Walk the Edge

  “Why are we friends?”

  “Because I’m pretty,” she says to me, then cocks an annoyed hip as she assesses Joshua. “That Reign of Terror stuff wasn’t bull. We were terrified.”

  He eyes Addison in a way that suggests he’s thinking things involving her that seriously gross me out. “You could have called me. I would have given you a ride.”

  I toss my arms out to my sides. “I asked for a ride! I texted, remember?”

  “I said her, not you. Besides, Liam picked you up. FYI, I overheard Zac and Elsie conspiring to act like you don’t exist again. That should make bedtime fun.”

  Pretending I don’t exist. It’s a fun game all my siblings have played on me. Liam started it when he was eight—mad we were forced to share a bike as a Christmas present. To this day, I’m not sure how he felt slighted. It was a boy bike.

  “Then do me a favor,” I say. “You give them baths and get them in bed. I’ve got dishes.”

  Joshua claims his keys from the hook by the door. “No can do. Mom called. She forgot her checkbook and told me to tell you to make sure they’re in bed by the time she gets home.”

  “Ask Clara to get Mom.”

  He grimaces. “That would mean Clara would have to stop living in a dark room feeling sorry for herself. I don’t do angst. You want her help, you ask for it.”

  We both know the result of that conversation. I’m envious of Joshua, always have been. He’s an island in our family. Calm. Tranquil. Maintains his distance from everyone he’s blood-related to. Joshua learned quickly to befriend people outside of our family and he sticks closely with them—not us. And my family believes I’m the smart one.

  “Have fun.” Joshua waggles his eyebrows as he opens the door. I launch a wet dishrag in his direction and Joshua dodges it by racing out. The rag hits the door frame with a wet splat.

  Glass crashes in the living room. I hold my breath and a split second later Elsie’s screaming. It’s not her fake cry for attention, it’s the real one. I’m across the kitchen, slamming my hand so hard on the swinging door that it stings my palm, and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t spot blood pouring from her head.

  Mom’s last nonbroken vase is in pieces on the floor and Elsie is nursing her elbow. There’s a small trickle of blood, but no bone sticking out of the skin. The small child who was bent on ignoring me for the rest of the night holds her hands up to me. I swing her up on my hip, then scan the room for Zac.

  He’s crouched on the other side of the sofa, waiting for someone to tear into him because his younger sister is hurt. Elsie sobs and sobs in my ear like someone ripped off her arm. A heaviness descends upon me and the urge is to go upstairs, crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, but that isn’t an option. At the moment, I’m the designated parent.

  “Zac.” Even I detect the exhaustion in my tone.

  He stands and looks like a puppy someone hit with a rolled-up newspaper. I should ask what happened. I should tell him he has to play more carefully with our sister. I should tell him he knows better than to have that plastic sword in the living room, but I don’t. I may be the closest thing they have to a parent, but I’m only seventeen and right now seventeen-year-old me wants to run away.

  “Let’s go upstairs and start baths,” I say.

  With his head hanging, Zac trudges up the stairs in silence. Middle-school-demon Paul watches me with wide eyes from his spot on the couch. I very much notice the controller in his hand and the paused game on the TV. He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t take a shower. He didn’t even attempt to police our younger siblings or help Elsie when she fell.

  A cell vibrates and I turn to see Addison offering me a face full of sympathy. “My dad wants me home.”

  She lives a block away. I nod and she slips into the kitchen. The outside door shuts and Elsie wipes her snotty nose on my shoulder, then sucks in a shuddering breath.

  I have glass to clean up, a boo-boo to kiss and bedtime routines to keep. I have dishes in the kitchen, garbage to take out and a social media account currently tracking my popularity.

  In my bare feet, I gingerly step over the broken vase and ask a hollow question. “Can you at least pick up the broken glass, Paul?”

  He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. I’m going to pretend that he’s going to do it anyway because he cares or feels guilty. I’ll accept either as an excuse.

