I swipe my thumb over her frozen hand. It’s been a cool day, but I’m betting it’s nerves causing her to be cold. “You ready?”
She nods too quickly. “Do I look okay?”
“Yeah.” She’s fucking gorgeous. Jeans that hug her right and a blue top that sets off that black hair. What I really love is that she’s wearing my leather jacket. “Stick with me at all times. If I get pulled away, you stay with Rebecca or with Oz or Chevy. You never leave our sight.”
Breanna blows out a shaky breath. “I thought this was a big old family-friendly dinner.”
“It’s the same type of rules as if you went to Shamrock’s. Stick with who you know.”
Breanna’s eyebrows rise and a ripple of uneasiness rushes through me when I remember she didn’t stick with who she knew that night. She danced with a whole lot of guys who would have knocked the hell out of each other for the chance to be with her—the girl who had no fear.
“New rules—when you go to someplace unknown, you stick with who you know.”
Breanna’s face brightens as she watches my annoyance...fuck it, my jealousy.
I grab on to her belt loops and drag her into me as I sit on the seat of my bike. She’s between my legs and she has this contagious smile that locks me into her. My hands settle on her hips and I imagine all the things I plan on doing with her tonight. After she meets the club, after we eat some dinner, I’m getting her back on my bike and we’re riding to someplace private.
Breanna nervously glances around. “We aren’t alone.”
We’re not. “No one’s going to rat. What happens at the clubhouse stays here.”
“Good to know.” Breanna wiggles as if that nonverbal cue is enough to convince me to release her. “But there are a lot of people around.”
The crystal ball grows clear. Breanna doesn’t like an audience, but if she’s going to hang around here, she’s going to have to get used to a few things. My fingers stay on her hips and I attempt to distract her with a change in conversation. “My jacket looks good on you.”
“Do you want it back?”
“No. I want every guy to know you belong with me.”
“It doesn’t have your name on it, so how do they know it’s yours?”
“They’ll know.” Because it has a hole in the arm from when I got shot. Next time I go into Louisville, I’ll buy a new one and let her keep this one. I’ll tell her it’s for protection on my bike, and it is, but it’s also a nice calling card of get-the-fuck-away-from-my-girl. “Wear the jacket.”
“Should I go feminist and say I belong to myself?” Breanna wraps her hands around my neck and her fingertips tease the ends of my hair. Fire invades my veins and my thoughts of where I want to kiss Breanna leave the realm of respectable territory.
“This isn’t your world. It’s mine. You’re safer with that jacket on.”
“Guess it’s good that I like wearing it. It smells like you.”
Damn, she always says the right thing. I pull her closer to me, tunnel my fingers in her hair and capture those sweet lips.
She’s hesitant and I have no doubt it’s because people are near. Breanna plays a little, then will slightly draw away, but I continue to coax. A nibble here, a slide of my tongue there. My hands sneak under the jacket so I can massage her back and skim my fingers along her spine. Each and every movement slowly thaws Breanna and makes her as hot as a flame. Her sighs and her caresses cause me to want to drop to my knees and beg for more.
A dog barks and Breanna jumps. She laughs as she eases back and that sound soothes some of my rough edges. Another bark, and when I glance down, a part of me discovers the excitement of being ten on Christmas morning. “Well, fuck me.”
“What?” Breanna asks.
I stand and give her a quick kiss before letting her go. “It’s my dog.”
Breanna
HIS DOG. RAZOR has a dog. It feels strange that I never knew, but then again, our conversations lately have been so seriously set on my family or his family or schoolwork or on kissing that we’ve left out the small, fun things like dogs.
Razor’s crouched near the ground scratching behind the ears of a pudgy basset hound with the largest dark eyes I’ve seen. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“I don’t,” he says, and then the dog leaps around Razor. The dog’s tail wags, his tongue is hanging out and he continuously licks his master.
“Have you told him that?” I ask, but the big, bad biker has been reduced to cooing.
“What are you doing here, boy?” A rub behind the ears, a lick on the face in return. “Did you walk all the way from Florida?”
The dog chases his own tail three times before collapsing on the ground. He rolls over to show his belly and proves he really is a boy. I’m smiling as Razor rubs the dog’s stomach with both hands, declaring him a “good boy.”
Razor eventually peers over his shoulder at me and I’m knocked breathless with how happy he appears. “This is Lars.”
At the mention of his name, Lars hops up on all fours, sniffs Razor’s face and then plants another wet, sloppy kiss on him. Razor chuckles but moves Lars’s snout away as he begins petting him again. “Lars, this is Breanna.”
The dog’s tongue rolls to the side again and he pants, surveying me as if he can understand Razor. “My mom gave me Lars the Christmas before she died.” Some of the sadness that’s always attached to Razor returns.
“So this is really your dog?” I kneel beside Razor and Lars pads over to me. I pet his head as Razor continues to run his hand over the length of the dog’s back.
“When I was a kid, Cyrus’s wife, Olivia, used to watch me when Mom and Dad had to work. She let me bring Lars with me to her house. When Mom died, I lived here for a while. Dad split after the funeral, and when he returned, he was a mess. When Dad got his shit together, he came and got me but left Lars. Dad wasn’t sure he had enough in him to take care of a kid and a dog.”
