Nowhere But Here (Thunder Road #1)(57)

Violet hands me a glass, sits next to me on the swing and tips her cup toward me. “To staying cool.”

I clink her glass and appreciate the slices of lemon floating among the ice cubes. Wow, I didn’t know that people drank lemonade like this. I let the cool liquid run down my throat.

Olivia’s house doesn’t have air-conditioning and the temperatures are easily climbing near the one hundred mark. Inside is dark, but the outside has a breeze. The clubhouse has central air, but I’m not too interested in hanging out in there again...ever.

“You’re wearing my skirt,” Violet says.

“It’s short,” I say. “But thank you. This was an unexpected visit and I didn’t exactly come prepared.”

“It is short, but I only wear it on special occasions.” She waggles her eyebrows, giving me the impression that the kisses she receives from guys don’t remind her of dead fish.

Oz is crouched in front of the jacked-up car and he looks up at me. His shirt is wet from the heat and stretched tight across his chest. A sheen of sweat glistens against his skin and the sight is way prettier than I really think it should be. The boy is definitely ripped.

“Don’t let the pretty muscles fool you,” she says, catching me ogling. “Oz is married to the club and we both know that once you’re married anything else becomes the dirty mistress.”

Well, to be honest, I never thought much of being married or of being a mistress, but what she says sounds logical.

“Plus, you’d be another number in a long line of girls with him.” Violet studies me as if she can tell my virginity status like carnival roadies can guess weight and age. “I have a feeling you aren’t the hook-up type.”

I’m not and I also prefer for my sex life, or lack thereof, to remain private. “Doesn’t matter. I’m only visiting.”

“That’s not a bad thing—not being the hook-up type,” she says, ignoring me. “And neither is being the girl who likes the hook-up. What makes any of it wrong is when you pretend to be something you’re not. That’s when the heartache starts.”

Violet drinks from her lemonade like she didn’t just say something profound. None of my friends have ever said anything so blatant in regards to sex. Usually if they do, it’s associated with gossip. Until now, hooking up has never been used as a proverb for how to live life.

I immediately love, hate and envy Violet. Bet the guys she’s kissed didn’t fumble around her body like they were putting together a Lego set without instructions. “You know Oz and Chevy?” Back to safe conversations.

“We were raised together. I used to think it was a conspiracy. That maybe the old ladies scheduled their ovulation dates to create the quintessential quintet. I have a feeling they were disappointed that I was a girl.”

Okay, several things going on there. “Old ladies?”

Violet grins and the hardness fades. In its place is a very soft, very teenage girl. Her blue eyes laugh before she does and what I enjoy about the laugh is it’s not so much at me as with me.

“Telling off Oz and you don’t know what an old lady is? Please never leave Snowflake. Stay here and be the only sane person besides me. Even better idea, take me with you. Florida has more sane people, right?”

I laugh, loudly. So loud that all three guys glance over at us.

“Ignore them.” She waves them off like they’re flies. “Did you know that we were supposed to be best friends?”

I force a swallow so I don’t choke.

“Our moms were close. Hung out a lot...and I can see from the look on your face that I might as well be speaking Chinese.”

I clear my throat and try to figure out the exact expression that gave me away. Whatever it was, I need to master it if I’m going to decipher this puzzle. “My mom doesn’t talk about Kentucky. It’s a sore spot for her.”

“Figures. I’m going to erase Snowflake from my memory after I leave this rat-infested doorway to hell.”

“Do you know much about my mom?” And me?

The breeze lifts part of her red hair. “Nope. I hope you don’t take offense at this, but no one talks about either of you. It’s a taboo subject.”

“Oh.” We both drink from our lemonade and I search for something to ease the awkward silence. “You didn’t say what old ladies were.”

“Wives or serious girlfriends of club members. It’s this special designation that means you belong to a guy and no one can mess with you without serious consequences.”

“Belong?” I don’t care for the sound of that.

“Some other clubs call the women their property.”

“Property?” I’ve turned into a parrot.

“The Terror don’t take it that far. Oz’s mom, Izzy? If she ever heard Oz’s dad calling her property, she’d tear his privates off and hand his balls to him. It’s still a boys’ club, though. Don’t fool yourself into thinking anything different.”

She slides her thumb against the condensation of the glass creating a path. My chest aches for her. Being the sole girl surrounded by a boys’ club. It must be lonely. “Who’s part of the quintet?”

“It was supposed to be you, me, Chevy, Oz and Razor. Razor was born first and the rest of us popped out within a year. Have you met Razor yet?”