  RAZOR

  OZ AND I mount our motorcycles at the same time, but I block his path forward with my bike. “You’re not on this.”

  “Last I checked, you don’t call the shots.” Oz revs his motor.

  “You’re not allowed near the Riot.” This summer, Oz pointed a gun at the president of the Riot Motorcycle Club and it appears our unsteady peace treaty with them is cracking. He shouldn’t be the Snowflake welcoming committee. Besides, our clubs are about to go Fat Man and Little Boy, and I’m ready for this fallout.

  “Last I heard,” Oz retorts, “neither are you. Only board members are allowed to approach.”

  I’m not wasting any more time. “Call this in and I’ll tail them to make sure they leave town. We both know Eli won’t allow Emily anywhere near Kentucky if the Riot’s become a problem, and if the Terror don’t make a stand now, the Riot might come back. Then Emily will stay in Florida.”

  Oz cuts his engine with a curse and pulls out his phone. Emily is his kryptonite. “You stay back from them, you got me? Do not engage.”

  I flash him a smile, and it’s hard to keep the crazy welling up inside me from leaking out. “Sunday stroll, brother. All friendly.”

  “There’s nothing friendly about you,” Oz says in that way I hate. It’s part joke, part sympathy. It’s part truth, too. I twist the throttle, pick up my feet and tear off into the night.

  The wind blows through my hair and my speedometer climbs as I chase after the Riot. Their taillights emerge like the red eyes of a demon, beckoning me to follow straight to hell. The needle reaches fifty, sixty, seventy. Each new speed makes the blood pump faster.

  The front wheel of my bike catches air off an uneven hill over the intersection. I’m racing, but it’s not with them. It’s with the devil breathing down my neck.

  “It’s okay, baby.” Mom was crouched in front of me, uncurling my fingers from her hands. “I’ll always be with you.”

  I pass over another intersection, my motorcycle growling beneath me. I hit a patch of cold air and my skin prickles. Is she here with me? Because it doesn’t feel like it. Instead, it feels lonely. So lonely it hurts.

  A tight right turn, a twist of the throttle again, then I brake so quickly I have to slam my foot to the blacktop to prevent from spinning out. Five headlights blind me and tires squeal as two of the bikes come to a stop.

  Three bikes fly by, and as I whip my head to see which way the Riot is headed, I spot the Terror patch.

  “You, boy, are in a ton of trouble.”

  My head lowers at the sound of the gravel voice. It’s Cyrus, the president of the Terror, and I got caught disobeying a direct order.

  Breanna

  “THIS IS GOING to be the best night of our lives,” announces Reagan. Addison sits at the desk in front of me and Reagan’s to the left of Addison.

  I check the clock on the wall over our English teacher’s desk. In exactly two minutes, the bell will ring and the first day of my senior year will begin. It’s not only the first day of school, but also the first Friday of the school year.

  Three years ago, Addison, Reagan and I promised we’d do something crazy on the first Friday of our senior year. After notifying High Grove that I declined their scholarship, crazy is exactly what I need. “Are you sure your parents aren’t going to check on us?”

  “Trust me, everything will be golden.” Reagan uses the camera on her phone to fix stray piece
s of her dirty-blond hair. She curled it this morning and much to her displeasure the curls are falling out. “Has Cass started following you yet? I told her you created a Bragger account.”

  I sigh and Addison scowls. She’s less than thrilled with my lack of excitement. I currently have twenty-five followers. It’s better than none, but not nearly reaching Addison’s and Reagan’s totals. Not sure how this whole social media thing is supposed to be fun. It’s like being back in elementary school and waiting to be picked for kickball.

  “To gain followers you must post something.” Addison has this teacher-to-pupil reprimand going on, and it’s scary on her. “Don’t make me start posting for you, brat. You’re the one that wanted to join the world. Reagan and I are trying to catch you up on how to participate in the land of the living.”

