continues, “Are you tight?”

I’m not a talker. Speak only when I have something worth saying. Everyone knows this, but this silence is beyond my normal. My mind replays the image of Mom’s car. It was crushed almost beyond recognition. The cop said there were no skid marks, no signs she tried to stop. My lungs ache as if someone crushed me beyond recognition.

Am I tight? Hell, no. I look away and Pigpen says, “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”

I nod, then start my bike. Not sure about the we’ll part, but I plan on getting some answers and getting them soon.

Breanna

I KNOW THAT the capital of Bolivia is Sucre. I know that the average distance from the earth to the moon is 238,900 miles. I also know that blue whales can go six months without eating. Random, bizarre stuff. That’s what my head is full of. Nothing that will boost my math scores on the ACT or secure me a date to prom. Nothing that will save me and my best friend from this being our last day on the planet.

While my brain is obviously wired differently, there are certain commonsense rules all girls in town comprehend. It’s not knowledge that has to be taught, like when I was six and my oldest brother spent weeks teaching me to tie my shoes or how at four my older sister spared a few minutes from her overly important life to show me how to spell my name.

In fact, sitting here on the top step to the entrance of Snowflake High watching this potential disaster unfold, I search my memory for the first person who warned me to steer clear of the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club.

There was no pamphlet handed out during health class. No sex conversation like the one my mom had with me in kindergarten because I referred to a certain male body part by the same name as a round toy. Stupid brothers teaching me their stupid slang.

But when it pertains to the threat that is the Reign of Terror MC, it’s not learned, it’s known. Like how an infant understands how to suck in a breath at the moment of birth or how a newborn foal wobbles to his legs. It’s instinctual. It’s ingrained. It’s fact.

“Do you think his motorcycle will work this time?” Addison asks.

“Hope so,” I breathe out, too terrified to speak at a normal level in fear of drawing the scrutiny of the men wearing black leather vests who circle the broke-down bike. Reign of Terror arches over the top of the black vest, in the middle is a half skull with fire blazing out of the eye sockets and drops of fire rain around it. It’s ominous and I shiver.

Addison and I sit huddled close. Legs touching. Shoulders bumped into the other. We’d probably hold hands if we didn’t have our welcome-back-to-school information folders gripped tightly to our chests. Because we can’t spawn eyes in the back of our heads, we lean against the large pillar of the overhang so no one can sneak up on us from behind.

It’s edging toward nine in the evening, but the August sun hasn’t completely set. Darkness, though, has claimed most of the sky. Temperatures during the afternoon hit over a hundred and I swear the concrete stairs and pillar absorbed every ounce of today’s sunshine and is now transferring the heat into my body.

Sweat rolls down my back and I shift to peel my thighs off the step. Why I thought it was a fantastic idea to wear the jean skirt, I have no idea.

I take that back. I do have a clue for my clothing choice. Tonight was the first time my entire grade was together in one room since the end of last year. My goal for the year may seem simple to some, but to me, it sometimes feels impossible. I’d like to be seen, to be known as something more than freakishly smart Breanna Miller at least once before I leave this town. I’d like to somehow find the courage to be on the outside who I am on the inside.

An annoying sixth sense informs me that I’m about to make a huge impression—on the evening news: two friends on the verge of starting their senior year vanish without a trace. Because that’s how motorcycle clubs would handle this—they’ll kidnap us and then hide our bodies after they’re finished with whatever ritual act they’ll use us to perform.

My knee begins to bounce. Mom and Dad left after my failed attempt to convince them to let me attend High Grove Academy and they promised to return in time for pickup.

The senior welcome session ended at eight and the parking lot cleared out by eight twenty. The straggling parents arrived by eight thirty and that left Addison and me alone with blond-haired biker boy and his dilapidated machine.

He called his buddies around the same time I tried the various members of my family for the fiftieth time. His gang showed in a chrome procession in less than ten minutes. I’m still waiting to hear from anyone I’m related to.

“What’s going on with your family?” Addison asks.

Besides I’m child number five of nine? “Who knows.”

Maybe Elsie needed medicine for her ears again and the pharmacy was behind schedule. Maybe Clara and Joshua split with the cars, thinking everyone was home. Maybe someone’s game went into triple overtime. Maybe my parents counted someone’s head twice and assumed it was me. It’s not the first time I’ve been forgotten in the car pool rotation. Won’t be the last.

I don’t feel nearly as awful about being forgotten by my parents as I do about Addison having to call her father to tell him she was going to miss curfew. My left knee joins the other in a constant rhythm as I imagine what’s waiting for her at home.

“I can have my parents call your dad,” I offer. “Make them take the blame.” Because this horrible situation is their stinking fault.

Addison’s mouth slants into a sad smile as she yanks on a lock of my black hair. “Stop it, brat. Don’t make me regret telling you.”

Addison and I have been friends since elementary school and we met the last of our trio, Reagan, in sixth grade. While Addison and Reagan are more alike, both natural blondes and have a take-no-prisoners attitude, it’s me they entrust with the secrets. Like how Addison’s bruises are hardly ever from catching the fliers on her cheerleading squad.

One of the gang members stands from his crouched position at the motorcycle and the guy we attend school with inserts a key, holds on to the handlebar of the bike, and when he twists it, I pray the motor purrs to life.

My heart leaps, then plummets past my toes and into the ground when the motorcycle cuts off with a sound similar to a gunshot. Addison’s head falls forward, and I bite my lip to prevent the internal screaming from becoming external chaos.

Addison pulls her phone out of her purse and taps the screen. “I’m texting Reagan. If we go missing, I’m telling her to point the finger at Thomas Turner and his band of merry men.”

Thomas Turner. He’s the guy who swore loudly the moment his motorcycle’s engine died again. Thomas is the name called on the first day of school by our teachers, but it’s not the name he responds to. He goes by his “road name,” Razor.

He glances over his shoulder straight at me and my mouth dries out. Holy hell, it’s like he’s aware I’m thinking of him.

“Oh my God,” Addison reprimands. “Don’t make eye contact. Do you want them to come over?”

I immediately focus on my sandals. As much as every girl is aware to keep a safe distance from Thomas and his crew, we’ve all sneaked a glimpse. Thomas makes it easy to cave to temptation with his golden-blond hair, muscles from head to toe and sexy brooding expression a few girls have written about in poems.

My cheeks burn and there’s this heaviness as if Thomas is still looking. Through lowered lashes, I peek at him and my heart trips when our eyes meet. His eyes are blue. An ice blue. His stare simultaneously causes me to be curious and terrified. And I obviously have a death wish, because I can’t tear my gaze away.

He raises his eyebrows and I lose the ability to breathe. What is happening?

Addison’s phone vibrates. “Reagan said she heard you have to kill someone in order to be part of their club.”

A guy in the circle clamps a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and tilts his head to the bike as he says something. Thomas returns his attention to his motorcycle and I draw in air for the first time in what seems like hours.

“Killing someone sounds dramatic,” I answer. “There’s a ton of guys in the club, and with the low population of Snowflake the police would notice if that many people went missing.”

“Phssh.” Addison squishes her lips together as she texts Reagan. “They wouldn’t do it in their hometown. They’re smarter than that. They’d go into a city. Their top guy was shot by another motorcycle gang in Louisville last month. And sometimes they do horrible stuff here. Everyone knows the Terror had something to do with the disappearance of Mia Ziggler.”

Every small town has this story. The one girls tell late at night during a sleepover. The one mothers use to convince their daughters to be home by nine at night. Five years ago, Mia Ziggler graduated from high school, hopped on the back of a Reign of Terror motorcycle, and she was never seen again. Ever.

“Anyhow,” Addison continues. “Have you noticed the patches on their vests? I overheard Dad tell Mom that the diamond one on the lower left means they’re carrying a gun.”

My head inclines in disbelief. “Seriously?”

Because that patch is stitched onto Thomas’s vest and he’s still a teenager...in high school. Everyone was shocked when Thomas started wearing his leather vest with the skull on it to school last year. It turns out the only requirements for membership in the club are to be eighteen and own a motorcycle. Oh, and commit murder.

Addison looks up from her phone. “Seriously. I’m surprised you didn’t know that already. That’s not a random enough fact for you to remember?”

Truth? I never heard what any of the patches on the Reign of Terror’s vest meant before, but because that was so random, I doubt I’ll ever forget. Instead of confirming or denying my freak of nature ability to remember weird stuff, I send a massive text to everyone in my family: I AM STILL WAITING ON A RIDE!!!

I added an additional exclamation point in my head.

“Just because you don’t acknowledge me on your memory,” chides Addison, “doesn’t mean I’ll forget what I said. Someday you’ll trust me enough to let me in your head.”

“I trust you.” The reply is immediate because her words stung—stung because they’re honest. I love Addison, more than some members of my family, but I’ve never flat out discussed my ability to recall things. Being near me as much as she has—she knows.

I avoid talking to Addison about this gift, or curse, because she’s one of the few people who make me feel normal, and there’s a comfort in fitting in, even if it’s just with one person. “I trust you more than anyone else.”

At least that statement is a hundred percent true.

“Then why didn’t you tell me how Kyle Hewitt cornered you in the hall and was trying to convince you to write his English papers for the year?”

My stomach rolls as if it had been kicked. “How did you know?”

She gives me the disappointed once-over. “I overheard you two when I was coming out of the bathroom. I stupidly thought that if I gave you enough time you’d tell me.”

My mouth hangs open and my mind races as I try to formulate an explanation for why I didn’t tell her, but the words embarrassed and ashamed and terrified freeze on the tip of my tongue.

Addison nudges my knee with hers. “I’m glad you said no. What did he offer in return for writing his papers?”

Then she must have not heard everything. “Money.”

“Kyle is such an asshole. Reagan heard U of K may offer him a football scholarship if he can raise his grades. His daddy and granddaddy are all proud and I guess Kyle is trying to cover his bases with his offer to you.”

“Do you think he’ll talk crap about me now?” Because that’s what a lot of guys at our school do. They spread rumors. Some true. Some not true. Unfortunately, the truth doesn’t matter once people start talking.

“Maybe,” she says with a tease. “But being the shining star in gossip is better than being invisible, right? You know what will help make you shine this year?”

“Oh, God,” I mumble. “Don’t start this again.”

“Cheerleading!” She lights up like a Christmas tree. “I’ll work my magic and get you on the squad. I’m not talking backflips. You can be the girl who holds the signs during the cheer.”

I grin because how can I not when she resembles a set of Fourth of July sparklers, but before I can respond a motorcycle engine growls to life.

Addison mutters, “Damn.”

My head snaps up. I’m expecting to spot Thomas and his gang riding their bikes in our direction, but instead it’s a sight that can rival whatever damage they could have done if they had abducted us.

Addison’s father’s impeccably white four-door eases to the curb. Dizziness disorients me as I imagine the expression he must be wearing beyond the blacked-out windows. I clear my throat. “I thought you told him you’d still ride home with me.”

“He probably feels like being pissed,” she answers.

