Walk the Edge (Thunder Road, #2)(28)

My mouth dries out. I bet he can dance. I bet he could rival any Army boy here. I bet he’s every fantasy I’ve ever had and I bet he’s a fantastic kisser.

I smile. He smiles. I melt.

Addison appears by my side and whispers in my ear, “What is up with you and Thomas Turner?”

I give her my best answer. “I don’t know.”

“He’s hot,” she says.

I agree, he is. I should stop looking at him, but I can’t, and I love that he hasn’t stopped watching me. He inclines his head as if he’s assessing my outfit. To show off my dress, I cock a hip and even lift my skirt like I’m about to perform a curtsy. I’m here to be seen, to be someone other than the Breanna everyone thinks they know, and I like being seen by Thomas Turner.

His response is a raised red plastic cup in my direction. The smile on my face grows and there’s a tingle in my blood as the corners of his mouth tip higher.

There’s a boldness I have in this moment I’ve never had before and I’m not done admiring all that Thomas Turner is. Not Thomas Turner—Razor of the Reign of Terror. “He’s trouble.”

“Sometimes a girl needs a little trouble.” Addison howls as she twirls me, breaking my connection with Razor. “I told you this year was going to be different.”

I’ve had three drinks tonight. My lips purse together. Maybe four. Is it normal to lose count? They were sweet and tasted like strawberries and I feel light on my feet and I also feel pretty.

I love my dress. It’s formfitting, except for the skirt, which ends above my knees and flares out at the hem. The dress is royal blue and it reminds me of the pretend games Addison and I used to play when we were five. We dreamed we were princesses and this dress swishes in a way that makes me grin. What I really love is how a few guys have studied me like I was someone worth giving their attention to.

I keep spinning, but my feet don’t and then my entire body jerks into something hard.

“Hi.” The voice is gravelly, and when I glance up, I frown. Yes, this place is wall-to-wall testosterone from the Army base and, yes, we are not the sole girls from school who decided this was the first pit stop for senior year, but boys from school should not be invited.

Well, Razor can be invited, but that’s because he’s the type of guy who would show because he wasn’t invited.

“Hi.” I push away from Kyle Hewitt. It’s not that Kyle’s disgusting to look at. He’s far from it. He has that grown-man baby face so many girls fall for, but after orientation I associate him with Satan.

“Do your parents know you’re here?” he asks.

“Do yours?” I retort.

He smirks as he leans back against the bar. We’re in the corner and beside him his friends regard me as they always do, as if they barely recognize me.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper the other night,” Kyle says. “It doesn’t make what I did right, but I’ve been under pressure. From my coach, from my teachers, from my parents...”

Kyle pauses on parents and there’s a shifting in the hate I have for him. I never entertained much thought involving Kyle until he cornered me and asked me to write his papers in exchange for money. But when he brings up parental expectations—family expectations—I can understand.

How many times have I wanted to scream at my parents that I’m not a live-in nanny nor their prize-winning state fair intelligent pumpkin, but never do? “It’s okay.”

“Good,” he responds.

I consider the conversation done and start to walk away, but evidently Kyle didn’t receive the memo that I’m not in a talkative mood—at least with him. “Bre, I need this help. What can I do to get you to write these papers?”

There’s the use of my nickname again—like he knows me, but he doesn’t. “I’m not writing your papers.”

“You’re smart.” He points to his temple as if trying to explain where my “smart” originates. “You’re getting out of Snowflake easy. Me? I’m not smart, but I can play football. I’m good at it. I understand it. If I don’t get my grades up, I’m going to be stuck in this dump town working in that mindless factory like my dad and his dad. I’m desperate.”

I can tell by the hurt in his eyes that he is, but writing his papers for him is wrong. Cheating is wrong. All of this is wrong. “I can help you. I can read over the papers you write. Give you some advice and pointers—”

“I’ll tell your parents you were here,” he cuts me off. “If you don’t write the papers for me, I’ll tell them you were drunk.”

I laugh even though I shouldn’t find his statement funny. “I am not drunk.”

He smiles and it baffles me. Maybe he’s not as bad as I think. “Yeah, you are. Come on. What do you want? A date to senior prom? Everyone knows Reagan talked one of her friends into taking you to junior prom. He told everyone she begged.”

My stomach lurches and my hand lands on my midsection. I didn’t know that and my forehead wrinkles as I try to figure out if it’s true.

“If you don’t want me to take you to prom, then tell me what guy you want as a date and I’ll make it happen. Then I’ll make sure no one but you, me and him knows. Hand to God, no one else will find out. Do you want to be on the homecoming court? I’ll convince my friends to vote for you. I saw you joined Bragger. Do you want everyone at school to follow you? Consider yourself followed. Name your price.”