Walk the Edge (Thunder Road, #2)(31)

She asked a question. I should focus on that and on the ground. She asked about the wounded guy in the alley. The guy who joined the Army and for some reason has ticked off his squad. Will he be okay? Fuck no. He’ll receive worse later because we intervened now. “It’s taken care of.” For the moment.

“What are your friends going to do?”

Deniability will be her best companion. “Walk the guy on the ground out.”

Breanna relaxes in my arms and a part of me hates that she’s reading exactly what I wanted into my answer. She’s too trusting. Like I’ve been too trusting of the club.

I drove my bike, but Chevy and Oz rode in Eli’s truck. Chevy had plans to get hammered, but that field trip into the alley may be the release he was searching for. I lean Breanna into me so I can undo the latch to the tailgate, then gently place her on the bed of the truck.

Breanna slides from my arms, and because she’s unsteady, I edge forward to offer her support with my upper body. Her hands slowly slip from my neck to my shoulders, then land on my chest. She looks up and those hazel eyes consume me like I’m some sort of savior.

She has rose-petal lips. They’re perfect and begging to be kissed. I could do it. God knows she’s not thinking straight. I watched her down two drinks in less than a half hour and everything from her body weight to her reputation at school screams lightweight.

Breanna tilts her head in invitation and suddenly I’m drawn to accept. This girl is gorgeous. There’s an exotic beauty to her with that dark hair and tanned skin. How have I missed her all these years?

I hesitate. Tear marks and dark smudges around her eyes. Breanna was crying. That’s why she bolted from the club, why we find ourselves on the back of Eli’s truck.

Chevy’s last words ring in my head. “Are you hurt?”

Her forehead furrows. “What?”

“Chevy said you were bleeding.”





Breanna

RAZOR’S TALKING, BUT the words aren’t registering. I’m guessing it’s because his palms are pressed against the bed of the truck, near my legs. His thumbs move—a brush against the material of my skirt. Each slow circle sends a jolt of electricity from my thighs straight to my stomach, and it’s a glorious feeling.

He’s touching me. Thomas Turner, Razor of the Reign of Terror, is on purpose touching me. And if that wasn’t enough, his body is wedged between my legs and he’s leaning toward me, into my personal space. That angelic face is so close. Beautifully close. Close enough that seconds ago I was absolutely convinced he was going to kiss me.

My body hums with expectation, with this secret uncontrollable desire. I’ve been kissed before—at a party. It was freshman year and it was Reagan’s birthday and there was a game. But that was awkward and this is a gravitational pull.

“Breanna,” Razor says in this deep voice that rumbles to my toes. “Are you bleeding?”

My eyes snap to my elbow and Razor steps back, taking my arm into his hands. Oh, God, my fingers had been lying against his chest. My face flushes hot with the idea of what has transpired between us and somehow that brief moment was important and I didn’t fully appreciate any of it because my mind is swimming.

His rough fingers delicately sweep across the area near my elbow. “You peeled back the first thin layer, but it’s not too bad. Bet it burns like a bitch.”

It does, a little, but I’m more interested in the tiny electric shocks happening with his caress. “I’m fine. I ran into the wall when you popped out.”

Razor keeps his hold on my arm, sliding his fingers gently along the scrape, and he doesn’t talk. We look at each other and it feels oddly comfortable.

I could get used to this type of comfortable.

But then the entire world shifts and nausea twists my stomach. Strong hands grip my shoulders and I grab on to Razor’s wrists as an anchor.

“The world’s moving,” I say. “And it’s moving fast.”

“The alcohol’s taking over.”

“I didn’t drink that much,” I whisper as the lights from a passing car blinds me. “At least I don’t think I did.”

“You drank enough.”

I continue to use him as an anchor and he continues to keep me from drifting off into this dizzying storm. Eventually the spinning stops and I inhale twice before trying to salvage my pride. I am never drinking again. “I’m serious. I only drank a little.”

“So you’re a little drunk?”

My spine straightens. Kyle said everyone at school laughs at me. Why would Razor be an exception? I release him and I do it with enough of a shove that he retreats.

“Are you making fun of me, too?”

He’s silent and I clearly hear the answer. Yes, he is. Yes, he thinks I’m a freak. Yes, I definitely made a fool out of myself.

“No,” he says. “Is that why you bolted from the club? Was Hewitt talking shit?”

Yes. Yes, he was. I throw my head back and appraise the stars. I could tell Razor everything. Tell him how Kyle demanded I write his papers. Tell him how he offered me the ability to be seen in a way that won’t be an encore of middle school, but where would that get me? Nowhere. Plus telling Razor would suggest we’re friends, and besides the people who belong to the Reign of Terror, he has never done friends, not even in sixth grade.