“I’ll remember you agreed to this.”
“So will I. My mind is a steel trap.”
He laughs and I frown. He said something earlier about me being drunk and maybe I am, but he doesn’t understand. When I say I’ll remember, I will. “My mind’s messed up. Messed up like there’s something wrong with me.”
Razor’s face falls. “What?”
I wave off his concern. “It’s not brain damage. Well...maybe. I have this huge family, so maybe I was dropped on my head a couple times as a kid. It wouldn’t shock me. You should have seen how many times Liam dropped Joshua, but anyhow, according to my parents I was born with my wires crossed. You see, whenever I learn something that’s random, it stays.”
Razor scratches his jaw again, and this time I notice how smooth it is. I would give anything to skim my fingers against his skin. Now, that would be bold.
“What do you mean, it stays?”
I flutter my fingers in the air, mocking a magician’s assistant. “It stays in my head. All the random facts and knowledge, they never go away. Weird, right?”
RAZOR
WEIRD? THAT’S THE coolest thing I’ve heard. It also explains a ton about Breanna Miller. “You have a photographic memory.”
She shakes her head too fast, and because she’s drunk, she needs to stop or she’ll get dizzy again. “Not even close. I suck at math. Like, suck. As in the moment a number is brought up, it’s like I’m surrounded by darkness. And I don’t remember everything, but I have this crazy ability to remember facts. Really weird, random facts. Like, by the time I was three, I knew the state capitals.”
By the time I was three, I could recite the Reign of Terror creed. “All of them?”
“All of them.” She curls her fingers in and out like a fighter pointing out someone in the ring. “Bring it. Ask me for the capital of any state. This freak show carny ride is officially open for business.”
My finger taps against my leg. I’m curious, but I don’t like how she’s putting herself down. Breanna releases this sly smile. “Is the big, bad biker scared to play along?”
No one teases me, yet I’m captivated by her courage. “Fine. What’s the capital of Indiana?”
“Psh, everyone knows that. Indianapolis. Another one. A harder one.”
I search for a capital I know that I don’t think anyone else does. “Rhode Island.”
She claps her hands. “The boy knows how to play! Now, Rhode Island is the smallest US state in land area, but did you know it ranks number two in population density per square mile? That means there are a lot of people in each others’ space. Oh, and the capital is Providence.”
Damn. It’s like watching reverse Jeopardy. “That’s cool.”
Breanna runs her fingers through her black hair, then fists her hand at the ends. “If only everybody thought that way.”
The conversation I had with Chevy cues up. Middle School. Marc Dasher. The one time Breanna Miller attempted to show the world this trick. That year must have been hell for her.
“Random facts aren’t the only thing you’re good at, are they? You solved the brainteaser in English.” Her cute, kissable mouth gapes and I forge ahead. “I was sitting behind you.”
Breanna nibbles on the inside of her lip and studies me like she’s questioning the past few minutes between us. “No one knows this part about me. Not even Addison and Reagan.”
“I won’t tell. Any promise I make is set in stone.”
“You could be lying,” she says.
“Could. But why?”
“Good point.” She picks nonexistent lint off her dress. “Puzzles and brainteasers...that is like crack cocaine to me. It’s another weird part of my screwed-up mind. The moment I see a puzzle or a riddle, I start dissecting it, then reconstruct everything so it makes sense. It can be annoying sometimes. My mind tries to find logic in the illogical. Sometimes life chooses to be random.”
“Why didn’t you turn in the brainteaser?” I ask.
She ducks her head to avoid my eyes. “It’s easier to not be seen.”
I like looking at Breanna and I sure as hell like listening to her, too. If the pricks inside that bar or at school can’t appreciate what she has to offer, I do. “Hewitt made you feel bad.”
Her silence is confirmation.
“I don’t know you,” I say, “and you don’t know me, but I do have a good read on when people are full of shit and Hewitt and guys like him are a mobile home septic tank.”
That gains her undivided attention. “Am I full of crap?”
“Shit,” I repeat. She blushes like I told a dirty joke, and I can’t help but grin with her. “Letting whatever Hewitt said get to you—that’s full of shit. You standing out here letting their words make you feel bad—that’s full of shit. Not turning in the answer for the bonus points—that was definitely full of shit.”
Watching her dance with her friends and seeing her throw her head back and laugh—that wasn’t full of shit. Listening to her explain how her mind works—that wasn’t full of shit, either. “The Breanna Miller who danced and figured out the code wouldn’t listen to some asshole guy.”
“You don’t get it,” she says. “You don’t care what anyone thinks. You walk around in your scary cut, and if you don’t like what people say, you throw a punch or have a million bigger, badder biker guys who will throw a punch for you. I can’t throw a punch, and besides Addison and Reagan, I don’t have a million people behind me. I have less than one year left in this hellhole and then I can leave town and become anyone I want to be. In a year, I don’t have to be Breanna Miller. Not number five in the line of nine and not the standby joke for boys at school.”
