Walk the Edge

  RAZOR

  “HOW’S LIVING WITH CYRUS?” Chevy asks. It’s before school and the two of us are leaning against the lockers near my English class. Chevy’s looking out for Violet’s younger brother, Stone. I’m searching for Breanna.

  She sent a text last night I didn’t see until this morning: We need to talk. Can we meet before class?

  I texted back yes, but nothing more from her.

  Because of my absence yesterday, the last time I saw her she was climbing into a car with her friends at Shamrock’s. She texted me Saturday to confirm she received the code, so I know she made it home safely, but there’s this itch to see her I can’t shake.

  It’s both annoying and addicting.

  Breanna Miller—the girl with soft skin and gorgeous hazel eyes. Breanna Miller—the girl who can tell me about the Milky Way. Hell, she can probably tell me about anything.

  “Are you smiling?” Chevy asks. “Shit, you’re smiling again. That’s the second time in days. Gotta admit, that scares the hell out of me.”

  I sober as I answer his first question. “Everything at Cyrus’s is good.” Since I left home, Dad and I have had no communication. Not sure where that leaves either of us.

  “Does the shift in your normal fuck-off attitude have to do with what you’ve got going on with Breanna Miller?”

  I don’t respond. I already informed Oz and Chevy that Breanna’s off-limits. She’s a private person. So am I. The one thing Breanna has after we chatted on Friday is my respect.

  Out of thin air, Chevy produces that coin of his and flips it over his fingers. “Remember when we were kids and we’d catch fireflies in the forest with Olivia?”

  I nod and watch the coin appear and disappear up and over his knuckles. This kid could make a good living in the circus...or make a million dollars as a pickpocket.

  “Do you remember how Olivia taught us how to catch them by cupping our hands after she explained how fragile they were?”

  I nod again, wondering where Chevy’s heading on this memory lane detour.

  “Do you remember what happened next?”

  I snort because I do. Chevy tosses the coin in the air and he catches it between his hands with a loud clap as a reenactment of what occurred that night. We squished the hell out of those first few little fuckers.

  “None of you listen,” Olivia chastised us. “Each of you are too excited to do what you want to pay attention—to learn.”

  “Not that you asked me.” Chevy yanks me out of my brain. “But you need to be careful with Breanna. She’s not from our world, and what’s worse, she’s not the type that’s curious about the club. She’s one of those quiet types and those girls can be fragile. Guys like us can hurt girls like her without meaning to.”

  There’s a twisting in my gut. Years ago, I was the one who killed the most bugs. It was never my intention to cause harm. In fact, the desperation to capture one alive caused me to go faster, and in my haste, I crushed more. “You telling me to stay away?”

  “I’m telling you that you keep pissing off people—people who love you. Starting shit with a girl outside of our world isn’t going to help anyone. Your dad asked me to tell him if you get into trouble at school. Breanna could be trouble and I’m not looking to rat you out on anything. Guess I’m saying stop making life complicated.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t ask.”

  “You never do. Figured out what Olivia wants you to do with her ashes yet?”

  I shake my head and appreciate the change in subject. I’ve read through the bylaws Olivia left me a dozen times over. Even compared them to the current copy I found in the clubhouse. Nothing is different. Everything the same. I can’t help but feel like she’s toying with me from beyond the grave.

  “Makes me wonder what she has up her sleeve for me,” he mumbles. It’s what we all think—that she left her ashes to each one of the brat pack. That we will each receive the same wooden box and messed-up set of instructions. It happened to Oz and Emily after her death. Now to me. Maybe her mind was in neutral toward the end.

  I should confess everything to Chevy—the visit from the detective, my thoughts and fears about Mom’s death and the increasing paranoia that the club was involved, but I don’t. As he clearly pointed out, I don’t ask for advice and his anecdote reminds me why. In the end, even the people I care for the most believe I’m crazy.