The motorcycle engines cut off as Addison gathers her purse. I grab her wrist before she stands. “I am so sorry.”

She yanks on my hair again. “You stress too much. See you tomorrow, brat.”

Two steps down, laughter from the circle of men, and Addison pivots so fast her blond curls bounce into her face. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

She said the words loudly, too loudly. Loud enough that the men grouped near the motorcycle stare at us. Her father honks the horn. It’s a shrill sound in the quiet evening.

“Go. I’ll be fine.” Though my palms grow cold and clammy.

The car’s horn screams again into the darkening sky. Addison’s eyes widen as her gaze flickers between the club and me. I can’t go with Addison. Her father doesn’t allow anyone into their house, car or lives. Each second that passes without her behaving exactly how he expects means his wrath will be worse when she returns home.

“Go.” I hold up my phone. “They texted.” A lie. “They’re less than a minute out.”

“Okay,” she whispers, as if suddenly realizing she drew the attention of the people we’ve been attempting to avoid. “You text me the moment you get in the car.”

I fake a smile a true friend will hopefully buy. “Promise.”

Addison nods, then sprints to the passenger side of her father’s car. She opens it, slips inside and sends me one last pleading glance before shutting the door. Her father pulls away. Not fast, not in a hurry. Slowly. Very slowly. Methodical even. Which makes sense because that’s exactly how he is with Addison.

As soon as the red taillights of the car disappear from view, I spam my entire family. I am officially alone with the Reign of Terror. If I die, I’m holding each of you responsible.

A buzz and it’s from my oldest sister, who is working a full-time job fresh out of college a few hours away. Dramatic much?

Me: No, I’m alone at school and there are at least six of the RTMC here.

Second oldest sister, Clara: Them driving by does not mean you are alone with them.

A pause, then she sends a second text. This is her lame attempt at attention. I win the pot. Told you she’d crack by her senior year.

Another buzz, from my oldest brother, Samuel. It’s the middle child syndrome.

My oldest sister again: lol Like Bre would ever be in a situation that puts her alone with the Terror.

Clara, the forever instigator when it involves me: Bre’s too good for that. God forbid she make a mistake. Miss Perfect would never be anywhere near them. She probably thinks she sees them from 2 miles away.

Liam, the oldest one closest in age to me: lololol True. Someone send her a text back and ask her to take a selfie with them in the background.

My fingers curl around the phone as if I could reach through and strangle each of them. I’m still here and each of you suck!

Silence as they realized they’d pushed Reply All. Even with my name at the top of the To section it’s like I’m invisible. Everyone thinks they know me, but no one sees me.

“Everything okay?”

My entire body flinches with the sound of the deep male voice. As if sensing death peering over me, I slowly raise my head and a weight crushes my chest. Golden-blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. Black leather vest. It’s Thomas and he’s standing in front of me.

I jump to my feet, and my cell, my sole source of communication, my only method of calling for help, falls to the ground and cracks open.

RAZOR

HER FACE IS white against her raven hair. Ghost white. I’d bet my left ball she hasn’t breathed since I spoke. Her hand is outstretched toward the busted cell on the ground, but her wide hazel eyes are cemented on me. I turn my head and I’m greeted by the amused faces of my brothers from the Reign of Terror who stand next to their bikes in the parking lot. They’ll be harassing me on this for weeks. Fuck me for trying to be chivalrous.

“You okay?” It’s a variation of the question I asked a few seconds ago, but this one she seems to understand as her body trembles to life.

“Um...” she stutters. We’ve been at the same schools since elementary age, otherwise I’d wonder if she was a foreign exchange student with limited English. “I only have twenty dollars.”

The muscles in the back of my neck tense. “I’m not going to jack you for your money.”

She quits breathing again.

“Nice to know your current bank account status,” I bite out. “But I asked if you were okay.”

Color returns to her cheeks as I pin her with my gaze. She accused me of trying to rob her. I know it, she knows it and she’s now informed I’m not the asshole in this scenario.

“Yes,” she finally answers. “I’m okay. I mean no... I mean... I broke my phone.”

She did and that sucks for her.

Her eyes flicker between me and the phone like she wants to retrieve it, yet she’s too paralyzed. Saving us from this torture, I swipe the pieces of the cell and lean against the wall.

The distance between us relaxes her and that gulp of air was audible as she tucks herself tight in the corner farthest from me. This reaction isn’t new. I’ve seen it since I was a child whenever my father or anyone from the Terror entered a room full of civilians. To everyone outside of the club, we’re the evil motorcycle gang bent on blowing the house down.

People and their hellish nightmare folklore involving us pisses me off. I don’t know why I told the guys to give me a minute. I’m late for plans I made with Chevy and some girls, plus I’m on call in case the board chooses to meet sooner rather than later to discuss Detective Jake Barlow.

But something about how this chick appeared alone and frightened messed me up. It reminded me... The thought stalls and the emotional speed bump causes a flash of pain in my chest. Screw it, her expression reminded me of Mom the last time I saw her—the night she died.

My mom. I shake my head to expel her ghost. One visit from one bastard trying to use me and I’m being haunted by a past I can’t change. That’s what the detective was salivating over—to use me for info on the club. He’s one of too many who believes our club is the devil’s prodigy.

What he doesn’t see is that we’re a family—the type of family that comes when called. Obviously not like this girl’s family.

“Is it yes or no?” It’s damn difficult to shove the battery in now that the frame is bent.

“Yes or no what?” Her long black hair sweeps past her shoulders. She has the type of hair that would have to be pulled up if she rode on the back of my bike. Gotta admit, I like her hair, especially how it shines under the lights of the school’s overhang.

“If you’re okay.” I survey the mostly empty area to prove a point. “If we leave, you’ll be alone, and I don’t care for that. There’s some real psychos out there.”

She swallows. I’d be number one on her list of psychos. With a snap, the battery lodges into place. The casing takes me longer, but I wrestle that back into alignment, too.

She wears sandals with a heel and has pink painted toes. The girl fidgets and it draws my attention to her body. Her jean skirt displays some seriously mouthwatering thighs and her sleeveless blue button-down has flimsy fabric that hints at the outline of her bra strap. She’s this mix between conservative and sexy. Breanna Miller is bringing it our senior year.

Under my scrutiny, she bends one knee, then straightens the other. Bet she hasn’t realized how half the male population drooled over her tonight as she walked down the hall.

What she does know? She’s terrified of me. I stretch out my arm, inching her cell closer to her. If I were a great guy, I’d lay it in the middle between us and let her scurry to it from there, but I’m not a great guy. I’m just good enough to stay behind to protect her from being raped by some bastard with a meth addiction who could be wandering past the school.

Despite efforts from the Terror to help crack down on drug dealing, there’s a growing drug population in town. There’s been some robberies, some break-ins, and I don’t feel right leaving her alone.

“Not sure if it’ll work,” I say, nodding toward the phone, “but it’s back together.”

Breanna nibbles on her lower lip, then releases it as she shuffles toward me. She accepts the cell, and this time she rests her back against the middle column of the school entrance instead of rushing away. Still a nice distance in case she needs to bolt. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

It’s getting darker faster, and under her touch the cell springs to life and brightens her face. There’s no way I’m abandoning her. On top of the meth heads in town, the Terror have had issues with a rival motorcycle club, the Riot.

There’s a lot of history between the Terror and the Riot. Tip of the iceberg is that they’re mad we won’t give them money for riding in their “territory.” We’re mad that they believe they have the right to ask. Last I checked, America was still the land of the free.

Over the past two weeks, the Riot have taken to joyriding near our town. They’re testing boundaries and the club’s on edge wondering if our unsteady peace agreement is floundering.

All of us are waiting for them to cross lines they shouldn’t and ride into town. If the Riot do drive by tonight and they hear we’ve been at the school, they might check it out. Leaving this girl alone with the likes of them is like offering fresh meat to a starved wolf.

“Need a ride?” I ask.

She waves her phone. “No, thank you. My family is on their way.”

Breanna peeks at me between swipes of her phone and I don’t miss how her eyes linger on my biceps. Good girls like Breanna like to look, but they don’t like to touch. A few more glances and a clearing of her throat. She’s dismissing me. Her life sucks because I’m not leaving.

“I’m Razor.” Though I have no doubt she knows and, if not, I’m aware she can read the road name patch sewn to the front of my cut.

“I’m Breanna,” she answers in this soft tone that dances across my skin. Damn, I could listen to that voice all night, especially if she sighs my name as I kiss the skin of her neck.

Yeah, I would like to see this girl on the back of my bike. As I said, I’m not a great guy, and earlier I was just going for good, but her luck ran out. My bad side took over. “I know.”

The right side of my mouth tips up as her face falls. I’m about to play Breanna like she’s never been manipulated before. I hitch my thumbs in my pockets and decide to enjoy the ride. “So, that twenty dollars? Why did you bring that up?”

“What?” She recoils.

“Do you have something you need me to protect?” I ask.

She’s lost and that’s my intention. “That’s what I do—protect things. I work for the club protecting semi loads from being stolen. Can be dangerous. Sometimes I’ve had to pull a gun. I’m assuming that’s why you brought up the money. You need me to protect something for you.”

She blinks. A lot. I fight to prevent from smiling. I press her again, knowing she’ll feel so bad for calling me a crook that the next time I ask, she’ll accept that ride. “Is that why you brought up the twenty dollars? Were you trying to hire me?”

Breanna

IS THAT WHY you brought up the twenty dollars? And things were going so well. As in I no longer thought Thomas was going to kidnap me and kill me. I made a mistake. A huge mistake. I insinuated he planned on robbing me because...well...I thought he was three seconds from robbing me. I thought if I told him what I had, the experience would be less painful.

Literally.

My phone vibrates. It’s my mother and I can hear her weary voice in the written words. Sorry, Bre. I could make excuses, but I thought your dad picked you up and he thought I got you and both of us were home and thought you were upstairs. Your dad left to pick up Zac and I let Joshua take my car. Liam’s on his way to get you now.

Liam. My fate rests in the hands of my older brother who has the mental maturity of a grape. For the love of God, he got a Froot Loop stuck up his nose this morning—on purpose.

My shoulders roll forward as I groan. Loudly. So loud that when I raise my head, Thomas is gawking at me like I’ve grown a unicorn horn.

That’s it. I’m going to die a horrible death. I’m alone with a biker who has a patch that indicates he carries deadly weapons and he already admitted he uses a gun. He’ll probably record my demise and upload a viral video as a warning to the rest of the world not to mess with him.

Twenty dollars. What reason can I think of for telling him about my twenty dollars that won’t insult him? I doubt that saying “Hey, Mr. Biker Guy, I was totally offering it as payment so you won’t kill me” would fly...or maybe it will. He protects things...semi loads...as a job... “Yes!”

His forehead furrows. “What’s a yes?”

I bounce on my toes. I’m happy. I’m excited. I am not going to die! Muppet arms are in full force. “I was offering you twenty dollars because I was going to hire you.”

