Long Way Home (Thunder Road #3)(66)

“That changes things.”

“Can you protect my family? My mom? My brother? Because the Riot threatened them.”

“You’ve got my word. Now tell me the problem.”

“When I was alone with Justin from the Riot, he told me that it was me they wanted to talk to and that Chevy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It’s what I thought.”

“Why?”

“You’re the wild card. Everyone else is too loyal to crack. What does the Riot want?”

My lungs can’t draw in air. “Eli.”

“How?”

“My dad was the accountant for the club and the business. The Riot want me to find account numbers. I don’t know what they’re going to do with them, but they said they’re going to make Eli look bad with them. Bad enough he’ll be sent to prison.”

“Why haven’t you told Eli? Anyone in the Terror? Why me?”

“Because the Riot have left me notes in my room at Cyrus’s cabin—in the heart of Terror territory. There is someone who slips in and out of Cyrus’s home, past prospects, past an entire clubhouse full of men, past Eli. There’s a traitor and what if I tell Eli and he trusts the wrong person? I won’t risk my family.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“This feud with the Riot, it has to change. It has got to end. I need it to end.”

He watches me as he processes my words. “How do you think it should end?”

“With every single member of the Riot in jail.”

The detective smiles and it could rival Pigpen’s crazy one any day. “I can’t guarantee them all, but we’ll get the main ones. Got an idea of how to do that, but it’s going to take some guts on your part. How do you feel about that?”

For the first time in weeks, like I’m alive. “Bring it.”





CHEVY

RAZOR AND I sit on stools at the clubhouse bar and we’re both working on math.

I got in from Louisville around nine and my plan to hang and talk with Violet went wayward when she packed up and headed home. A quick hug and a kiss and she told me she’d see me tomorrow.

Too jacked in the head to return to an empty condo, I stuck around here, playing pool, playing darts, watching the MMA fights with the other guys from the club, and then when Razor settled in to do his homework, I did the same.

We’ve been doing this since we were kids. Papers sprawled out along the bar during quiet weeknights. There’s a reddish glow on the pages from the neon signs on the wall, a low hum from the refrigerator that holds the longnecks, the background noise created by whatever sport is on TV, and the cracking of pool balls and murmur of low conversation that keep us company.

Back in elementary school, we were doing coloring sheets and seek-and-finds. Now Razor is working on college-level math. I do well in school, but don’t hold a candle to him in the brains department.

Razor absently rubs at a healing wound on his arm, then goes back to his pencil flying at a hundred miles per hour. Razor’s a genius at math. He’s also a genius at technology, writing programs and cracking computer code. Actual life skills that will help him in the future.

Me? Razor’s phone on the bar vibrates. He goes for it, stretching his arm, and his elbow collides with an open beer. It falls off the bar. In a second it’s in my grasp, then back near Razor and not a drop spilled. Yeah, Razor’s got brains and I’ve got fast hands.

As long as I was playing ball, there was a usefulness for my fast hands, but now, with football gone, I’m feeling lost in my purpose.

Razor blinks several times. “Reflexes of a ninja.”

I shrug and close my math book, today’s homework and most of what I missed last week now completed.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You border on superhero with how fast you can move.”

“Not like it helps me.”

Razor’s cold blue eyes flicker over my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

To be honest... “I don’t know.”

I shove my math book and folder into my pack and open my English folder. Staring at me is my makeup assignment.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both. Instructions: Write an essay explaining how you’ve handled two roads diverging in your life. Use parts of the poem to explain how you made the decision of what path to take.

I hate English. “You do this yet?”

Razor gives a grim nod.

“What did you write about?”

He takes a slow drink from that longneck, then sets it back on the bar. “I wrote about Breanna.”

Punch to the gut. It’s been a few weeks since her parents sent her to a private school far from here. “You don’t mind our teacher reading something personal?”

“I don’t care if she knows I love Breanna. Besides, the lady hates me and probably won’t read it anyhow.”

“Still haven’t heard anything?” Breanna’s parents have forbidden them to have contact.

“The club has reached out to her parents, though. They’re trying to make things work so they’ll let her talk to me again.” He peels at the label on the beer. “Can’t help but wonder if by being away she’ll figure out she’s better without me. Find somebody else.”