“I can handle the whispering,” she says. “But it’s the people who like a show that make it unbearable. The people who get a kick out of making me into a spectacle. The jerks that stand in front of everyone, call me names, and then when I do say something back, I’m the one that doesn’t know how to take a joke. When my face turns red and my neck gets hot and tears form in my eyes, I’m the one that’s too sensitive. I’m the freak.”
Her cheeks do turn red and then she pulls her hair off her neck as if heat does curl along her skin. A pulse of anger runs through me when I see tears forming in her eyes. I’m going to kill the next person who gives Breanna any type of crap.
She drops her hair and wipes her eyes. “Maybe I am too sensitive. Maybe I’ll never belong anywhere. Maybe this is how life is supposed to be forever.”
I’m desperate to find a way to soothe her pain. “At least you have a big family. Your brother came at me hard the night of orientation.”
“I’m even the oddball in that group. My older siblings never talk to me. My younger siblings act like I’m their mother. Because I’m not their actual mom, I just get the hate part. Joshua’s married to the football team. Liam worships Clara, so that means he and I will never be close, and Clara...there is not a word strong enough to describe the hate Clara has for me.”
She’s told me about her older sister. “Clara’s a raging bitch.”
“Clara can’t find a way to calm the chaos in her brain. It’s hard turning it off. Finding peace is even harder. She’s like me, but honestly better. She remembers things and she’s a whiz with math, but she struggles with the constant noise. It’s like neither of us can win for losing. Clara was picked on for not being able to focus. People assumed it meant she was stupid and then I came along. I could process everything I remembered. I could find a way to keep my mind in check. Because of that, my parents used to show me off as a parlor trick with the moronic capitals, and if I was Clara—” Breanna chokes on her words “—I’d hate me, too.”
She rubs both her hands over her face as if she can scrub away the hurt. Those nights I’ve spent in scalding showers prove neither of us can wash away the misery.
“Want to cross?” I ask. We both need the distraction. “The bridge. We can cross it.”
She surveys the wooden planks across the metal rails. Huge fat gaps exist between the planks and there’s a narrow strip of metal off to one side of the bridge that’s barely wide enough to balance on. There’s no railing on either side.
Breanna leans over the edge, no doubt making a mental note of the rushing, raging water and mammoth rocks. “Will you go with me?”
I shouldn’t do it. I should tell her we’ve completed our project and we’re done for the day, but instead I offer her my hand again and tempt her to hang with the devil.
She closes the space between us, and the moment she lays her palm in mine, I grasp her hand and lead her onto the bridge.
Breanna chooses the narrow strip of metal and I tempt fate on the aging wooden planks. The wood cracks under my weight and Breanna holds on to me like she could keep me from falling through into the river. “Walk on the metal.”
A sadistic tilt of my lips. “It’s the danger that makes it fun.”
She shakes her head, but I spot a smile. Guess she doesn’t want to admit it’s why she’s on the bridge—why she’s with me. This is the girl who was on the dance floor at Shamrock’s, the girl who cracked the code in English. This is a girl full of life and searching for a challenge.
When we’re halfway across, she hesitates and scans the length of the river. She squints. In the distance beside a canopy of trees is the bridge of Highway 109. I step onto the metal next to her and support my back against the metal girder.
Breanna’s eyes widen, and I see the puzzle pieces fall into place. She’s quick, and while I normally admire how her brain ticks, this time, I wish she would have ignored the clues.
“My mom died in this river,” I say, to answer her silent question. My mouth curves down and the horrible pain from that day covers me like a shroud.
“Why do you come here? Why put yourself through this?”
How many times have I asked myself the same question? I could say I experience a connection to Mom here, but I don’t. I come because... “I need answers.”
“What type of answers?”
“How she died.” My statement hangs and for the millionth time I wonder if it had been calm before Mom reached this area. Were her thoughts peaceful or chaotic? Was there a screeching of tires or did Mom spot the opening off the road as a way to fly into freedom?
“The club told me it was an accident and I said I believed them, but I don’t.” I’ve never told anyone that and I speak slowly, like the words might set me on fire. “Everyone in town says the same damn thing. My mom and dad were fighting. She wasn’t happy. Things were bad.”
Day after day, hour after hour, heartbeat after heartbeat my mind swims with the questions and doubt. She left me. She died. She did it on purpose. I was never enough.
My mind dissolves into chaos and it’s cluttered and I can’t cling to a single thought that doesn’t cause me blinding pain. “Fuck it!”
I stalk away. Off the bridge, onto the grass, and pause by the river. I expect Breanna to walk past, to flee, to leave. It’s what people do. It’s what my mom did. It’s what my father did by sleeping with a harem of women after Mom’s death. He may have been in the same household, but he ran. He just escaped by staying still and damning me to hell.