He laughs. It’s more of a chuckle, but it’s a fantastic sound and it’s a beautiful sight on an already gorgeous face. My heart flutters for a moment beyond the fear, but as his laugh wanes, he narrows his frozen blue eyes on me. My happy moment fades, and my arms fall to my sides.

“I’ll bite. What are you hiring me for?”

I sweep my hair away from my face and steal a peek at the rest of his motorcycle friends, who are now talking among themselves and ignoring us. “To be my bodyguard.”

“Your bodyguard?” he repeats while crossing his arms over his chest.

He’s not buying it, but I’ll try to sell it. “I knew you protected stuff.”

“You did?”

I didn’t. “Totally, and when Addison had to leave, I was going to walk over to you and ask if I could pay you to stick around until my ride showed, but you...” Scared me to death. “Startled me and I lost track of what I was going to say.”

He works his jaw and my mind is ticking with what it might imply. Jaw flexing can mean a person’s agitated, but in order to know I’d need a baseline of behavior to compare it to...

“Is that right?” He interrupts the weird flow of information in my brain.

Not at all. “Yes.”

Thomas settles against the wall and he reminds me of an angel. An archangel. I was obsessed with them in elementary school. Easily consumed every archangel book in our town’s library—both volumes. Archangels are the warriors of God. This guy, he’s definitely beautiful enough to be a heavenly creature and he’s also deadly enough to wield a sword, but I’m not convinced he dabbles on the side of righteousness.

“If I agree to be your bodyguard,” he says, “you’ll owe me?”

“Yes.”

He nods like he’s hearing something way more than what I said. “Then I accept.”

Thomas holds out his hand to me and I stare at his offered open palm, then meet those cold eyes. I can do this and then all will be okay. I lift my arm and inch my hand closer to his.

“So we’re clear.” He stops me centimeters short of our hands touching. The heat from his skin radiates to mine. “The condition is that as long as I’m protecting you, you’ll owe me.”

There’s a whisper nagging me to run. To do anything to escape this situation. It’s more than the warning caressing the inside of my head, it’s also the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. He’s gorgeous and dangerous. Like the fallen angel Lucifer must have been. This could be the equivalent of a handshake with the devil.

I’m minutes away from my brother rescuing me, so whatever deal we’re on the verge of forging will be temporary. Then this night will drift away like the nightmares I used to have as a child. A distant memory of something that will feel so unreal I’ll wonder if it happened at all.

My hand slides into his and his fingers close around mine. It’s a firm grip. One I couldn’t slip from if I wanted. He doesn’t shake our joined hands. Instead, he steps closer and lowers his head so that we’re eye to eye. “When a brother of the Reign of Terror makes a promise, we don’t break it, and we expect the same from those we do business with. Which means you can’t walk from this deal without consequences.”

The air rushes out of my body, but as I draw back to renege on my verbal agreement, our hands move up once, then down, then up again.

The deal made, the promise in stone, and a car horn honks. My entire body vibrates and I dash away from Thomas. My skin burns as if I had shaken hands with him in the flames of hell.

A rap song blares into the night and I look over to the curb to see Liam bolting out of the driver’s side of his beat-up, extremely used car. The wrath of God blazes from his eyes. “Bre!”

Thomas eases back as if he’s informing me to go. Almost dropping my phone again, I fumble with my purse. “I owe you money.”

Granted he didn’t actually “protect me” after the handshake, but I’ll gladly pay him for not shoving me into whatever blacked-out van they have waiting.

Thomas waves me off. “You can pay me later.”

Guess he does expect payment for the one second of services rendered.

“Bre!” Liam left the car door open and he’s barreling in like a freight train without brakes. Liam’s taller than me, with black hair like mine, and he’s toned from the years he played linebacker in high school. “Hey, asshole, get away from my sister!”

“He doesn’t mean it.” I stumble backward off the steps, toward the safety of my brother. I don’t like how Thomas is watching Liam closing in, nor do I like how we have gained the complete attention of the guys near the motorcycles.

“Liam’s a spaz sometimes, like a mental condition,” I ramble, though truer words could never be spoken. “But I swear he’s cool, I promise, and I’ll pay you soon.”

With his focus solely on my brother, Thomas edges his hand to the underside of his leather vest and my stomach lurches. “Get this guy out of here before he starts shit he can’t finish.”

Holy crap. Thomas does carry a gun, and if my stupid brother doesn’t calm down, we’ll both be witnessing it firsthand. I trip down the stairs and crash into my brother, shoving both of my hands into Liam’s chest. I plant my feet into the ground as he throws his momentum forward.

Liam’s dark eyes bore into me. “You weren’t kidding, were you? The Terror have been here the whole time.”

A flash of anger rages through me. “Obviously.”

“Did you forget to pick her up?” Thomas’s tone is too casual. So casual it sounds more threatening than any shouted words I’ve heard in my life. “If so, someone should school you on what family means.”

“Did he hurt you?” Liam demands.

“I’m fine.” But we’re in danger if we stay much longer. “Can we go?”

Liam’s eyes dart over my face, searching for the beating I was originally terrified of receiving. “We need to go now,” I urge.

He hooks an arm around my shoulders, but not without aiming a last death glare at Thomas. Am I happy to see my brother? Yes. Am I thrilled to flee from this situation? Hell, yes. But it takes everything I have to not ask Liam when he started to care.

Liam leads me to the car, his head swiveling from Thomas to the group of guys tracking us like vultures. With each step my brother takes, his fingers dig into my shoulder and he pulls me tighter to his body. Liam practically throws me into the passenger seat, rounds to his side, then accelerates so quickly that my head hits the headrest.

“Will you chill out?” I shout.

“Chill out?!” Liam checks the rearview mirror and the tires squeal as he takes a sharp right, driving way faster than anyone should in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. “You were hanging out with the Reign of Terror!”

An internal snap. A loud internal snap. An extremely audible snap and my body jerks. “I was not hanging out with them. I was waiting for someone to pick me up. If you recall, I texted, but I believe the response was I was being dramatic!”

Liam hammers the steering wheel with his fist and I ram my fingers through my hair. My hands are trembling. I’m trembling. The adrenaline rush as I negotiated my life in a handshake with Thomas and my brother’s unexplainable anger has me flailing near the edge of insanity.

My mind drifts in and out of foggy, rash thoughts, but one clear message slowly emerges from the mist. “You already knew Joshua and Dad had the cars when I texted for help, didn’t you?”

His lips thin out as he remains silent.

I sit on my hands to keep from strangling his thick neck. “Did you know I wasn’t home?”

Liam’s fingers drum the steering wheel once and he dares to flash that oh-I’m-so-cute-that-girls-giggle-at-everything-I-say smile. “Listen, Bre, I was—”

“Don’t you dare lie,” I cut him off. “Did you know I wasn’t picked up before you left and that Mom and Dad thought I was home?”

“Yes.” A cloud rapidly descends over his face. “I knew.”

My blood pressure tanks with his admission. “You suck.”

“God, you really are too dramatic.” My intestines twist at the sound of my sister’s voice. Clara’s lying flat on her back in the backseat. She taps a package of cigarettes against her hand, removes one, then puts it between her lips.

“Please don’t smoke around me,” I say before she has a chance to dig out her lighter. It’s not a shock to find Clara with Liam. The pair is often attached at the hip.

“Please don’t smoke around me,” she mimics in a high-pitched voice, then resumes her normal tone. “Do you ever get tired of being perfect? For once, Bre, give the rest of the world a shot at not living up to your standards.”

“I’m not perfect.” Clara and I—we don’t work as siblings. On TV, siblings get along, but Clara and I have been oil and water since my birth. She’s four years older than me and I was supposed to be her baby to take care of. Turns out Clara didn’t want a new baby. She wanted a pony. Guess who was disappointed when our parents brought me home from the hospital?

This summer has been hell with her and she’s been more unbearable than normal since Mom and Dad announced she has to pay her own college tuition because it’s her fifth year.

“Boohoo.” A lighter clicks in the backseat followed by the smell of smoke. “My family forgot me, so I’m going to make everyone drop what they were doing to rescue me.”

“Quit it, Clara.” Liam uses a gentle tone as he glances in the rearview mirror. He won’t see her, only a stream of smoke rising into the air. “She wasn’t lying. The Terror was there and they were messing with her. Why do you think I tore out of the car like I did?”

Silence from the backseat. Liam and Clara are inseparable. Like how I wish I was with any of my siblings. There’s an exhale and I swallow the cough tickling my throat.

“How close?” she asks.

“Too close,” he answers.

I crack the window for fresh air. Clara and Liam were together the entire time I was asking for help. Texting next to each other as I was alone. My family does suck.

“I’m sorry, Bre.” Liam’s apology sounds sincere, but there’s a strong suggestion of anger seeping in his tone. “I already had to pick up Joshua and Elsie from practice and it was my sixth time this week. I’m in college now. I shouldn’t be everyone’s damn chauffeur and babysitter.”

I wince at babysitter. Child number five is an odd position. The older four are a clique. Always have been, and for them, I’m the start of the baby siblings they’ve had to drag around.

My four younger siblings consider me a part of the annoying older crowd who “think they’re boss” and “tell them what to do,” which is somewhat true, as I’ve been their official sitter since my older siblings graduated from high school.

Clara sits up. “If you guys are doing this apologizing family bonding crap, I want out.”

I roll my eyes. Typical Clara. She’s the main reason why I’m on the outs with my older siblings. Clara forces them to choose between her and me. My sister wields a frightening amount of emotional power over me and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of the damaged relationship between me and Clara.

“You and I are going to talk like I said we would,” says Liam. “Let me take Bre home.”

Clara places her hand on the handle. “Stop the car now or I’ll open the door and jump. You know I’m not kidding.”

Liam mumbles a curse as he eases over to the curb and then pleads with me using his eyes. Pleads. Like he wants me to offer to be the one to walk home. Yes, we are three blocks away. Yes, our neighborhood is safe, but I’m not the one pitching a fit like a four-year-old.

There’s an awkward pause in the car as they wait for me to be the one to leave. I cross my arms over my chest. This may make me a horrible human being, but Liam’s driving me home.

“Fine.” Clara breathes out like she’s choking on fire. “I’ll be waiting here when you’re done.” She slams the door, then collapses to the curb in front of the car like a beaten stray dog.

I hate her. I hate Liam for not leaving. I hate myself more for considering getting out. Even though Clara does stuff like this to needle me, there’s something about how she fixates on the ends of her brown hair that makes her appear broken.

“What’s her problem?” I ask. Clara drops her hair like she’s disgusted. Most of us in the family have black hair. She’s tried dyeing hers black, but her hair never holds the color.

“She’s going through some stuff. Big stuff. Clara needs a friend right now.”

Don’t we all.

“Clara’s upset Mom and Dad asked her to pay tuition. She struggles with focusing.”

Clara’s brain is like mine. She also remembers things extremely well, but the craziness I experience when I’m not working on something—when I’m not solving a crossword puzzle or a brainteaser—Clara feels it constantly, and I hurt for her. I’ve felt like she does twice in my life and both times it was like someone blaring a never-ending foghorn. I’ve found ways to keep my brain active. Clara never discovered a solution to stay focused. At least a healthy solution.