“I do get it.” More than she thinks. I’m the one who’s overheard the town gossip about how my mom died and why. Breanna goes to argue, but I cut her off. I’m not interested in discussing Mom, especially after what happened with the board. “I do get it. End of story.”
She flinches, interpreting my words as a reprimand. Not my intention, but the conversation had to end. I need you to help me figure out if my mom killed herself or if she was murdered, but I don’t know how to ask. “I’m your bodyguard, right?”
Breanna dramatically inclines her head and strands of her hair fall into her face. “Beyond words being used as knives, the only terrifying part of this town is the Reign of Terror. So are you saying you’re going to protect me from you?”
She might need it. “I came here tonight to watch over you. You and I, we made a deal. We shook on it, and as I’ve said, once you make a deal with the Terror, you don’t break it. But I’m going to give you a chance to back out with no repercussions.” Because I like her and she shouldn’t feel forced to hang out with me, no matter how much I need her help.
“You came here because of me?”
I already told her that and I don’t repeat myself. I cross my arms over my chest and wait for my statement to sink in.
“You’re taking this bodyguard thing seriously, aren’t you?”
I keep to myself that she should be glad I upheld my end of our agreement. “I’ve protected you twice. Now I need something from you, but if you don’t want to help me, I’ll let you out of our deal with no hard feelings.”
Breanna yawns and her eyes grow heavy. She’s the type who gets tired when she drinks instead of annoying or weepy. It’s one more thing I like about her. “What do you need?”
“Your brain.”
Breanna
MY BRAIN. HE NEEDS my brain. Of course he does. Why else would he be talking to me? No guy would choose to be alone to kiss me. I practically threw myself at Razor, confessing I was hoping to be kissed, and he gives me a rain check, which I’m realizing is the equivalent of a gentle letdown. What was I expecting? Him to admit he lured me to the bed of his truck to ra
vish my body?
Yeah, I know. I’m supposed to be this twenty-first-century woman and obsessed with a man desiring me for my massive intellect. I am woman, hear me roar, and all that stuff, but for once, it would have been really freaking awesome to be the girl in the pretty dress left alone with the gorgeous bad boy who wants to kiss me.
I evidently expected too much out of the universe. “I’m not writing your papers.”
Razor goes rock solid and I make myself smaller when those blue eyes ice over again. “Did I ask you to?”
“No,” I croak.
“Do you believe what everyone says? You think I can’t write my own papers?”
I know what he’s referring to. People say he’s stupid because he failed fifth grade, but until he brought it up, that fact had stayed stored away in the dark recesses of my mind. “No.”
“Did I ask you to cheat?”
“No.” Once again, I made a horrible presumption. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think. Remember that, now let it go.” Razor pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket and flips through icons. A split second later he’s showing me a picture.
I’ll admit, my vision isn’t the best. In fact, everything has a blurry haze on the edges. My eyes are drying out and my contacts are irritating the crap out of me. My goal in life is to find a pillow and my glasses. Give me that combo and I’ll die a happy girl.
A blanket would be like sprinkles on ice cream.
I squint at the lit-up cell and the thoughts in my head disappear. I reach out, grab Razor’s phone and use my thumb and forefinger to enlarge the picture. “What’s this?”
“Some sort of a coded message. Can you decipher it?”
“I’m not a puzzle ATM where you insert the code and I spit out the answer.”
“Do you speak to all bikers this way?”
I choke on a laugh or a hysterical sob. I’m too tired and light-headed to analyze which one. “I was raised to never speak to any of you.”
“Guess that makes you a rebel.”
“Guess so.” But I’m too lost in the numbers and letters to enjoy this easy banter between us. “It’s worked like a crossword puzzle.”
“Yeah.”
“That’ll help. It means some of these words share the same letters.”
“There’s another one.” Razor switches the image. My eyes scan the code, attempting to force a pattern, but my mind is already stuck on the crossword.
“Does it matter which one I try to crack first? Because once I get going on something I have a hard time moving on until I figure out the current problem in front of me.”
“You can pick one or do both. Order is up to you. Does this mean you’ll help?”
There’s a soft question in his tone that causes me to look up. In the brief time I’ve known Razor he’s been as sharp and tough as his nickname, but that one plea made him sound vulnerable.
“What’s this about?” I ask.
Razor shoves his hands into his front pockets and rolls his neck. He’s uncomfortable and I like how we had so quickly moved past unease.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I say. “If you can keep my secret, I can keep yours.”
His expression darkens. “I think it’s related to my mom’s death.”
I sway as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. Everyone gossips about how Razor’s mom drove off a bridge. For some people, it’s the go-to story when other conversation fails. Hey, do you remember when that kid’s mom drove herself off the bridge because she was so miserable...
“I know what everyone thinks,” he says. “But when it comes to my mom, my family and the Reign of Terror, this town doesn’t know shit. Can you look me in the eye and say every rumor involving you is absolutely true?”
“No,” I answer slowly. “I’m not sure anyone in this town really knows me.”
“Then are you going to help?”
I incline my head as I assess Razor. All of him. Not just his body and beauty or the threatening cut and the patches sewn onto the leather, but his collapsed posture and the desperation in his eyes. “What do you think happened to your mom?”