  Stone rounds the corner in that quirky way he walks with his shoulders rolled forward and his feet moving too fast. He’s fourteen, a redhead like Violet, tall like a tree, thin like a sheet of paper, and the wires in his brain are crossed—not like mine, but more like Breanna’s. Where she’s supersmart, Stone is, too, but he’s socially inept and he can’t empty thoughts from his brain. Stuff circles and the loop won’t end.

  Asshole guys in this school try to harass anyone associated with the Terror, and Stone’s connection with us combined with his personality has tattooed a target on his forehead. Good news—he’s Terror family.

  Rumor has it the two juniors down the hallway have been dared to bully Stone, and we won’t permit that to happen. They block Stone’s path and Chevy and I push off the lockers, but Chevy raises his hand. “I got this. If this goes bad and I get suspended, I need you here.”

  I withdraw and let Chevy run the show. Stone belongs to all of us, but because he’s Violet’s younger brother, Chevy takes it more personally. As soon as Chevy joins Stone, the two juniors retreat. Chevy glares at them as he passes and I wait for them to piss their pants.

  “...okay, thank you.”

  My head whips toward the sound of Breanna’s sweet voice. At the corner, she waves at our English teacher, then starts for our classroom. She holds her books to her side and a part of me lightens as if I heaved a hundred-pound chain off my shoulders.

  Breanna has this fluid, effortless way about her that draws me in. Her light-colored skirt swishes as she walks and I appreciate the white button-down shirt that’s tailored to her curves. One side of her midnight hair is pulled up and I love how it exposes her neck and the smooth skin I came close to tasting last Friday.

  Breanna reminds me of slow-moving time and summer nights. She’s sexy, I’m attracted and we’re on opposite ends of the social scale.

  Breanna glances up before entering class and, screw me, a hint of a smile plays across her lips. “Hi.”

  “Hey,” I respond, and in one of the rare times in my life, I search for something to say. Do that small talk that Chevy and Oz find easy.

  Her expression falls as she scans my body like she’s trying to discover a bleeding wound. “Where were you yesterday?”

  “Out.”

  A reprimanding frown in my direction. “Obviously. We need to talk. Something’s happened.”

  An adrenaline rush charges through me. “Is it the code? Did you crack it?”

  “No. I haven’t had a chance to dig into it yet. When I texted, I didn’t think my problem through and we shouldn’t discuss it here. Can we meet somewhere private later?”

  The sights and the sounds of the hallway zone out as my mind tries to guess what has her spooked. “Tell me.”

  “Not here.”

  And I’m not waiting. “Spill. Now.”

  Breanna’s fingers drum against her folder and she does a sweep of the hallway. This time when she speaks, she lowers her voice to the point I have to strain to listen. “Do you remember when we were talking on Friday night and you had sat me on the tailgate and how you were...close?”

  Whatever the hell is bothering her causes a scary stillness inside me. “Go on.”

  “We weren’t alone.”

  Breanna’s words are a straight kick to the torso and I ease toward her as something dangerous unfurls within me. “What do you mean, not alone?”

  Her eyes d
art to the left, and when her face pales out, I track her line of sight. A wave of anger rumbles through my bloodstream as I go eye to eye with Kyle Hewitt.

  He slows as he walks past us, raising his eyebrows as his gaze flickers between me and Breanna. When the bastard settles his eyesight back on me again, he has the balls to smirk.

  Something’s wrong—off. Breanna shrinks and it takes less than a heartbeat for the deadly thoughts to click together. Breanna raced out of the club Friday night after this asshole confronted her. Breanna said we weren’t alone, and my own thoughts about how some girls look at a certain group of guys haunt me.

  Kyle Hewitt is a dead man.

  Chevy joins me, no doubt sensing the storm that’s preparing to make landfall. “You all right?”

  “I need you to cover me.” I barely catch his agreement as I start after Hewitt. Breanna’s on my heels, talking, pleading. Begging me to stop so she can explain. She can explain, after I throw Hewitt into a wall and hear him beg for mercy for whatever he did to make her cry.