“Handling how your brains work,” Liam continues, “it doesn’t come as easily to her as it does to you. It’s like you’re the same, but hardwired differently.”

Clara has said that to me more than a hundred thousand different ways since we were young. My favorite being that I stole her ability to focus while we were still eggs in my mother’s ovaries. Because that happens.

“She needs me,” Liam says quietly.

So do I, but I don’t say that. Instead, I lay my fingers on the door handle.

“Thanks, Bre.” Liam smiles as if his approval should be enough of a reward. Unfortunately, I’m pathetic enough that a part of me gets sappy because I did earn it.

“I am sorry for yelling. The Reign of Terror are dangerous. They hurt people. If you knew the stories I’ve heard, seen some of the shit they pull, you’d understand why I was angry.”

Liam’s eighteen months older, but he consistently treats me like I’m eight instead of seventeen. I doubt there’s a soul in this town who isn’t aware of the Terror’s reputation.

“And you were there with them. Alone. That’s not good.”

“I know,” I say softly. “He approached me. It wasn’t the other way around.”

“Did any of them hurt you?”

“No.”

“Scare you?”

Yeah, but somehow that feels wrong to say. “The guy that was near me fixed my phone.”

Liam chuckles and it relieves some of the tension in the car. “It broke again?”

Against my wishes, the ends of my mouth edge up. “Yeah.”

I need a new one, but with nine kids, three of them in college, money is tight. I bought that phone with money I earned selling soft-serve ice cream last summer at the Barrel of Fun.

“Jesus, Bre. Just, Jesus.” The lightness fades as Liam rolls his neck. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? It’s only three blocks and Addison’s house is on the way.”

It’s not okay, but what difference would it make if I said so. My response is to leave the car. I have the fleeting thought to ram my fist into Clara’s stomach when she hops up from the curb and heads for the passenger seat with a smirk on her face. She played her hand and she won.

I hate her. I really, really do, and for the level of hate festering in me, when I die, I am probably heading to hell.

Liam U-turns and I watch as the headlights of the other passing cars blur into one another. I tilt my head back and stare at the first bright star in the sky. A long time ago, I used to wish on stars, but the act is useless. It’s a fairy tale created to make us think we have some semblance of control over our lives. I used to believe in magic, but I’m seventeen now and I gave up on happy endings a long time ago.

RAZOR

THE WATER BEATS down from the showerhead and steam rises around me. I should scale back the temperature from boiling to near scalding, but the heat eases some of the anger tightening the muscles in my neck.

“Razor?” Dad calls, wondering if it’s me. I come and go as I please and sometimes guys from the club crash here if they require a place to lie low.

A knock, then the door to the bathroom opens. Cooler air sweeps in and a thunderstorm of mist drifts overhead. My hands are braced against the wall and I dip my head so the drops roll along my face and not into my eyes. I’ve been in here longer than needed. Finished washing minutes ago, but I let the water fall over me.

It’s five in the morning. Got in after midnight, and thirty seconds after striding in, I figured out Dad brought a girl home. Walked out and I spent the rest of the night nursing a beer on the steps to the porch.

“You okay?” he asks.

It’s an awkward question, but because I’m biologically his, he feels compelled to ask. We both know he doesn’t want the honest answer. “Yeah.”

“You’ve been in here for a while.” Dad hacks and it’s a reminder as to why I rarely smoke cigarettes. “And it’s early. Sun’s not up yet.”

That’s the point. If I wait in here long enough, Dad will have the opportunity to keep his promise. After Mom died, Dad and I were torn up—at least I thought we both were. I continually gasped for breath like a fish living on dry land and I had assumed Dad felt the same.

But then a few weeks after her death, I caught Dad kissing another woman at the clubhouse. I was ten and in tears. The blonde was barely old enough to drink and vomited after she saw my reaction. Dad was old enough to know better and dropped to his knees.

He promised he’d never disrespect me or my mother by bringing a woman home. His promise disintegrated two months after Mom’s funeral, but he did offer me another oath. One that has stung less and less as the years have passed, but one I expect him to uphold—even tonight.

Dad swore to never let a woman sleep in the same bed as my mother. Never overnight. Not even for an hour. He would do his business and then she’d leave.

I remain in this shower because at two this morning the light sneaking out of Dad’s bedroom door went out. The girl he brought home—she stayed.

The first rays of morning light will hit soon, and if I hang in here long enough, then Dad could possibly keep his promise—he won’t further disrespect the memory of my mother.

“Razor?” he asks again, probably questioning whether he misunderstood my response and it’s someone from the club in here. The door creaks as if he’s opening it more and the last thing I want is to be naked in front of my father.

I turn off the water. “I’m fine. Give me a few.”

There’s a tension-filled silence. He knows what he’s done. I know what he’s done. Neither of us can fix it.

“I thought you would be out all night,” he says. “Heard you and Chevy had dates.”

Mom told me once Dad’s a man worth forgiving. There are billions of other words she could have said before she walked out the door, but that was her chosen parting advice. One more confirmation that I am what the good people of Snowflake say I am: cursed.

I rub my face as beads of water track down my body. The girls and then crashing at Chevy’s place—that was the plan. But thanks to Breanna Miller, I ran late, and when I met up with Chevy and the girls, my brain wasn’t there, it was with Mom.

I had heard Dad was back in town early from his security run for the club, so I cut the night short. I was the moron to assume coming home might solve my problems.

“Told you I’d be home when you got back in town,” I snap. “I keep my promises.”

Silence. The word promises cutting through both of us like a blade.

The door shuts and I silently curse. A long time ago, in a world I barely remember, the two of us used to talk. About stupid shit. About anything. The sound a motorcycle makes before it drops into gear. The best spot to catch bluegill. Which MMA fighter deserved to win. Detective Jake Barlow said Dad worshipped me. Goes to show how jacked up his theories are.

I slide the curtain and the metal rings jingle. The cracked mirror’s fogged and it distorts my image—slashing my face in half so that one side is higher than the other. Creating an external image of what I am on the inside: unbalanced.

I take my time toweling off and slip on a fresh pair of jeans. When I open the door to the bathroom, the cooler air nips at my skin. Dad leans on his forearms against the chest-high narrow table in the kitchen area of the front room. His eyes switch from the television on the wall to me.

Dad has red hair with a brown tint and his recently grown-in thin beard is the same color. I matched his height last year and surpassed him in what he can bench-press the year before. When we’re standing side by side, people can spot the minute ways we resemble the other, but I know what Dad sees when he looks at me: blond hair, blue eyes. He sees Mom.

According to the weatherman, it’s supposed to be a hot day. Scorching. He also reminds those of us who don’t live under a rock that tomorrow is our first day of school. In slow motion, I turn my head to Dad’s bedroom. The bed’s made and there’s no one in sight.

The woman—she’s gone. My wish was granted. As much as I thought her leaving before sunrise would heal the oozing wound inside me, it didn’t. Sunrise wasn’t my breaking point. I broke earlier this morning when the light flipped off. I was just living in denial.

“We need to talk,” Dad says.

I agree. We do. About Mom, the detective, the file, but it feels wrong to discuss anything associated with Mom now. “I haven’t slept yet. Later?”

“All right.” Dad focuses on the coffee cup next to his hand. “Later.”

I head for my room, and when I reach the door, Dad stops me. “Razor...”

I pause, but I don’t respond. I’m not doing this and Dad knows better than to push me.

“I heard about the detective and we’re going to hash this out—me and you.”

He’s aware of my stance on conversation this morning. Besides last night with Breanna Miller, I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.

“The club needs you to be reachable,” he continues. “When all the board’s back in town, you need to be there at a moment’s notice. They’re going to want to hear what the cop had to say. Plus the Riot’s getting too close to town and Emily’s coming for a visit soon.”

Emily—the daughter and granddaughter of the two most powerful men in the club. Not to mention she’s the girlfriend of one of my best friends. Over a month ago, blood was shed over Emily between our club and the Riot. All of us wonder if blood will be shed again.

“You see the Riot,” Dad says, “you call the club. Only the board is allowed to engage.”

I enter my room and Dad raises his voice so I can hear past my now-shut door. “I mean it, you don’t engage.”

I lie on my bed and pinch the bridge of my nose. I hope the Riot busts into town. There’s an edginess inside me. Something stirring like a cold front on the verge of colliding with warm air. Too many demons are hovering near me and the one thing that can release the pressure is a good fight.

Bring it, Riot. Show me your worst.

Breanna

THERE’S A PICTURE on the fridge Mom and Dad had taken of the kitchen when they moved into the house. Back then this room was bright yellow, open, and there were vases of flowers scattered everywhere. Twenty-six years of wear and tear later and three meals’ worth of dishes stacked up from nine people and you’d have today’s version of the same kitchen.

Addison sits on the counter with her eyes glued to her cell while I prerinse dishes, then load them into the dishwasher. She lifts her legs as my two youngest siblings chase each other around the island.

It’s after eight. One of them is in kindergarten, the other second grade. Because elementary and middle schools began a few days ago, you’d expect at some point my siblings would tire and pass out, but I’m convinced that when they’re depleted of their own energy, they suck me dry of mine.

Elsie shrieks when Zac hits her and he howls when Elsie bites him in return. With a groan, I pick up the holy terror closer to me and sit Elsie on the island, then pull over a chair with my foot and deposit Zac into that. “Neither of you move for two minutes.”

They scramble to the floor and run to the living room, calling me “mean.” I should pursue them, but I’m exhausted, and in the end I don’t care enough to discipline them again.

I am never having children. Ever.

Addison surveys the swinging door through which they disappeared like she’s solving a math problem. “You know, they portray large families completely differently on TV.”

I snort. “And how would that be? Sane?”

A laugh confirms that’s exactly what she thought. “There’s a hundred of those reality shows where they have five million children and they all seem happy 24/7. If they can be close and lovey-dovey, why can’t you?”

“You should try sleeping instead of watching television late at night. It could help with your overactive and wild imagination.”

The swinging door opens and Zac aims a water rifle at Addison and fires. She squeals and raises her arms to her face. Whooping, Zac falls back and Addison yells, “I’m going to kill you, you little freak!”

“Freak is Bre’s nickname!” he shouts.

The door opens again and Addison stops from rushing the person entering when Paul walks in with a skateboard in his hand and heads to the fridge. “Bre’s nickname isn’t freak, it’s Encyclopedia-freak. Ain’t I right, Encyclopedia-freak?”

Paul flashes a what-are-you-going-to-do-to-me grin. I used to like Paul. Back when he was cute and had baby fat rolls. Middle school has morphed him into a demon that even Satan can’t control.

Baby brother wants to test me, then I’ll call his bluff. “Showers and baths need to start. You can take yours.”

His grin fades. “Make the babies go first.”

“Maybe next time you won’t call me names.” I shove a glass harder than I should into the top rack and it clanks against the others. If I were at private school, I’d be eating crappy cafeteria food that I didn’t cook and didn’t have to clean up and I wouldn’t be arguing with the demon child. That is my version of heaven.