“I don’t know, but if you help me, maybe I can find out. I need this. I need some peace.”
Agreeing will tie me to a boy I’ve been taught to avoid, but how can I say no? “I’ll help you.”
“Breanna!” Both Razor and I turn at the sound of Addison’s voice. She’s by the front of the club, her head swiveling as she cups her hands to her mouth. “Breanna, are you out here?”
“You should go.” He holds his hand out to me.
I offer the phone back to Razor, and I’m shocked that after he deposits it into his pocket, he extends his hand to me again. I accept the invitation, and his strong fingers wrap around mine. As I hop off the tailgate, his other arm slides around my waist and my body presses into his as he settles my feet on the ground. My breathing hitches and I close my eyes. His body is warm and solid and he smells so deliciously divine.
The world swings violently and Razor rubs his hand up and down my spine. “You okay?”
Am I? Yes, maybe, no. Because of the way his hands caress me, I’m a melted puddle.
“You ask me that a lot,” I whisper and then discover the courage to raise my head.
“Stop getting yourself into trouble and I’ll stop asking.” Razor’s eyes are practically twinkling like the stars in the sky. Butterflies race around in my stomach and it’s not the nervous type. It’s the beautiful type of butterflies that I love to watch flutter about in the spring.
No one has ever used trouble to describe me, but in the short time I’ve known Razor, I can’t seem to avoid walking a tightrope. I should be ashamed I’m smiling, but I’m so not.
“Breanna!” Addison calls again.
“She’s worried,” I say.
Razor tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, then lets his finger gently trace the curve of my neck down to my bare shoulder. I shiver in the sensual moment. He lowers his head and his breath is hot on my ear. My heart beats faster. Is he going to kiss me? I want him to kiss me. I shouldn’t want him to kiss me. I’ll explode if he kisses me. My toes curl in silent expectation.
“She should be worried,” he breathes into my ear.
“Why?”
“Because you’re alone with me.”
Yes, I very much am.
“Remember—someday soon, I’ll help you with that wild kiss.”
Razor steps back and it’s only then I realize how much I had been leaning against his sturdy chest. Dear God, please let this bizarre gift you’ve given me still work despite the alcohol. I need to remember Razor saying he’ll kiss me. I need him to want to kiss me later.
He keeps my hand so I can steady myself, but it’s not going to happen in heels. I remove one shoe, then the other. When my feet contact the blacktop, I learn I’m much shorter than Razor than I had originally believed.
“I can walk you to her,” he says, but I detect his hesitancy.
“I’ll be fine.” I withdraw my hand from his and head in Addison’s direction.
A cool breeze blows across the parking lot and it carries Razor’s low and seductive voice to my ears. “Hey, Breanna.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Be safe.”
Those are two enticing and lovely words. “I will be. I have you protecting me, right?”
Maybe I’m misreading Razor, but his eyes travel my body like he might toss me onto the bed of the truck and kiss me in a way I’ve never been kissed before. “Don’t worry. I completely have your back.”
RAZOR
LAST PERSON I expected at my house was a middle-aged woman in a pair of tight jeans and a thick-strapped black tank cooking o
ver the gas stove. I shut the door loudly with my foot and that wins her attention. By the way her face falls, she wasn’t expecting me, either.
“Hello.” She wipes her hands on her jeans. The scent of fried bacon hangs in the air. Dad could eat bacon every day, three times a day. “Your father didn’t expect you home.”
Home. My home, not hers. I scan the room and there’s no sign of anyone else. My bedroom and Dad’s bedroom are black and the door to the bathroom is open. Unless Dad’s hiding from this chick in the closet, she and I are completely alone.
“I mean, it’s your home,” she says as if reading my mind, “so of course you would show, but your dad thought you’d be gone for a couple of days.”
Eli said I needed to give Dad a break. I gave him two days. I spent Friday and Saturday night in one of the rooms upstairs at the club. Only showing at the clubhouse after I knew Dad would be gone. He texted this morning and asked if I’d be back tonight. I didn’t respond, but I now know why he was interested. He’s playing house.
“I’m Jillian, but your dad calls me Jill.” She brushes her long dirty-blond bangs from her forehead as she stares at me, I guess waiting for me to speak.
Another swipe of her hair. “You’re Razor, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like some dinner? It’s breakfast, but it’s dinner, you know.” Her voice shakes and she twists, then retwists, her fingers. “It’s your dad’s favorite. He’s on his way home. He’ll be thrilled for you to join us.”
Us. The word is like a hammer and I’m the nail. Us. As if she belongs here and I don’t. Us. The world feels disjointed.
Two days away wasn’t enough. Hell, thirty years may not do the job. For over thirteen years, my father was faithful—loving the same woman day in and day out. Since three weeks after her death, it’s been this. An endless parade of women through a revolving door.
The detective’s voice loops in my brain: Your mother was unhappy... She was going to leave him. My mother was on her knees in front of me when she told me he was a man worth forgiving.