  Hewitt has no clue I’m behind him as he struts down the middle of the hallway like a duck with an ego complex. People say shit as they see him. All fucking giggles until they spot me and they understand that I’m the reaper and Hewitt has seconds to live.

  “Razor, please!” Breanna says loud enough that Hewitt turns. His eyes widen, and his mouth opens in a silent scream as I grab him and shove him into the bathroom.

  Two guys are at the urinal and finish their business quickly as they watch me push Hewitt again. Hewitt’s shoulder bangs into the wall of the stalls and I barrel after him. The other guys run out. I should be shocked as hell when Breanna appears in front of me, but I’m not. The girl can be a force of nature when she chooses.

  “Stop it!” Both of her hands are out and her folders are gone. “You have to stop.”

  I don’t acknowledge Breanna. In fact, I look over her at Hewitt, who’s trying not to piss himself as he holes up in the corner of the bathroom. “You have thirty seconds to explain why Breanna’s upset.”

  “Or you’ll what?” He attempts a big and bad bravado, but his hands quake.

  Or I’ll throw him into the cement-block wall, smash his head into the mirror, and then I’ll crack his skull on the sink. “I’m creative. Get talking.”

  “People will come in here!” Breanna says.

  No, they won’t. Chevy’s guarding the door. “Twenty seconds, Hewitt.”

  “She didn’t tell you?” he spits.

  “Ten.” I advance a foot.

  He straightens for my attack yet yells at Breanna, “If he hits me, it’ll go up and it’ll never stop! That’s not the only picture. They’ll all go up.”

  All I see is red. Pictures. Breanna. The image of Violet crying uncontrollably at my house as she sobbed, That picture has ruined my life.

  Breanna hijacks my arm as I launch myself at the bastard. “He’s blackmailing me to write his papers! And he’s doing it with a picture of me and you together.”

  Her desperation claws at me. “Nothing happened.”

  “But it looks like something happened.” Her fingers dig into my skin.

  “Yeah, it does.” The pride in Hewitt’s voice causes me to imagine killing him seven different ways until Sunday. He holds out his cell, and if it weren’t for Breanna’s grasp on my arm, reminding me that she’s here, I’d tear off his balls and shove them down his throat.

  Friday night seemed like a dream to me. Her so close, the feel of her soft skin. Her laughter, her trust, the two of us sharing intimate details of our lives, and in front of me is a picture that makes dirty for her a night I enjoyed. This damn snapshot could destroy her reputation.

  “Are you suicidal, Hewitt?” I ask in a low tone. “Because it feels like you’re begging someone to slit your throat.”

  He laughs like what I said is a joke. “You really are banging her, aren’t you? I had no idea what we were going for was correct.”

  The crazy residing in me fractures and Breanna shouts my name as I bolt forward, curl my fingers into Hewitt’s shirt and slam him into the wall. I’m eye to eye with the asshole and overpronounce my words in case he’s a stupid son of a bitch. “You will not disrespect her.”

  His hands are on my wrists and he fails at freedom. Hewitt’s face stains red and he breathes hard as I probably knocked the wind out of him. “I’m holding the cards, not you.”

  “Tell me who’s mixed up in this.” I give him another shove. “Tell me or I will start throwing my fist into your face until you cry.”

  “Razor!” Breanna’s next to us. “I’ll write the papers. Please let him go!”

  No fucking way. He’s torturing her and he’s using me to do it.

  Hewitt tries to kick me, but I’m stronger. “Leave, Breanna. Let me handle this.”

  He angles forward to gain my attention. “I will destroy her by the end of the day.”

  “Razor, please!” Breanna cries. “That picture can’t go live. I’m begging you, let him go!”

  The despair in her voice unbalances me, and for some screwed-up reason, I’m listening. She’s asking the impossible. I don’t back down from a fight. Everyone knows this and the fact I’m hesitating because she asked confuses the hell out of me.

  “Please, Razor,” she whispers, and it’s then that I notice her touch on my arm. It’s a gentle caress. One that causes the buzzing in my head to vanish. “Let him go.”