My heart honest-to-God breaks. Like someone reached into my chest, ripped it out and has cracked it in two. “What happened?”
“To the dog or me?” Razor forces a grin like what he admitted doesn’t matter—that it’s not absolutely soul-shattering.
“Both,” I answer seriously, and he frowns, unhappy that I’m not offering him the easy route.
“We both know I’m fucked-up.”
“That’s not true—”
“Olivia kept Lars,” he cuts me off. “I was here enough anyhow, so it’s not like I didn’t see him, but everyone eventually forgot he was mine and he became Olivia’s. Then Olivia died this summer. When her granddaughter, Emily, returned to Florida, Eli had Emily take Lars with her.”
I sort of crave to hit this Eli guy. “Why?”
Razor stops petting Lars and the dog whines as it peeks pathetically up at him. “Because Emily needed a reminder of this place more than anyone else did at the time.”
Razor straightens and then takes my hand. “Which means if Lars is here, then so is Emily.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“The opposite. Let’s go prove to you that some of the Terror are normal.” And in the next breath, he says to Lars, “Let’s go, boy.”
* * *
There’s this mixture of adrenaline and pure fear and I’m thirty seconds from throwing up. Razor is leading me through smaller groups of men in cuts and we’re walking toward the enormous building on the other side of the property. The closer we get, the less normal the world becomes.
The building—this clubhouse—it’s a huge two-story garage, or at least it once was. Both of the doors are raised and men pack the place. Razor guides me inside and I feel like Alice wandering into a demented Wonderland. There’s a long bar along the left side and men rest against it with alcohol in their hands. A guy wearing a cut
with a patch on the back of it that reads Prospect is behind the bar accepting orders.
Neon signs are everywhere and so are bras. Lots of bras. They are tacked up on the wall, lying across the shelves behind the bar, and I try not to think of Violet’s mother.
The place smells of stale beer and my feet stick to the floor. A woman laughs too loudly and so do some of the men. My hair stands on the back of my neck as instinct screams to leave.
Razor stops short and I have to adjust quickly so I don’t collide with his shoulder. Two little blond-haired boys are chased by a girl of maybe five. All three are giggling as they weave fearlessly through the towering men. There’s pure joy on their faces and I tilt my head as I recognize the little girl.
“She’s a friend of Elsie’s. She’s played at our house and I’ve dropped Elsie off at her parents’ house.” My forehead furrows. “I mean, her parents are so—”
“Normal?” Razor asks. “Oddly enough, some of us are capable of that. Wearing a three-piece patch doesn’t make you psychotic. It makes you a part of something bigger than yourself.”
I scan the wall of bras again and none of the information I’m consuming makes logical sense and that causes my head to throb.
“Razor!” someone yells, and a deafening round of applause and cheers fills the room. From the corner comes an earsplitting whistle. Every person is solely focused on him.
A hand on my back and I jump. Razor’s head snaps to check on me and to the left is Rebecca. She inclines her head to Razor and he nods his in response. It’s like the two of them have their own specific language.
“Take her to Emily,” Razor says.
“That was my plan all along,” she answers.
Razor sends me an encouraging glance. He’s leaving me and I need to be okay with it, but I’m so not. I sort of trust Rebecca, but in the end, I’ve spent only a handful of minutes in her company.
The clapping and shouting continues and Razor enters the crowd of men. They pat his back, hug him, purposely avoiding his injured side. There’s something beautiful in the way they smile at him and I love how he practically glows in return.
Rebecca leans over to me. “This is his moment. It’s huge that he shared it with you.”
“Is this because he was shot?”
“Yes and no. They respect him for taking his job seriously, but this moment is because he saved one of his brothers.”
A sense of awe overwhelms me and then I remember Razor as he stood with me outside the school, how he whisked me up in his arms outside the bar, and how he was willing to fight for someone he didn’t even know because I asked. Warmth settles into my heart—saving people is what Razor does.
“I’m proud to be with him,” I tell her as guilt tiptoes along my stomach lining. He’s introducing me to his family and he’s fine with keeping us a secret from mine. In fact, he’s fine with keeping us a secret altogether, explaining that our relationship is no one else’s business.
“You should be. But at the same time, life in the Terror isn’t easy. Most people will draw dividing lines and will make you choose between us and them. I’ll be honest, you’re too young to make that choice.”
Rebecca wears a cut, too, but this one is much different from Razor’s. It’s black like his and she has a nickname patch sewn on, but there are no other patches. The back simply states Terror Gypsy and a small patch at the bottom contains a name I’ve heard Razor use before—the name of another member.
She notices me studying her cut and she touches Razor’s jacket. “Keep this on. It’ll make tonight easier for you.”
So I’ve already been informed. “Any other tips?”
“Don’t come here without Razor. In fact, you aren’t allowed in the clubhouse without Razor, and if you’re under eighteen, you have to leave by eight. No exceptions.”
I can live with that. “How old were you when you chose this life?”
“The same age as you, and most days I don’t regret it.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Most days?”
