Walk the Edge (Thunder Road, #2)(50)

“Is this the room for AP physics?” one of them asks while cowardly sizing me up.

“You’re late,” Duncan says, ignoring the guy who’s trying to explain why they’re late. “This is Razor, he’ll be taking the class with you. I want partner matchups turned in to me this afternoon. What are you, morons?”

Duncan’s across the room and yelling at some kid who has his hand caught in the blinds.

“Should we wait for the fourth person before we partner out?” one of the guys suggests, but I’m no longer listening as my gaze meets wide hazel eyes.

Breanna blinks when she enters the classroom and I want to kick myself for not thinking ahead that she’d test into this course. She scans the room full of students, spots Kyle fuming, and I decide it’s time to start f*cking with the boy.

He demanded that I leave the situation with Breanna alone—threatening to destroy her if I interfere with his plan—but according to his rules, he can’t do shit if I’m hanging with her because of school. Time to inform him he’s not the only one holding some strings.

“Duncan,” I call, and that stops the low murmur of conversation that had started when Duncan went to untangle the idiot in the back.

“Yeah?”

“Miller’s my partner.”

Breanna’s head slowly tilts to the side as if I spoke in another language and she’s trying to translate what I said.

“Works for me.” He gestures to a room in the back. “Get in there and get working.”

The two guys head for the room, and when Breanna stays cemented in her spot, I wave my hand like a gentleman for her to go before me. I follow her as she trudges down the aisle. This time when Kyle looks at us, he doesn’t smirk. This time he’s pissed and I lift my lips in grim satisfaction. Game on.





Breanna

“ARE YOU INSANE?” I whisper-shout. “Have you absolutely lost your mind?”

Razor drops into the corner seat in the long, narrow room built to inventory textbooks. The walls are floor-to-ceiling metal shelves and have become a holding cell for me and the other AP physics students.

He angles his head so he can peer past me, and when I glance over my shoulder, I notice how the other pair reside as far from us as possible an entire classroom length away.

“Most people do think I’m crazy.” Razor kicks out his legs and folds his hands over his stomach. He wraps his booted foot around the leg of a chair and angles it toward me like he’s encouraging me to sit.

I collapse into it, then push back in an effort to create space between us. I prop my elbow on the table that houses our computer and lean my head into my hand as my stomach plummets. This situation is absolutely hopeless.

“Kyle’s mad,” Razor states.

“No kidding,” I mumble. “And he’s going to post that picture because of it. Do you care to explain how this helps me or were you lying to me about the whole protecting me garbage?”

“We do have an agreement.” An unfamiliar tremor runs through me with Razor’s deep voice. “Hewitt thinks he holds the power. I’m letting him know the power works both ways.”

“He’s going to post that picture!”

Razor reclines forward and his blue eyes pierce me. His body is so massive that he fills the windowless, cramped room that has more dust bunnies than square footage.

“Hewitt needs you. Never forget you also have power. I get you don’t want the picture posted, but that bastard is using fear to control you. You hired me and I’m covering your six by showing him we aren’t scared of him.”

My throat tightens. “But I am scared.”

“Don’t be. I’m telling you, that picture won’t go up.”

My temples throb and I slip the spiral-bound, printed-out wannabe textbook off the table in an attempt to pretend these past two days never happened. My eyes scan the page as if I’m interested in the words, but I’m not. I’m mad at Razor. At least I should be, but with each second that passes, the anger recedes.

“I heard what’s going down on Bragger,” Razor finally says. “You deserve better.”

I bite my lip, then summon the courage to look at him. “I’m sorry, too. People have said terrible things about you and that’s not fair, especially when what they’re saying isn’t true.”

“People talk shit. It happens. Don’t worry about me. You okay?”

Not at all. “I’ll be happy when people move on to talking about someone else. Did you also watch Bragger today with agonizing despair?”

“I avoid shit like Bragger, but Chevy showed me some of the feed. I’m not interested in what most people have to say to my face, much less what they have to say when they have the safety of a computer to hide behind.”

“I wish I was more like you.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but only men can join the Terror. But if you’re completely heartbroken, you can try to join the Terror Gypsies. That’s the women’s support group.”

“I wasn’t talking about joining your gang,” I say.

“Club,” he corrects. “Not gang.”

What’s the difference? “Fine—club, but even if I were, I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle.” Like that’s the sole thing stopping me from dancing over the line into crazy.