  I do, and Hewitt places space between us as he rights his shirt. “You’re crazy, Turner.”

  Me? “I’m not the sick bastard blackmailing innocent girls. But if you want crazy, keep this up. I’ll bring the wrath of the Terror down on you.”

  “Your club’s not going to do a thing. They didn’t do anything when we posted Violet’s picture and, according to you guys, she’s your family. But go ahead. Tell your club. Anything happens to me, there are others who will destroy Breanna for me.”

  I’m inhaling through my nose and pushing away the urge to kill him. Clearer heads prevail. How many times did Olivia tell me that? Too many. I crave to tear him apart limb by limb, but I won’t, not now. He’s playing smart, and so will I. “I hear you.”

  Hewitt scrubs his hands over his face like he’s free from a death row sentence, but he’s sadly mistaken. There are only a few hours left before he’s chained to the table. “Look, I had no idea she meant something to you, so no disrespect intended. I saw what happened at the club and I know you didn’t kiss. I thought you guys accidentally ran into each other and she blew you off. I had no idea she’d run to you and that you’d give a shit if we did post the picture.”

  He’s waiting for me to offer my hand and say that he read me correctly—that I don’t care if he took pictures of me with any girl, but instead I stay silent. Either Hewitt’s mentally unstable or he lies way better to himself than I do.

  When he gets no reaction, he switches to Breanna. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can forget about the picture. Name what you want, I’ll give it to you, and you can write my papers.”

  I have to keep from flinching. I made a deal with Breanna, as well. Her brains for my protection. Does everyone use her?

  Breanna lifts her head, holding herself proud, but I can spot the anguish on her face. “I want nothing from you.”

  “Your choice.” He regards me again. “This doesn’t involve you, so stay out of our way or she’ll pay for your sins.”

  He breaks eye contact with me first, not even lasting longer than two seconds before bailing for the door. Breanna crumples with her head in her hands. The anger that had been pulsating within me disappears.

  “Hey.” I ease into her personal space and tuck her hair that had swept forward over her shoulder. “Look at me.”

  She doesn’t. My fingers slip under her chin and I nudge until
she lowers her hands and raises her face. I swear at the pain in her eyes. “I’ll take care of this.”

  The warning bell rings and Breanna bolts. Damn. She doesn’t believe me.

  Chevy sticks his head in and looks me over for signs of a fight. “We good, bro?”

  I meet his eyes and he nods as he understands that I’m not. He inclines his head to the hallway and the two of us head to class in silence.

  Breanna

  IT’S ONLY THE third day of my senior year and today already ranks as one of the worst three days of my life. The first being yesterday, the second one belonging to seventh grade, the third is award-winning today.

  Reagan slides a tray of food in front of me. There’s plenty on it—pizza, a hamburger, French fries—but there is not an ounce of me that is hungry. She volunteered to stand in line and buy lunch for the three of us while Addison and I claimed the outside picnic table as far from everyone else as possible.

  “It’s just rumors.” Addison props her chin on my shoulder in an effort to draw my attention from my cell. “It’ll die down by tomorrow.”

  It’s a sunny day. Enormous blue sky. White fluffy clouds. It’s hot, though, like sweat-through-my-shirt hot, and because of that, there are only a few people outside, which is why we chose to sit here for lunch. I need alone time to regroup.

  I lower my head into my hands. “Todd posted Razor from the Terror is trying to screw Breanna Miller. Yes, I can see how this will die down by tomorrow.”

  “Could be worse,” she says in a light voice. “They could be saying you are definitely screwing Razor. Everyone seems to have enough common sense to keep the rumors somewhat realistic.”

  My head slips down farther and my fingers creep into my hair. If Kyle posts that picture, that is exactly the story that will be flying around. Breanna Miller: Reign of Terror slut. There are girls who have earned that title from rumors and they have never lived it down. Boys harass them. Girls ignore them. The world has such a double standard and girls are on the bottom of this filth-ridden pond.