Walk The Edge (Thunder Road #2)(8)

“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.”