Walk The Edge (Thunder Road #2)(70)

“There’s no way to hide the gunshot wound,” Eli says. “The hospital will call the police. Razor understood what he was taking on when he agreed to let us patch him here.”

“You’re putting him through this to save an account with your company?” she spits.

“I’m doing this because we don’t want the police to know he’s been hit. It’ll be public information then. Fuck the company. This could be the Riot, and I will not have them thinking he’s weak. If they think that, I might as well sign his death certificate now.”

“He’s our family, Eli! Basically my son! I can’t let him die because of an allergic reaction!”

“He’s my son, too, my f*cking brother, and I’m trying to keep him alive!” Eli snaps, and I grasp firmly on to Breanna’s hand. Damn, I need to open my eyes. Going toe-to-toe with Eli is like playing with a loaded semiautomatic weapon with the safety off.

“You don’t think it’s killing me to see him like this?” Eli yells. “You said the shit we put in the IV would help!”

“I said it might help!” she shouts back. “But he’s not

responding!”

I swallow and it’s like the middle of Arizona in my mouth. “Don’t, Breanna.”

Silence.

“What the hell did he say?” asks Eli.

Another squeeze of my hand. “Open your eyes, Thomas.”

Too many muscles involved in hoisting my lids. I crack them open and blink to force the blobs of color to merge into something recognizable.

Breanna’s missing, and in her place is Rebecca. Her dark hair is pulled back in a bun, and she wears her blue nursing scrubs. Dad stands behind her, and he rolls his neck like he’s relieved.

“Welcome back,” says Rebecca. “How do you feel?”

I swallow again, and my throat’s as bad as my mouth. “Like I’ve been shot, then I used my skin to scrape off some blacktop.”

Chuckles in the room and Eli mumbles something about telling everyone I’m coming around. Rebecca’s asking me questions. My full name. How old I am. Her name. Everyone in the room’s name, then road name. She’s checking an IV bag that’s attached to a pole. Inspecting my wounds. Looking at my eyes.

“How bad?” I ask.

“Flesh wound with the bullet,” she answers. “Good thing you were wearing jeans and your leather jacket when you took the spill. It could have been worse.”

I nod as a fuzzy memory of already having this conversation squeezes out. Blood loss from the flesh wound and sinking blood pressure made me dizzy and I wiped out on my bike. Club got me back here banged up, bleeding and bruised.

We were hired by the company because they wanted their loads delivered safely and they preferred no bad press if there were problems, which means we keep everything quiet. Eli’s right, I agreed to be treated by friends of the club away from the hospital, but Rebecca is also right—dying from an allergic reaction wasn’t on my bucket list.

“I’d feel better if you stayed awake for a while,” she says.

Cyrus, Eli and my father congregate in the doorway. When they notice me staring, they all give me a chin lift of approval.

There’s a round of cheers from below and that’s when I realize I’m in one of the private rooms in the clubhouse.

“The club’s been sitting vigil. Oz and Chevy are ready to start throwing fists if they don’t let them up soon,” Rebecca whispers as she peels back the bandage on my arm.

I scrub my face with my other hand and I’m smacked with an IV line. No way I heard her correctly. “Thought I was the black sheep of this club.”

“Sweetheart, you’re all black sheep.” Rebecca winks. “And, by the way, when you’ve had a few minutes to get your bearings, you’re filling me in on who Breanna is.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, then close my eyes again.





Breanna

ME: I’ve figured out the second code. I don’t understand the meaning, but maybe you will. It’s the third time I’ve texted this to Razor and it makes me dizzy with nerves that he has yet to reply.

I twine my fingers around a lock of my hair and pull as I scan the hallway again. The internet articles I read on the Reign of Terror circle my brain: Reign of Terror member shot by a rival club in Louisville this summer, Reign of Terror member killed in a hit-and-run accident last year, and an article from a few years back that detailed carnage between the Reign of Terror and another club not mentioned by name before my birth.

It’s been three days since I’ve heard from Razor and I’m losing my mind.

“Bre!” Addison blocks my view of the hall and I blink at her harsh tone. “You aren’t even listening to me.”

No, I wasn’t. “Sorry.”

“I’m serious about this. If you’re going to date him, you need to tell somebody.”

Addison was jump-up-and-down-with-joy when I told her that Razor and I were in an undefined relationship, but with each day that passes, my forever-positive best friend has developed into a worrywart.

“You count as somebody,” I say.

“Not what I mean.” She slips in front of me again when I turn my head, searching for Razor in the hallway thick with students waiting for the morning bell to ring. “You need to tell someone else...like your parents.”