Her footsteps are light against the metal of the bridge, and when she’s close enough, I say, “I’ll get you home. Give me a second to—”
Air rushes out of my lungs with the unexpected impact and my feet rock. Breanna is tight against me, her arms wrapped around my body. She’s hugging me. Breanna Miller is hugging me. She lays her head against me and her voice vibrates against my chest. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
I can’t remember the last person who hugged me. Not a fast pat hug from the club. A hug that shows affection. Just hugged. I hugged Violet last night, but she didn’t hug me back. Was Olivia the last person who hugged me? My mother? Besides them, most people avoid me, easily leaving two feet between us, and here is this little warrior trudging into battle without armor.
Terrified I’ll break her, I weave my arms around her and hug her back. My eyes shut when she settles further into me. I rest my cheek on her head and simply breathe.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” she repeats. “I’m sorry about what everyone has said about you, and I’m sorry everyone’s words have made it worse.”
Me, too. I inhale her sweet fragrance and enjoy the rare moment of peace. “It’s okay.”
She lifts her head and genuine emotion fills her eyes. “It’s not. None of this is okay. Your mom, the people at school, the people in this town, none of it is okay.”
Breanna swallows and her delicate throat moves. “It’s like this town is diseased. Gossip and rumors and people playing with everyone’s lives. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to drown.”
I run my fingers through her flowing hair, tucking it behind her shoulder. I’m touching her because she’s describing my emotions. Because if I do, then maybe she will no longer feel like she’s drowning, and maybe I’ll continue to stay afloat long enough for a mouthful of air.
“I’ve hated Snowflake for so long,” she says. “But then I met you. And you’re the person this entire town has trashed, a person belonging to the group I’ve been raised to believe is evil, and you’re the only person who is able to make me feel as if every part of me is beautiful.”
She is beautiful. Inside and out. My fingers tunnel into her hair again, but this time, I gently knot them in. My heart beats hard, and I open my mouth, hoping that doing so will force the right words. That I can explain how being near her makes everyt
hing that’s impossible about me seem possible.
But the words become lodged in my throat and silence paralyzes my tongue. Breanna blinks and the hope that had been on her face disappears as she misreads my hesitation.
Her hold on me loosens and she ducks her head. “Don’t listen to me. I say too much around you. I was being stupid. I...”
More words meant to wipe away her admission spill from her mouth, but I’m not listening. My grip on her hair tightens, I lower my lips to hers and I kiss Breanna Miller.
Breanna
I’VE FORGOTTEN HOW to breathe.
Razor’s kissing me and I desperately try to remember how to kiss back. His mouth is warm and strong and a shock wave of awe ripples through my body as my cells tremble with anticipation. I lean into his body, thawing from the way his fingers gently caress my neck.
He lowers one arm, locks me to him and tilts his head. His tongue slips along the seam of my mouth. It’s a tickling sensation that heats parts of me I never knew existed.
Razor’s lips continue to move, and I hesitantly follow along, enjoying the way his kisses entice and coax. I’m a struck match on the verge of becoming a full-blown fire. Bolder than I’ve been in my life, I explore. My hands in his hair, along the hot skin of his neck, and when my fingernails skim down his spine, Razor groans against my mouth.
My lips edge up. The most dangerous guy at my school—the lone person who makes me feel safe—is reveling in the way I am touching him.
Razor pulls away, leaving a centimeter between us. That devilish smile I adore graces his beautiful face. “Enjoying yourself?”
There’s a definite tease to his tone and those blue eyes sparkle as they drink me in.
I bite my lip, loving this moment. “Maybe.”
His smile widens. “Know how I promised you a wild kiss that breaks the rules?”
I nod furiously as my excitement grows.
Razor bends, and before I can register what he’s doing, he swings me up into his arms. I squeal, then laugh when Razor eases down to his knees and rolls us to the ground. He’s lying on top of me. His thigh is over mine and his knee rests on the ground between my legs. Razor props himself up on an elbow, and he raises his other hand to trace the grin on my lips.
My blood tingles and I ache in very good ways.
“Tell me to walk away,” he says. “Tell me to take you home.”
It’s what I’ve been trained to do. It’s what’s expected of me. To be responsible. To follow the rules. To make logical decisions and use this precious brain, but Razor’s teaching me there’s more to me than logic—there’s also a ton of passion.
Butterflies and fireworks and a craving that curls my toes and melts my heart. All of these foreign emotions belong to him. “No way. You’re the one that keeps telling me a member of the Reign of Terror never breaks a promise.”
“I do, don’t I?’
“You do.”
I want magic... No, I demand it, and I’m done being patient. I want to be the girl who’s kissed, but there’s no reason why I can’t be the one doing the kissing.
I lift my head and draw his lower lip into mine. Within a heartbeat, Razor deepens the kiss, taking possession of my mouth. I lie back and begin to function on pure instinct. My hands seek the strong muscles of his back and shoulders and Razor’s hands also deliciously roam.
His fingers discover the curve of my waist and they meticulously inch up my shirt. I’m in the middle of an inferno and I’m clinging to the flames. He shifts and parts of his body fit perfectly into me. I turn my head and gasp with the jolt of sweet electricity.
Razor continues the kisses. Along my cheek, down my neck, and I’m completely lost in the sensation. All of the sensations. The way his lips press on my skin. The way our bodies have started a slow rhythm. The way his fingers tickle and tease the now-exposed skin below the material of my bra.
