Walk The Edge (Thunder Road #2)(49)

“They’re not all like that,” he replies. They aren’t. Just like how all bikers aren’t criminals on parole.

Another round of messages involving Breanna, and the pencil in my hand snaps with a crack. Using those fast hands, Chevy swipes his cell off my desk and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans before the teacher can spot what’s set me off. The bell starting sixth period rings and it takes everything I have not to lose my shit.

People stare at me like I’m about to go nuclear bomb fallout. The guy in front of me scoots his desk forward. Yeah, *, I’m going to knock the hell out of you because someone else is putting lies on the internet.

He glances over his shoulder and I glare. On second thought, maybe I should beat him and every guy in this room senseless as a warning to mind their own business instead of expressing an opinion on someone else’s life. Piping in to join the masses because they’re grateful they aren’t the one being picked on. The kid in front of me with the overgelled hair turns red and mutters to his buddy next to him that I’m crazy.

“Fucking right I am,” I say.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Turner?” my science teacher asks.

I shake a no. The incredulous expression on her face says she doesn’t believe me.

This town has talked shit about me since Mom died, and most of the time I can tune it out, but this bull involving Breanna pisses me off. They can talk trash regarding me all they want, but they need to leave her alone. The only sin she’s committed has been being in the wrong place at the wrong time—with me.

Chevy’s writing in his notebook, then sliding the paper toward me. On it is the one word that makes me feel like a dick: firefly.

As an answer, I cross my arms over my chest, slouch in my seat and kick out my legs, letting my combat boots hit the chair in front of me. The kid flinches like he’s terrified. My lips edge up but then fall back down as Chevy’s message circles my mind: firefly. I spend a few minutes alone with Breanna and I’m killing her.

Our teacher has begun to bore us with her theatrics when Mr. Duncan leans in from the hallway. He’s a tall man, gray-haired, old enough that he taught my dad and Eli, and is built like a linebacker. His best attribute? He’s one of the few people in town who’s a friend of the Terror.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “But I need Thomas Turner.”

Chevy peers over at me and someone does that annoying “Ohhhh” in a singsong voice, like getting called into the principal’s office is the equivalent of being sent to death row.

I grab my notebook and haul it to the hallway before my teacher asks questions. Duncan starts toward the stairwell and I follow him down.

When I catch up with him on the landing, he speaks. “Talked to Cyrus, Eli and your dad today. They’re on board with what I’m about to tell you.”

When he knows I’m solidly listening, he continues down the stairs. “Remember those tests you took at the end of the year? Not the state ones, but the ones to figure out placement?”

We take a shit ton of tests. Sometimes it feels we test more than we do actual learning.

Duncan pauses outside his classroom. “Turns out you did well.”

My forehead furrows. “What?”

“Enough seniors tested high enough that we were able to create college credit classes for the other subjects, but only four of you passed the science AP exam. We received permission from the state to set up an independent study for AP physics. You’ll sit in the back of my earth science class and watch videos, take tests online, and there will be projects you’ll turn in to me on occasion. You’ll need to buddy up with one of the students for projects. I’ll leave it up to the four of you to decide who is paired with who.”

I nod to confirm I’m absorbing. Gotta admit, it’s a high to hear I’ve done well.

“Either you can do this on your own or you can’t. If you act like a fool, then you’ll go back to biology. Some of the administration are balking at you being in this program, but I stuck my neck out for you. If my head gets chopped off because you act like an idiot, then I’m tearing your balls off, son.”

Besides the fact that his son is our brother, his attitude is why he’s a friend of the Terror. “Yes, sir.”

A grin cracks onto that weathered face and he pats my back. “I also told the administration you’d start leaving your cut at home.”

“Tomorrow.” I strode into school with it, and if I don’t leave school with it on, it’ll be the same as shuffling away with my tail between my legs.

“Tomorrow. There are four computers set up in a study room in the back. If you have questions, find me before or after school and I’ll answer.”

Duncan walks into his classroom, which sounds on the verge of going Lord of the Flies. He shouts at them to “Quiet down,” and because he can be an intimidating son of a bitch, they do. Then every eye lands on me.

Someone mutters, “Great,” and my eyes hit Kyle Hewitt in the back left corner. There’s no way this moron made it into an advanced class.

“Is there a problem, Hewitt?” Duncan asks.

“Not as long as you sit him far from me.” Kyle assumes he has the upper hand. Poor boy will cry when I nail his coffin shut with him in it still alive.

A knock on the door and two more guys appear.