“Demons haunt the souls of some of these men. It’s what drives them to belong to a part of society most can’t understand. Razor’s not exempt and loving someone like that can be hard.”
Razor’s demon is his mother. I haven’t told Razor, but I’m still working on the second code. Maybe this is a demon I can help exorcise.
“Have you had enough of the clubhouse yet?” she asks.
I force my lips to move up like I’m fine even though I’m practically quaking.
Rebecca laughs. “Emily feels the same way. She’s at a picnic table outside. Let me introduce the two of you.”
RAZOR
I’M IN THE BACK of the clubhouse and I have a line of guys willing to buy me a beer. Conversation is flowing fast. Everyone has something to say and they’re saying it at once. I’m the one who’s silent, so to them, it means I’m the one who listens.
Pigpen slips in between a group of guys and waves two fingers at the prospect behind the bar. The prospect slides two longnecks to him and, with them in hand, Pigpen motions with his chin for me to follow. Brothers pat me on the back, on my good side, as I tail him. Pigpen cuts into the kitchen, holding the door open for me with his foot. When I’m through, he hands me the other beer and the entire board claps.
The door shuts behind me and the serving window is closed. We aren’t in the boardroom, so whatever is about to happen isn’t official, but serious enough that they prefer privacy.
Pigpen sets his beer on the counter, then lifts himself to sit on it. Eli leans his back on the wall next to him, and Dad’s beside Cyrus near the stainless-steel table in the middle of the room. They stare at me as if they’re expecting something, and I’m at a loss.
“We’re dying here,” Eli says. “Spill.”
Still doesn’t help.
“You brought a girl,” Eli says slowly as if I’m mentally impaired. “Is this Breanna?”
“Better be.” Pigpen grins. “Otherwise she’s going to be pissed when you roll over and whisper another girl’s name in the morning.”
My head lowers. I’ll never live that down. “Yeah, that’s Breanna.”
“Miller?” Dad asks.
I nod, curious how he knew her last name.
“Her mom works in accounting at the hospital,” he says.
It’s not new knowledge, but it’s something I never gave a second thought to. Curiosity creates a stab of physical pain. How is it we’ve been together and I never asked about her family?
“Breanna’s mom and your mom worked closely together. Your mom considered Breanna’s mom a good friend.” There’s a mournful smile on his face that slices me deep. “She said Breanna’s mom was pregnant all the time. Then she’d come into work with a baby and your mom used to come home begging for us to have another once she got a whiff.”
I want to ask why I was an only child, but then I think better. It’s not like he’d answer.
“Does her family know about you?” Eli asks.
“No, neither does anyone else. I don’t want her taking shit for being with me.”
Eli and Cyrus share one of those glances that leads me to believe they read minds.
“They’re a good family,” Dad says. “She, and they, deserve better than for you to be sneaking around in the shadows.”
“The bastards at school will crucify her if they know she’s on the back of my bike.”
“He didn’t say school, pinhead,” Pigpen interrupts. “He said her parents.”
Acid churns in my stomach. “And what if they keep us apart?”
“Then you come to us,” Dad says. “You come to me. For the millionth time, son, you need to trust us.” He leaves out “trust me” because we’re both aware of where I stand on that.
“I don??
?t want to lose her.”
“You won’t. Trust us to help if it comes down to that.”
“Just like you helped Mom?” I spit.
He and I glare each other down and the tension in the room is so thick that it’s strangling me. For one night, Dad and I found a way to let our past go, and he was right, our problems sure as hell didn’t waste their time plowing into us again.
“I heard your girl’s smart,” Pigpen pipes up to ease the building tension. “In fact, I’ve heard she’s fucking Einstein, which brings up the question of how the hell she ended up with you.”
I flip off Pigpen. He suggests something anatomically impossible, and as the familiar ribbing begins, we sober up when Cyrus says, “She’s the other person in the independent study.”
Silence as I understand what they must be assuming—that somehow our brains are the bond between us, but what they don’t understand is that I don’t hold a candle to Breanna.
“Yeah,” I answer. “She is.”
“See,” Pigpen says. “The boy does have brains.”
“Not like hers.” Before they can argue, I jack my thumb over my shoulder. “Breanna’s freaked enough about being here, so I’m going to find her.”
“She under eighteen?” Eli asks, and I nod. “Then she’s out of here by eight. A few other chapters are riding in later tonight in your honor. Shit’s going to get crazy.”
I’ll be expected to show later, and maybe I will after I get Breanna safely home, but right now, my focus is her. All on her. I nod again to let him know I heard and leave to find my girl.
Breanna
PAPER PLATES WITH the remnants of our dinner are stacked at the end of the picnic table, and there are enough red plastic cups on the table that I’ve lost track of which one is mine. I’m drinking water. Emily is drinking a diet soda. Oz and Chevy are drinking beer. They’ve had multiple cups and, when they first sat at the table, Razor had a beer, too.
He drank one and after that he’s stuck to my water. It’s intimate that we share the same cup and it’s odd to watch people my age drink so freely with so many adults around. What’s crazy—no one, not a single adult, cares.