The pure hate radiating from his glare bothers me more than I wish it would. Back when he had the baby fat and dimples, I was his favorite.

“Do you know why we call her Encyclopedia-freak?” he taunts me by asking Addison.

Because that’s what Clara calls me? I’m five foot six and right now I’m feeling two feet tall. I watch the water falling out the faucet and hold a plate in my hand. Addison’s heard them call me the name. She knows bits and pieces of how my mind works and she’s also aware of how it makes me feel so...different.

“What’s the capital of Russia?” he says.

Moscow. Population of Russia: 143,025,000. Area: 6,592,850 square miles.

“Look at the freak go,” Paul sings. “Her eyes dart when she’s listing facts in her messed-up head, but she acts like she ain’t weird.”

A lump forms in my throat. Paul gives everyone a hard time, but with Clara home for the summer, it’s middle school on repeat.

I slam the plate into the bottom rack. “Go take a shower or I’ll tell Mom you didn’t come straight home from school today.”

He mumbles something not twelve-year-old appropriate, but he leaves. I hold on to the counter with both hands. This is the reason why I keep my little Jedi mind tricks to myself.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Addison offers. “He’s an evil troll that will never get a date when he hits high school.”

“He makes me feel like I’m reliving bad stuff.”

“We aren’t in middle school anymore,” Addison says in a soft tone.

“I know.”

“Sometimes I don’t think you do.” But she moves on before I can answer. “Jesse is following me again.”

This is the reason we’re friends—she doesn’t dwell. Like when I told her Mom and Dad nixed my plans to leave. She shrugged an “I’m sorry” and then she painted my nails.

I continue with the dishes and run the spaghetti-sauce-stained bowl through the warm water. “I’m lost. Are we happy or sad or annoyed over this?”

It’s Thursday and tomorrow is the first day of school. It’s weird to start on a Friday, but the district thought that we, the high school students, would be better readjusted into the school year with this schedule. Because of this, Addison and I are completing our night-before-school-begins ritual of freaking out. This year, our worries about how the year will go are complicated by Addison’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, Jesse, and their social media drama.

He unfollows her. She unfollows him back. He posts a picture of him and another girl and tags Addison. She cries. He follows her again, then tags her in some heartfelt message of how he’s sorry. I was over it from the moment he unfollowed her.

Addison wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to get back together.”

“Then don’t.”

She sighs, and her pain is so palpable there’s an ache within me. I’m not sure she liked being with Jesse as much as she liked that Jesse whisked her away from her house. Whenever, to wherever, with no questions asked.

There’s a fresh bruise on her forearm that I’d bet is retaliation for my family forgetting us. I focus on how the water washes the crumbs from a plate. “Did your dad do that?”

“How is it possible that every time I visit there are a million dishes stacked up and you’re forever doing them? It’s like we’re living in some strange sci-fi movie and your life is on an endless loop.”

She switches subjects and I let her. Addison’s mom won’t leave her father or throw him out and Addison won’t call the police because she’s terrified they’ll put her and her sister in foster care. Doesn’t help that none of her relatives are willing to help. In other words, Addison’s stuck.

“Look at me,” Addison says.

I do and she snaps a photo from less than a foot away.

Her lips tilt up in a mischievous way. “Perfect.”

“For what?”

“Your profile picture.” She flips my cell to me and the blood drains out of my face when I spot my name, my age, my info and my picture.

Addison and I have had several intense conversations involving opening an account for me on Bragger. I agreed to it when she explained how people use social media to impress colleges and universities. She showed me articles on how colleges were dazzled when prospective students worked what the colleges shared on social media into their essays and when the students could make intelligent conversation online. And emotionally, I agreed that maybe this could help in my quest to break out of my shell. But now that it’s here and I’m deciphering the hundreds of ways this could go wrong...

I lunge for the phone and she’s off the counter and on the other side of the breakfast island before I can reach her. We stand on either side and each time I inch one way, she edges in the opposite direction.

“You’re the one that said you wanted to be noticed,” she says. “Bragger’s a community of people. You can post pictures or something short, something long, something funny, something insightful, and then people like and comment. Whatever your little heart desires. The main point being, you will be interacting with other humans. If you want out of the box you hide in, then you need to crack open the flaps and bask in some sunlight.”

“Remember when we decided my wardrobe change was going to help?” I counter. “The result of that experiment was Kyle Hewitt trying to con me into writing his papers. Change is overrated and my box is comfy.”

“You told me all summer that you feel cramped in the box.” She’s right. I did say that. “You’re suffocating and I’m tired of watching you turn blue. This isn’t middle school anymore. People have matured. If you be yourself around everyone else, they’ll love you like I do.”

My heart pounds hard, but I pause because what she’s saying is what I want. For once in my life, I’d love to be myself around everyone else and be accepted for who I am instead of staying silent for fear of people mocking me.

Maintaining eye contact with me, Addison raises my phone and pushes Save.

The door to the living room swings open and my younger brother Joshua enters. He wanders over to us and his eyes flicker between us as Addison and I continue to stare at each other in recognition of how huge this moment is for me.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Congratulate your sister,” says Addison. “She’s on Bragger.”

RAZOR

IT’S A HUMID NIGHT. The day was so hot the air smells of melting blacktop. Bugs fly near the town’s light posts and the promise of violence is so thick I can taste it. Chevy swings off his bike and straightens to his full six feet. His pissed-off glare could shatter the diner’s window.

Since I arrived home last night to Dad’s broken promise, I’ve been itching for a release. A scan of the diner and I catch up on why Chevy nine-one-one’d me and Oz. Never thought I’d be happy to see Chevy’s ex-girl, Violet, locked in a kiss in the corner booth with the town’s biggest asshole, but God does work in mysterious ways.

Oz’s big black Harley rumbles up next to me. He kills the engine and his head is that of an owl as he swings his gaze between us and Violet’s public display. A crowd of guys from school are hanging in the diner. They eat and shoot the breeze as the guy shoving his tongue down Violet’s throat begins to move his hand near the hem of her shirt.

“Shit.” Oz verbalizes how deep we are in this minefield. People are automatically scared of Oz, with that unruly black hair and don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Now that he officially has the three-piece patch of the Terror on his back, people fall over themselves to get out of his way.

He flips me the bird and I flip it back. Not ready for Dad’s father-son talk, I went fishing at the Pond with Oz. Chevy texted a few minutes ago he needed backup, and Oz and I raced to town. I cut Oz off near the railroad tracks and he’s pissed I beat him on my pieced-together bike.

“We doing this?” Oz asks Chevy as he sidles up to the two of us.

Chevy’s dark eyes harden into an answer. He’s one hundred percent a McKinley. Chestnut hair, brown eyes, tall as hell and a mean bastard when he chooses to be. Even at seventeen, his personality mirrors that of his grandfather and uncle—the two most powerful guys in the Terror. Each of them are laid-back, easy to talk to, but if you push their button wrong, they’ll hurl you through a concrete wall.

“There’s six of them,” I state. And three of us. I thrive off those odds. “Two of those guys in there were some of the ones that stood back and watched when that asshole beat up Stone last year. I still believe a lesson should have been taught to them all.” Not just to the bastard who we made cry when he picked on a kid four years younger.

Stone is the fourteen-year-old and awkward-as-hell kid brother of the girl currently giving us heartburn. Stone and Violet’s dad belonged to the club and died in an accident a little over a year ago. Club takes care of their family now, but Violet’s gone rogue, alienating anyone from the Terror, even us—the guys who have grown up with her since birth.

“Should I mention hanging with them is Violet’s choice?” Oz asks. I level my glare on him. I want this action and logic could kill my one possibility of throwing a punch.

“Was that picture put on Bragger Violet’s choice?” Chevy spits.

There’s a damn account set up on that nonsense Bragger site called Snowflake Sluts. A couple weeks ago someone posted a compromising picture of Violet. Oz and Chevy confronted her on it and she laughed it off, claiming it didn’t bother her. But then she showed at my house later that night trashed and crying to the point I couldn’t understand her.

That’s a lie. She did make it clear she would never speak to me again if I sought revenge on the asshole who posted the pic or ran the account.

Fucked-up part—none of us can prove who posted the pic, and because I’d prefer for Violet to come to me when she’s in trouble, I haven’t tried too hard to figure out who’s responsible. But my gaze wanders into the diner again and it lands on the group inside.

I’ve heard rumors. Noticed the way girls targeted on the account look at those guys like they’ve stolen a part of their soul. As far as I’m concerned, that’s judge, jury and verdict.

“That’s our family in there being mauled by the biggest jackass we know,” Chevy argues with Oz. “You think he respects her? You think he has her best interests in mind?”

“You think beating the hell out of them is going to make her like us again?”

“No.” Even I notice the chill in the air associated with my voice. “But it will keep them from touching her. You graduated this spring, Oz, and the burden to protect anyone in school associated with the Terror falls hard on me and Chevy. She thinks she can blend in with this crowd at school, but we all know how this is going to end. We need to prove a point.”

Violet eases back from her public display of torture and her face pales against her red hair when she spots us. Not really us. Chevy. She used to be in love with Chevy. Still is in love from what I gather, but she blames the Terror for her dad’s death. Though Chevy can’t patch in until he’s eighteen, he’s Terror to his bones. He won’t walk from the club. Not even for her.

Violet stands. The guys in the diner all look out the window, and one by one they cast down their eyes. Like most everyone else in the town, they’ll talk shit about us, but they won’t back up anything they have to say with action.

Chevy mutters a curse and pivots away like he’s going to vomit. He lowers his head as he scrubs his face. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Then don’t,” comes a familiar feminine voice. Violet sways by the door to the diner. I notice her lack of balance, and by the subtle way Oz readjusts his feet as if he’s readying to spring toward her, so does he. She rubs her bloodshot eyes, then glances at her parked car.

Great, she’s drunk and/or high. Night before school, too. This year’s going to suck.

“We won’t let you drive home.” There’s a sharpness in Oz’s tone. Even when we were tight, Oz and Violet tore into each other. Violet claimed it boiled down to hair color—her fire-red hair and temper and Oz’s black hair and attitude to match.

They’ve always fought because Violet pretends she’s in control. Oz is the one in charge, Violet was our glue, Chevy’s the follower, and me? I don’t follow and I’ve never cared enough about leading to challenge Oz for the role. I exist.

Violet rolls her shoulders like she’s preparing to attack. “Are you guys stalking me?”

“I wanted food.” Chevy keeps his back to her. “Just some fucking food.”

“We’re going to get you home,” Oz informs Violet.

Her hands wave in a huge, unbalanced way. “No. No way. I’m staying. You don’t have any say over me. The Terror doesn’t—”

“Violet,” I cut her off. I may not be vocal about every damn thing, but I understand Oz’s anger and Chevy’s pain. There’s only so much of her mouthing off even I can stomach.

Her eyes meet mine. I’ve protected her secret like she’s asked. I’ve broken Terror code by withholding the fact that she’s shown at my house in trouble. But sometimes, we all have our secrets to keep. I’ve done this for her. She can shut up and let someone take her home for me.