I hold my breath, half hoping he continues his expedition, and then my heart drums so hard at the idea of him caressing areas no one has touched before that I might die of excitement.
The two million thoughts in my head disappear and the only language spoken is by my body. Of how my arms tighten in consent, of how my foot wraps around his ankle to tempt him closer, of how my hips arch, of how my butt...vibrates?
I jerk and Razor’s forehead furrows as he stares down at me. My butt continues to vibrate and I blink as I return to reality. My phone. “Someone’s calling me.”
Understanding causes the wrinkles to disappear and he sits up, pulling me with him. I yank out my cell and release a relieved breath when I see Addison’s face. I reject her call but send her a text: I’m still alive.
Addison: I can’t decide if I should call the cops or celebrate.
Me: Celebrate.
Addison: If you leave one detail out I will never speak to you again.
Me: We’ll talk. Later.
I pocket my phone and find Razor crouched across from me. The awkward part? I have to guide down my shirt and rearrange my bra acting as if it wasn’t entirely dislodged.
Razor kissed me and I kissed him back and I have absolutely no idea if that means he cares for me like I care for him or if he’s driven to touch and kiss me like I’ve been fantasizing of cuddling with him since the night we met.
“That was definitely wild.” I try to smile past the strange ache. With a tug of the material to the left, most of me falls back into place and I’m dying of embarrassment. I thought I could do it, just kiss a guy and not be attached, but...
“It was.” Razor offers me his hand “But it was more than that. Least it was for me.”
Thank God. I lay my hand in his and he leads me to a towering oak tree. He sits against it, then encourages me to settle between his legs. I do, enjoying the warmth of his body.
Razor’s arms circle my stomach and his fingers graze along my sides. My head rests against his shoulder and he switches between scenting my hair with his nose and resting his cheek against mine. Both create a pleasing thrill in my bloodstream.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he murmurs against my neck.
His lips on my skin? It’s a terrible idea. So terrible that I’m close to begging him to do it again. “What do you mean?”
He inhales deeply in the way my mother does when she has bad news. A twinge of fear strikes my heart. Razor lifts his head but keeps me tucked to him. “Us.”
My happiness evaporates and the cool breeze that rushes through the colored leaves causes a chill.
“We’re from two different worlds,” he admits. “I have no plans to leave the club and I’m not sure you could digest certain parts of my life.”
Nausea claws along the walls of my stomach. It’s here, the opening I’ve been searching for. The moment to ask all of the questions, but if I’m deep-down honest, I no longer crave the answers. “Do you hurt people?”
He chuckles and it’s such a sad sound. “Yeah, I hurt people. I mess up everyone I meet.”
“That’s not true.” Not with me. “I meant for your club. I’ve heard things about how your club does things. About how they treat people.”
He goes silent and it’s not his typical moments of quiet. There’s a heaviness that weighs the air around us.
“That’s one of the things I’m not sure you can swallow about me—I can’t talk about club business. Not with you. Not ever. I’m a brother of the club first and that’s something any girl who’s with me has to accept. But I can tell you we’re a legit club and the business I work for is also legit. We do our best to abide by the law, but we do play by our own rules. There are things you wouldn’t agree with, and being with me, you’d have to find a way to be okay with it.”
I’m dizzy with the whiplash. I’ve been number five of nine for so long that taking another step back i
n any relationship makes me physically ill.
Razor slowly brushes the top of my hand with his thumb and the gesture is so heartbreakingly sweet it causes a flash of pain.
“There are good things about the club,” he continues. “We’re a family. Take care of each other like we’re blood-related. There isn’t a need that isn’t met. Not a guy that wouldn’t have my back when I’m against the ropes. If you’re with me, those guys would also take care of you.”
I snort and Razor stiffens behind me. I angle forward and rest my hands on my knees. He doesn’t move, choosing to stay supported by the tree.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks as if my actions stung him.
“I’m from a big family, so that Hallmark card you’re trying to sell me isn’t going to fly.”
The leaves beneath him crackle as he readjusts so that he’s sitting next to me. In typical Razor style, he’s silent as he studies my expression. He then picks up a lock of my hair and plays with the strands. “We have our problems. That code you’re working on is my problem with them. I love the Terror. More than I’ve loved anything, and the thought of not being a part of them rips me in half, but...”
He drops my hair, then mimics my position—his arms on his bent knees. Razor surveys the field, but from the hollow look in his eyes, he’s not seeing the grass or the flowers or the red-and-orange leaves drifting to the ground. He’s seeing something in his mind that’s causing him to suffer.
“But what?” I urge him to continue.
“But if I don’t find out what happened to my mother...if that code you’re working on doesn’t pan out...it may mean the end of the road for me and the club.”
A pit forms in my chest. “Why?”
“They’ll either throw me out for what I’ll do next or I’ll walk because I won’t be able to stomach looking at them after the betrayal.”
“Betrayal?” My mind is running in a million directions. “What are you going to do?” Then I recall what he said. “Or can you not tell me?”