“I’ll do it,” Chevy says. “I’ll get her home.”

Lines form between her eyebrows. The idea of being alone with Chevy clearly rams a stake through her heart. But as Chevy starts for her car, because there’s no way she can hold on to him to ride his bike, Violet trails after him—swerving.

“I’ll get Eli’s truck,” Oz says. Eli’s the father of the girl Oz is dating. He’s also a board member. “Then I’ll pick Chevy up.”

I nod. Not much else to say to that. We watch as the taillights of Violet’s rusted Chevelle pull away. “We could still do it,” I say. “Beat the shit out of those guys.”

Because truth be told, there’s this slow burn that’s peeling away at my insides. The edginess is getting harder and harder to control. First the detective, Breanna’s family leaving her for dead at school, Mom on the brain, Dad’s woman at the house, and now this shit with Violet. Someone’s got to pay for something. There can’t be this much injustice in the world.

“I think one of them’s behind that Bragger account.” I’m dangling bait, praying Oz bites.

Oz gives me the once-over. “Do you have proof?”

I shove my hands into my jeans pockets and Oz shakes his head. “Then we can’t make a move. Board told us we’re frozen with the Bragger situation without proof and their approval.”

“The board can kiss my ass.”

Oz stiffens. He’s a club boy. I am, too, but I color outside the lines. The rumble of motorcycles interrupts his sure-to-be-well-thought-out lecture on how I need to conform.

Two bikes tear past, and it’s not the speed at which they are flying through our town that causes my blood pressure to rise. It’s the patch on the back of their cut. It ain’t a skull, it’s a reaper. The Riot are a long way from Louisville, and they are currently in our town.

Breanna

“YOUR SISTER HAS officially joined civilization.” Addison props an elbow on Joshua’s shoulder, and because he’s taller, her arm is angled up. Joshua stares at her like he died and went to heaven. He’s sixteen and has been way too infatuated with my best friend for two months.

They look odd yet beautiful together. She’s blond-haired and fair. Like me and Liam, Joshua also has black hair and is well tanned from summer.

Joshua clutches his heart. “I’m so proud. It seems like yesterday Bre was making up stories about being around the Reign of Terror. Oh, wait, it was yesterday.”

Addison swats him on the back of the head, and when Joshua overly dramatizes his pain, she throws him a mock kiss as she walks over to me. She tosses my cell in the air. I catch it and sigh. Thomas just fixed it and, thanks to Addison, that cell was seconds away from breaking again. “How is it possible that I already have five followers?”

“I sent out an invite to everyone in your email contacts. You now have to wait and see if the rest of your contacts will actually follow.”

My stomach rolls. Great. A popularity contest and my senior year hasn’t even started yet. “I can delete the account, you know.”

“You could,” Addison responds. “But you won’t. I know you’ve wanted on Bragger but have been hesitant to do it. Consider this your push.”

“Why are we friends?”

“Because I’m pretty,” she says to me, then cocks an annoyed hip as she assesses Joshua. “That Reign of Terror stuff wasn’t bull. We were terrified.”

He eyes Addison in a way that suggests he’s thinking things involving her that seriously gross me out. “You could have called me. I would have given you a ride.”

I toss my arms out to my sides. “I asked for a ride! I texted, remember?”

“I said her, not you. Besides, Liam picked you up. FYI, I overheard Zac and Elsie conspiring to act like you don’t exist again. That should make bedtime fun.”

Pretending I don’t exist. It’s a fun game all my siblings have played on me. Liam started it when he was eight—mad we were forced to share a bike as a Christmas present. To this day, I’m not sure how he felt slighted. It was a boy bike.

“Then do me a favor,” I say. “You give them baths and get them in bed. I’ve got dishes.”

Joshua claims his keys from the hook by the door. “No can do. Mom called. She forgot her checkbook and told me to tell you to make sure they’re in bed by the time she gets home.”

“Ask Clara to get Mom.”

He grimaces. “That would mean Clara would have to stop living in a dark room feeling sorry for herself. I don’t do angst. You want her help, you ask for it.”

We both know the result of that conversation. I’m envious of Joshua, always have been. He’s an island in our family. Calm. Tranquil. Maintains his distance from everyone he’s blood-related to. Joshua learned quickly to befriend people outside of our family and he sticks closely with them—not us. And my family believes I’m the smart one.

“Have fun.” Joshua waggles his eyebrows as he opens the door. I launch a wet dishrag in his direction and Joshua dodges it by racing out. The rag hits the door frame with a wet splat.

Glass crashes in the living room. I hold my breath and a split second later Elsie’s screaming. It’s not her fake cry for attention, it’s the real one. I’m across the kitchen, slamming my hand so hard on the swinging door that it stings my palm, and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t spot blood pouring from her head.

Mom’s last nonbroken vase is in pieces on the floor and Elsie is nursing her elbow. There’s a small trickle of blood, but no bone sticking out of the skin. The small child who was bent on ignoring me for the rest of the night holds her hands up to me. I swing her up on my hip, then scan the room for Zac.

He’s crouched on the other side of the sofa, waiting for someone to tear into him because his younger sister is hurt. Elsie sobs and sobs in my ear like someone ripped off her arm. A heaviness descends upon me and the urge is to go upstairs, crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, but that isn’t an option. At the moment, I’m the designated parent.

“Zac.” Even I detect the exhaustion in my tone.

He stands and looks like a puppy someone hit with a rolled-up newspaper. I should ask what happened. I should tell him he has to play more carefully with our sister. I should tell him he knows better than to have that plastic sword in the living room, but I don’t. I may be the closest thing they have to a parent, but I’m only seventeen and right now seventeen-year-old me wants to run away.

“Let’s go upstairs and start baths,” I say.

With his head hanging, Zac trudges up the stairs in silence. Middle-school-demon Paul watches me with wide eyes from his spot on the couch. I very much notice the controller in his hand and the paused game on the TV. He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t take a shower. He didn’t even attempt to police our younger siblings or help Elsie when she fell.

A cell vibrates and I turn to see Addison offering me a face full of sympathy. “My dad wants me home.”

She lives a block away. I nod and she slips into the kitchen. The outside door shuts and Elsie wipes her snotty nose on my shoulder, then sucks in a shuddering breath.

I have glass to clean up, a boo-boo to kiss and bedtime routines to keep. I have dishes in the kitchen, garbage to take out and a social media account currently tracking my popularity.

In my bare feet, I gingerly step over the broken vase and ask a hollow question. “Can you at least pick up the broken glass, Paul?”

He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. I’m going to pretend that he’s going to do it anyway because he cares or feels guilty. I’ll accept either as an excuse.

RAZOR

OZ AND I mount our motorcycles at the same time, but I block his path forward with my bike. “You’re not on this.”

“Last I checked, you don’t call the shots.” Oz revs his motor.

“You’re not allowed near the Riot.” This summer, Oz pointed a gun at the president of the Riot Motorcycle Club and it appears our unsteady peace treaty with them is cracking. He shouldn’t be the Snowflake welcoming committee. Besides, our clubs are about to go Fat Man and Little Boy, and I’m ready for this fallout.

“Last I heard,” Oz retorts, “neither are you. Only board members are allowed to approach.”

I’m not wasting any more time. “Call this in and I’ll tail them to make sure they leave town. We both know Eli won’t allow Emily anywhere near Kentucky if the Riot’s become a problem, and if the Terror don’t make a stand now, the Riot might come back. Then Emily will stay in Florida.”

Oz cuts his engine with a curse and pulls out his phone. Emily is his kryptonite. “You stay back from them, you got me? Do not engage.”

I flash him a smile, and it’s hard to keep the crazy welling up inside me from leaking out. “Sunday stroll, brother. All friendly.”

“There’s nothing friendly about you,” Oz says in that way I hate. It’s part joke, part sympathy. It’s part truth, too. I twist the throttle, pick up my feet and tear off into the night.

The wind blows through my hair and my speedometer climbs as I chase after the Riot. Their taillights emerge like the red eyes of a demon, beckoning me to follow straight to hell. The needle reaches fifty, sixty, seventy. Each new speed makes the blood pump faster.

The front wheel of my bike catches air off an uneven hill over the intersection. I’m racing, but it’s not with them. It’s with the devil breathing down my neck.

“It’s okay, baby.” Mom was crouched in front of me, uncurling my fingers from her hands. “I’ll always be with you.”

I pass over another intersection, my motorcycle growling beneath me. I hit a patch of cold air and my skin prickles. Is she here with me? Because it doesn’t feel like it. Instead, it feels lonely. So lonely it hurts.

A tight right turn, a twist of the throttle again, then I brake so quickly I have to slam my foot to the blacktop to prevent from spinning out. Five headlights blind me and tires squeal as two of the bikes come to a stop.

Three bikes fly by, and as I whip my head to see which way the Riot is headed, I spot the Terror patch.

“You, boy, are in a ton of trouble.”

My head lowers at the sound of the gravel voice. It’s Cyrus, the president of the Terror, and I got caught disobeying a direct order.

Breanna

“THIS IS GOING to be the best night of our lives,” announces Reagan. Addison sits at the desk in front of me and Reagan’s to the left of Addison.

I check the clock on the wall over our English teacher’s desk. In exactly two minutes, the bell will ring and the first day of my senior year will begin. It’s not only the first day of school, but also the first Friday of the school year.

Three years ago, Addison, Reagan and I promised we’d do something crazy on the first Friday of our senior year. After notifying High Grove that I declined their scholarship, crazy is exactly what I need. “Are you sure your parents aren’t going to check on us?”

“Trust me, everything will be golden.” Reagan uses the camera on her phone to fix stray pieces of her dirty-blond hair. She curled it this morning and much to her displeasure the curls are falling out. “Has Cass started following you yet? I told her you created a Bragger account.”

I sigh and Addison scowls. She’s less than thrilled with my lack of excitement. I currently have twenty-five followers. It’s better than none, but not nearly reaching Addison’s and Reagan’s totals. Not sure how this whole social media thing is supposed to be fun. It’s like being back in elementary school and waiting to be picked for kickball.

“To gain followers you must post something.” Addison has this teacher-to-pupil reprimand going on, and it’s scary on her. “Don’t make me start posting for you, brat. You’re the one that wanted to join the world. Reagan and I are trying to catch you up on how to participate in the land of the living.”

“Because everyone will love reading how I was up doing dishes until midnight,” I say.

“Tell them you were doing it naked and half the boys in school will follow you.” Reagan tosses me a sly smirk and I laugh. She’s always saying things that push the envelope. “Tell them you’ll post the picture if you reach five hundred followers. Watch your stats climb, girl.”

“That would be interesting.” A new voice joins the conversation.

I see jeans first. Actually, I see a rip in the jeans, and that rip is an inch above the knee, and I’m staring at a very muscular male thigh. I enter this weird zone, because there’s this sinking feeling of where this is heading, and ominous sirens are sounding off.

It’s like being stuck in slow motion as I glance up. My heart stops. Starts. And when it starts again, I find I can’t breathe. Golden hair that’s a little long on top. Light blue eyes drinking me in. All I see is a whole lot of gorgeous...and dangerous.

It’s Thomas freaking Turner. He wears the same leather vest that he had on the other night, and underneath it is a black T-shirt with the name of an old-school metal band. My eyes automatically scan his patches and I wonder which one is the warning that he carries a gun.

His fingers skim my desk as he strides past. There are small cuts on his knuckles, and the skin on his hands looks rough—like him. For some reason, I find that attractive. It reminds me of him hunched in front of his bike as he was repairing his machine. The steady way he moved. The serious set of his face. The way the muscles in his arms flexed as he worked.

“Hello, Breanna.” Thomas’s voice is deep, smooth, and feels like a caress along my skin.

“Hey.” It’s hardly more than a whisper.

“How are you?” Thomas settles into the seat in the back corner behind me as if this is where he’s determined to stay for the year. He kicks his long legs into the aisle and crosses one booted foot over the other.

“Good,” I answer, able to attain a somewhat normal voice.

“Good,” he repeats. “How’s your phone?”

“Terrific.” When did I become the queen of one-word answers?

“Terrific.” His eyes are laughing. At me. With me. I’m not sure, so I return to facing the front. Holy freaking crap, Thomas Turner is attempting conversation with me.

I’m greeted by two wide-eyed and slack-mouthed friends. Addison’s gaze flickers between me and Thomas so quickly that I’m afraid she’s going to make herself cross-eyed. So...yeah. I left out telling Addison about my few minutes alone with the motorcycle boy, so that would mean that Reagan’s also in the dark.

Please act normal, I mouth.

They tilt their heads as if I asked them to explain osmosis.

Addison blinks as she snaps out of her shock, then clears her throat. “So...it’s settled. As soon as you break free from babysitting prison, we’re going to Shamrock’s tonight.”

Thomas shifts in his seat and my neck twinges as I feel his eyes on me. We live in a small town in a sparsely populated county. Everyone knows Shamrock’s is a bar near the Army base. They allow anyone eighteen and older, but we’re not supposed to drink. Rumor has it the Army guys have no problem buying alcohol for any girl underage.

I’m going to admit, I’m not eighteen. I’ve never drunk before, not counting a few sips of my mother’s wine under her visual guidance, and a small glass of champagne at my grandparents’ anniversary party last year. Other than that—nothing.

I’m also going to admit, I’m curious. About drinking and bars and Army boys. I’m excited about a dimly lit room and neon lights and a glittering disco ball creating a rainbow.

The sane portion of my brain reminds me of the parental talks and just-say-no lectures I’ve heard in my life. All that common sense is fighting against the notion of going, but like wearing the short skirt to orientation the other night, I’m ready for something new.

I’m searching for magic—not the Christmas-morning type, but the type of magic that can be found by being courageous, being the girl who takes chances, being the girl who will dance. I want to be the girl who is seen.

“Shamrock’s can get rough,” Thomas says loud enough we can hear, but low enough that the three of us can’t figure out if he was intentionally joining our conversation.

The bell rings, the morning announcements start, and it’s the click, click, click behind me that gains my attention. It’s not fast, but persistent, and my instincts nudge me to turn to confirm it’s his pencil, but that would mean looking at Thomas, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I can already sense his warmth, and I recall how his fingers held mine when we shook hands.

Our teacher writes on the dry-erase board: Zhofrph edfn, Vhqlruv!

The sights and sounds fade as my mind rearranges and translates the letters. My notebook’s open and my pencil scrawls along the white paper. E is the most common letter used in the English language. T would be next followed by A, I, N, O, S.

Our teacher’s talking. Rambling how she’ll give a hundred extra credit points to anyone who can solve the puzzle by the end of class. She’s saying some other things, too. Like my name. After a push of Addison’s elbow to my desk, I absently say, “Here.” After another passage of time I’m pulled out of the zone when I hear, “I only respond to Razor.”

Then our teacher says other things. Things I should possibly pay attention to, but can’t.

The wheels are spinning. I write down each train of thought, watching the correct letters come up like dials of a combination lock. Each click audible in my head, and it sends me higher and higher, and when the last letter falls into place, my seat jerks beneath me.

Addison and Reagan turn at the sound, and so do others. I use my hand to cover my answer because I don’t want anyone to know I cracked it. I will not relive middle school again.

Our teacher assesses me, then continues to summarize our syllabus. Everyone else eventually faces forward and I allow myself to revel in the solution glory.

Forty minutes eventually pass. We hear about rules and projects. Books we’ll read and movies we’ll watch. As always, there’s a discussion of expectations. At the end, our teacher grants us ten minutes to tackle the problem and I spend that time doodling cloud-inspired sheep.

The bell rings. Addison and Reagan give me a quick ’bye and bolt, since their next class is on the opposite side of the building. My class is down the hall, so I’m slow packing my stuff.

The booted feet that were beside me are now drawn back, and there’s a squeak as the desk behind me tips forward. A quick scan confirms the classroom is empty. Our teacher stands in the doorway with her back toward us.

“Are you really heading to Shamrock’s tonight?” Thomas is so near his breath tickles my neck and I like it way more than I should.

“What if I am?” I inhale to calm the blood racing in my veins. He’s close, so close. Close enough I should be afraid. Close enough I wish he would edge nearer.

“I am your bodyguard.” There’s a tease in his voice and I laugh without thinking. Thomas chuckles along with me and a strange warmth curls below my belly.

I angle slightly. His head is next to mine and he’s wearing that heart-stopping smile. The breath catches in my throat. How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

I hear you have to kill people to be a member of your club. It’s what I’m dying to say, but after my foot-in-mouth moment a few days ago, I choose safe. “I thought you weren’t allowed to wear your vest at school.”

Last year the school board freaked when Thomas showed to class with the vest on his back. They had a special emergency session and unanimously voted that his vest was the same as wearing gang colors and that anything gang-related was prohibited in school.

“I’m not.” His smile widens and that’s when I spot the lethal. While a part of me shivers, another part of me finds his mouth completely thrilling. Oh, God, I do have a death wish.

“Aren’t you concerned you’re going to get in trouble? I mean, if they write you up, it will be an automatic suspension, three weeks in detention, and it will go on your permanent record.”

“Do I look like I care?”

I bite my bottom lip with the surge of adrenaline. I’m actually having a conversation with Thomas Turner. This is insane. This is suicidal. This is the most fantastic moment of my life. “I think you’re looking for problems.”

“Read the student handbook we received on Wednesday a few times?”

“Maybe.” I read it once while eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

Thomas rises from his chair and I fully appreciate his massive height. “It’s called a cut, not a vest.”

Noted. Thomas hooks a thumb in his pocket and stands there as if he’s waiting for me, and after the longest seconds of my life, I comprehend that he is waiting for me. I fumble with my purse and folder and eventually coordinate myself enough to make it to my feet and stumble down the aisle.

Thomas follows. When we breeze past our teacher into the hallway, Thomas’s head swivels between me and our classroom. Then he gives it a slight shake like he’s having an internal conversation about me, and I don’t like that I’m not a part of it. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, that wasn’t nothing. That was something.”

Thomas doesn’t answer, and he leaves two feet between us as we walk down the hallway. There’s a large enough gap that people easily stroll through, so it’s then I discover we weren’t really connecting.

My second period class comes into view and I decide to end this weird thing the two of us have going so we can return to our normal lives. “Hey, Thomas, wait a sec. Let me give you the twenty bucks I owe you.”

He studies me as if he’s trying to figure out if he likes the knee-length skirt and sleeveless purple shirt, and then his gaze drops just low enough he may be admiring a part of me no boy has explored before. The thought causes a rush of heat to crash onto my cheeks and it takes everything I have not to pull my hair off the nape of my neck in an attempt to cool down.

Thomas slips closer and I step back, colliding with the locker behind me. My heel throbs from the impact, but I’m so caught by the way his muscles rippled when he moved in my direction that I don’t utter a sound.

“Call me Razor.” This boy is immaculately pretty and he makes it terribly difficult to be coherent.

He told me to call him Razor. Razor sounds mean and menacing and he’s sexy and brooding with his cut on, but I recall the tease in his voice earlier and the way he fixed my phone. “What if I’d rather call you Thomas?”

Those light blue eyes freeze over. “I’d tell you you’re shit out of luck.”

A chill paralyzes me as he flips to dangerous. “Razor it is.”

Razor looks over my hair with intense interest and follows a strand to where it lies on my bare shoulder. “Do you know what I was going to do?”

I inch my head left, then right. My mouth has completely dried out and I couldn’t speak if my life depended on it. Thomas freaking Turner—Razor of the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club—is so close I can feel the heat of his body. He’s close enough that with every inhale I can smell his delicious dark scent. He’s close enough I’m not thinking of guns or abductions or of any warnings I’ve ever heard, but of how my body is begging to take one step forward and touch that gorgeous face.

“I was never going to take your twenty dollars. I was going to get you on the back of my bike and take you for a ride.”

Dizziness sets in as I’m not sure if he means a ride home or a very consensual ride. And here’s the thing: I’m not the girl guys consider offering rides to—either the way home type or the type that’s making my toes pleasantly curl.

“And now?” I hate how my voice quakes with anticipation.

Razor picks up a lock of my hair and the skin he barely touched while lifting the strands tingles. He allows my hair to slide between his fingers and then he eases entirely too far from me, his warmth retreating with him. “And now I want something else for protecting you.”

The bell rings and I’m thirty seconds from being late to class. Panic rips through me as being late is so not what I do. Razor pivots on the balls of his feet and leaves. It’s like my world is being torn in two as I’m desperate to understand him while I fight this desire to remain the girl who obeys the rules. “Razor!”

He rotates and walks backward for his class. I’m guessing his “what?” expression is the most encouragement I’ll get.

“I don’t need you to protect me anymore.”

He releases that soul-squeezing smile. The one that screams dark nights and perilous bike rides at breakneck speeds. The one that reminds me he’s not a model, but a biker. “Yeah, you do. We’ll discuss payment later.”

I slip into the safety of my class and watch as Thomas Turner, Razor the motorcycle boy, strides into the classroom across from me. My hands tremble as I sit. My senior year just entered the realm of interesting.

RAZOR

WELCOME BACK, SENIORS.

It’s the message our English teacher would have given us a hundred extra credit points for if we deciphered it. I didn’t decode it, Breanna Miller did. Watching her do it in class was one of the most fascinating things I’ve seen and what kicks me in the nuts is that she didn’t turn it in. Didn’t take credit. Didn’t receive her reward for a job well done. She sat there, slightly angled in her chair, with that sexy little smirk on her face as she admired her answer.

“Are you smiling?” Chevy sits on the top of the picnic table, the second beer of the night in his hands.

A longneck’s also in my hands as I lean against the entrance of the clubhouse. One foot outside, the other one in. I’m waiting for my sentence for disobeying a direct order and Chevy’s trying to forget Violet. I rub a hand over my face to wipe away any type of grin—especially the type I didn’t know I was sporting.

The clubhouse is packed tonight. Row after row of motorcycles fill the yard and the crowd near the bar cheering on the Reds’ game is three men deep. The night’s warm and, with the number of members around, the bay doors of the clubhouse are wide-open. A combination of the scent of burning embers from the bonfire and spilt beer enters my nose.

The Reign of Terror clubhouse is an old two-story four-car garage that’s on property owned by Cyrus. I’ve spent a good majority of my life on this land. Some of it in the clubhouse, some of it in Cyrus’s log cabin house, but most of it in the thick surrounding woods playing with Oz, Chevy and Violet as kids.

I swirl the beer in the bottle. Breanna keeps me from drinking too much. She said she’s headed to Shamrock’s tonight. I shouldn’t care where she’s going or with who, but the thought of her there irritates me. Dad says the worst indigestion to have is from a girl.

The other night, I was fucking with Breanna—messing around—but I did promise to protect her. She’s not safe there. No girl is safe at Shamrock’s tonight.

“What do you know about Breanna Miller?” I focus on the beer label, acting as if that question doesn’t mean anything to me.

“She’s sexy,” Chevy answers. “Has legs that go on forever. Which I didn’t notice until orientation. I don’t remember her being like that last year.”

Me neither. Those wide hazel eyes, nice curves, and that silky-to-touch long midnight hair. I like tunneling my fingers into hair like that when I kiss a girl. Yeah, Breanna Miller transformed over the summer. That’s what I call blossoming.

Originally the plan was to convince her to hang with me for a night. A ride on my bike. Some kissing until she decided to stop, but after witnessing how her brain ticks, I need her for more. I plan on using her mind in exchange for my “protection.”

“She’s quiet. I’d only know her voice because it’s the one I haven’t heard over and over again like everyone else’s since middle school. I also know she’s smart.” Chevy puts down his beer and begins to flip a coin over his fingers. He’s been doing sleight of hand since we were kids and, to me, it never gets old. “She’s going to be one of those who leaves Snowflake and never looks back and then in thirty years she’ll be ruling the world.”

He preaches the truth. She’s straight A, award-winning, and has never said much in class for the past four years. Breanna’s one of those too-smart-for-her-environment types who’s biding her time until she’s eighteen and can get the hell out.

The coin disappears between his fingers, he claps his hands and when he shows me his palms the coin’s gone.

“Are you going to pull a rabbit out of your ass next?” I ask.

“No, but I’ll shove a rabbit up yours if you pull any of that shit again like you did with the Riot last night.”

“I was playing.”

He snorts. “Playing is dangling meat in front of hungry bears with anger issues. What you did last night was skipping through nuclear fallout. I’m not kicking you in the stones, man. I’m a friend trying to watch your back.”

I nod because that’s the best I got for him. The coin reappears as if from thin air and he’s flipping it through his fingers again at a rapid rate.

“Remember middle school with Breanna?” he asks. “She did that science project that re-created the telegraph or some shit like that. I remember my head hurting because I couldn’t understand half the crap she said.”

I chuckle because I do remember. I also recall hating her because I was proud of my exploding volcano. The moment she opened her mouth, there was no way I was going to win.

“Remember how Marc Dasher treated her after that?” Chevy says with a hint of pity.

“Yeah.” After her presentation, the bastard tortured Breanna. “We need to mess that guy up.”

“Patience” is all he says.

My eyebrows lift. Neither Chevy nor Oz are the type to walk from a fight, but they never search for one like me. As I’m about to ask what I’m missing, my father’s voice booms into the night. “Razor!”

The boisterous conversations cease and the droning baseball announcer is the lone sound.

“Find Oz,” I say. “I need you two to ride with me to Shamrock’s later.”

“Shamrock’s?” There’s a question in his tone and I understand why. “There’s going to be Army boys there causing problems tonight.”

“I know.” Breanna and her friends have no idea what they could be dancing into.

“Then I’m on it.” He slips off the table as it’s time for him to leave. Chevy’s seventeen and can’t enter his prospect period, the initiation time span when the club decides if someone should become a full-fledged member, until he’s eighteen. No one underage is allowed at the clubhouse after eight oh one. “Good luck in there.”

We smack hands, I take a fast swig from the longneck, then dump the nearly full beer into the trash. Everyone watches and half of me expects a muttered comment of “dead man walking,” but they keep their mouths shut. The shit I’m in is too deep for a smart-ass comment.

Dad’s already gone by the time I reach the door, so I head up the stairs. As the sergeant at arms, it’s Dad’s job to call people into the boardroom. It’s also his job to kick people out. Wonder how this evening will end.

I walk in and the chairs at the long mahogany table are filled. As president, Cyrus owns the head. He’s got a long beard and ponytail to match. He’s a bear of a man. I love him like a grandfather but have enough healthy fear to keep my distance when he’s pissed.

Cyrus’s son Eli sits on his right. The way Eli examines me gives the impression he’s about to yank his gun out of his holster, unload a clip into me, and will happily spend a few more years in prison over it. He tugs at the plugs in his ears and his gaze falls over to my father.

Dad drops into his seat next to Oz’s dad. There’s no seat for me, which is fine. I prefer to stand while being fired at. “I didn’t engage.”

But I would have and they know it.

“You messed up,” Eli states. “But the good news is you didn’t actually come face-to-face with them, so we’re going to call that one straight.”

Interesting. Last time I disobeyed a decree from the club’s bylaws, I was fined a hundred bucks and I had to clean bathrooms with the prospects for a month.

Eli stands and motions to his empty chair. “Take a seat.”

My eyes find Dad’s and he nods to confirm it’s cool. I move slowly to the table, waiting for a trapdoor to fly open beneath my feet. As I sit, Eli draws a folding chair up to the other side of Cyrus and straddles it directly across from me.

Cyrus may have been voted in by the members as president, but everyone knows that Eli is the chief of this tribe. Not because that’s how he wants it, it’s because every man who wears a Terror cut respects the hell out of him. But because of Eli’s stint in prison, he can’t hold an official office. “What went down with you and the detective?”

I could do a play-by-play, but talking that much to anyone isn’t my style. Instead, I pull out my phone, bring up the picture of Mom’s car, then slide my cell to Eli. “He gave me a file to look at and said that Mom’s death wasn’t an accident.”

There’s silence. It’s a silence so loud I can hear my pulse beneath my skin, the squeak of Cyrus’s chair as he readjusts, the inhale and exhale of breaths. What I loathe in this silence is how it doesn’t feel like shock or surprise. It’s more like guilt.

Dad balls his hands on the table and turns red—the same pissed-off reaction whenever we discuss Mom.

Eli scratches at the stubble on his jaw. “Did you take any more pictures?”

I remain mute and I don’t know why. The answer’s there with a swipe of his finger, it’s on the tip of my tongue, but then my sight lands on Dad again. He’s not lifted his head yet. He hasn’t said a word.

“What do you think of his claim?” asks Eli as he must take my lack of response as a no.

Honestly, didn’t think much of it until I noticed this reaction. “The detective believes the Terror was involved in her death.”

Eli’s dark eyes snap to mine and there’s a chorus of swears from around the room. It’s hard to rip my eyes away from Eli’s. His are as black as death, but with effort, I do, and I discover Dad’s empty seat. He presses his hands against the wall with his shoulders rolled forward. Even from here I can spot the cords of muscles in his neck as they stretch.

“Do you believe him?” Eli’s voice is pitched low. So low it’s almost hard to hear.

I want to answer immediately. To prove I’m a man and that nothing affects me, but he’s asking about my mother—the one person I loved more than my own life. “He said there weren’t skid marks. That there were no signs she tried to stop.”

“What are you saying?” It’s a grumble from my father.

The detective was correct on some things. Mom and Dad did fight in those last months. The memories of listening to her weep between the thin walls as Dad tore off on his bike still haunt me. And he brought a parade of women home a few short weeks after Mom died and then one stayed the night this week. But the idea my father worshipped me? That’s bullshit.

I suck in air and toss myself over the cliff. “Did she kill herself?”

“Razor,” starts Cyrus, but my father turns toward us and raises his hand in the air.

“Do you think the Terror had anything to do with her death?” Dad asks.

I should keep my mouth shut. I’ve tried to discuss Mom’s death with Dad. Each time, he shut me down, but I’ve never done it before in front of the board. Doing this could be a sign of disrespect, but it could also put pressure on him to grant me answers.

“I didn’t ask about the Terror,” I say. “I asked if she killed herself. I’m asking if she was so miserable with you and—” the words catch in my throat “—with me that she pressed on the gas and not on the brake and drove her car over the bridge.”

“Are those the options?” Dad challenges. “That she either killed herself or that one of us, one of your brothers, one of your family, killed her?”

“Did she hate us so much that death was her only option?”

“It was an accident,” says Eli, and I round on him too quick for it to be respectful.

“We all know that wasn’t an accident!”

“So you’re calling us liars?” Dad roars.

“Yes!” I jump to my feet because there’s too much adrenaline coursing through my body. They stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe I never had sanity to begin with. “I want the truth!”

“Say it, Razor!” Dad points at me. “Look me in the face and tell me you think one of us, one of your brothers, killed your mother.”

There’s pounding. The wooden gavel hitting the table. It shuts Dad up and that’s when I notice it—Dad and I are angled toward each other, primed and ready to attack, chests pumping hard in hurried breaths. The solid table the barrier that’s preventing us from going to blows.

“Sit down!” Cyrus demands.

Dad does, but I remain on my feet. “I want the truth!”

“We told you it was an accident!” Dad yells.

“And you’re full of shit!”

Cyrus beats the gavel against the table again and one by one the men of the board give me the same damn look of sympathy everyone in town does and it’s like someone has stoned me with sharp-edged rocks. Even now no one will tell me the full story.

“The cop said you and Mom fought,” I continue, not giving a fuck I’m in violation of a direct order.

“Razor,” warns Cyrus, but I ignore him.

“He said she was going to leave you. He said you notified the police of a problem with her way before you should have known there was one.”

“Thomas,” Cyrus tries again in a stronger voice, but even the use of my given name doesn’t stop the flood.

“He said you were the first to find her. If what you’ve given me is the truth, then why the hell didn’t I know any of that? All of it sounds like lies to me!”

“That’s enough!” Cyrus shouts.

But it’s not enough. It will never be enough until I get the truth. I’m dying and I’m begging. I’m mentally on my hands and knees willing anyone to tell me what I already know—that my mother committed suicide.

Because if someone tells the truth, maybe I can find a way to not be so screwed up.

But I don’t get an answer. Dad edges back his chair, stalks across the room and then throws open the door with so much force that it bangs off the wall. My insides hollow out as I realize no matter what I do, no matter what I say, I’m doomed to live in this gray, haunted realm of the unknown for the rest of my life.

Before the door closes, Oz’s dad is up and then the rest of the board abandon their seats and follow my father. It’s a show of support, a show of solidarity, and it’s not a show meant to praise me. I disrespected a brother, so therefore I disrespected them.

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.”

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