  “Because everyone will love reading how I was up doing dishes until midnight,” I say.

  “Tell them you were doing it naked and half the boys in school will follow you.” Reagan tosses me a sly smirk and I laugh. She’s always saying things that push the envelope. “Tell them you’ll post the picture if you reach five hundred followers. Watch your stats climb, girl.”

  “That would be interesting.” A new voice joins the conversation.

  I see jeans first. Actually, I see a rip in the jeans, and that rip is an inch above the knee, and I’m staring at a very muscular male thigh. I enter this weird zone, because there’s this sinking feeling of where this is heading, and ominous sirens are sounding off.

  It’s like being stuck in slow motion as I glance up. My heart stops. Starts. And when it starts again, I find I can’t breathe. Golden hair that’s a little long on top. Light blue eyes drinking me in. All I see is a whole lot of gorgeous...and dangerous.

  It’s Thomas freaking Turner. He wears the same leather vest that he had on the other night, and underneath it is a black T-shirt with the name of an old-school metal band. My eyes automatically scan his patches and I wonder which one is the warning that he carries a gun.

  His fingers skim my desk as he strides past. There are small cuts on his knuckles, and the skin on his hands looks rough—like him. For some reason, I find that attractive. It reminds me of him hunched in front of his bike as he was repairing his machine. The steady way he moved. The serious set of his face. The way the muscles in his arms flexed as he worked.

  “Hello, Breanna.” Thomas’s voice is deep, smooth, and feels like a caress along my skin.

  “Hey.” It’s hardly more than a whisper.

  “How are you?” Thomas settles into the seat in the back corner behind me as if this is where he’s determined to stay for the year. He kicks his long legs into the aisle and crosses one booted foot over the other.

  “Good,” I answer, able to attain a somewhat normal voice.

  “Good,” he repeats. “How’s your phone?”

  “Terrific.” When did I become the queen of one-word answers?

  “Terrific.” His eyes are laughing. At me. With me. I’m not sure, so I return to facing the front. Holy freaking crap, Thomas Turner is attempting conversation with me.

  I’m greeted by two wide-eyed and slack-mouthed friends. Addison’s gaze flickers between me and Thomas so quickly that I’m afraid she’s going to make herself cross-eyed. So...yeah. I left out telling Addison about my few minutes alone with the motorcycle boy, so that would mean that Reagan’s also in the dark.

  Please act normal, I mouth.

  They tilt their heads as if I asked them to explain osmosis.

  Addison blinks as she snaps out of her shock, then clears her throat. “So...it’s settled. As soon as you break free from babysitting prison, we’re going to Shamrock’s tonight.”

  Thomas shifts in his seat and my neck twinges as I feel his eyes on me. We live in a small town in a sparsely populated county. Everyone knows Shamrock’s is a bar near the Army base. They allow anyone eighteen and older, but we’re not supposed to drink. Rumor has it the Army guys have no problem buying alcohol for any girl underage.

  I’m going to admit, I’m not eighteen. I’ve never drunk before, not counting a few sips of my mother’s wine under her visual guidance, and a small glass of champagne at my grandparents’ anniversary party last year. Other than that—nothing.

  I’m also going to admit, I’m curious. About drinking and bars and Army boys. I’m excited about a dimly lit room and neon lights and a glittering disco ball creating a rainbow.

  The sane portion of my brain reminds me of the parental talks and just-say-no lectures I’ve heard in my life. All that common sense is fighting against the notion of going, but like wearing the short skirt to orientation the other night, I’m ready for something new.

  I’m searching for magic—not the Christmas-morning type, but the type of magic that can be found by being courageous, being the girl who takes chances, being the girl who will dance. I want to be the girl who is seen.

  “Shamrock’s can get rough,” Thomas says loud enough we can hear, but low enough that the three of us can’t figure out if he was intentionally joining our conversation.

  The bell rings, the morning announcements start, and it’s the click, click, click behind me that gains my attention. It’s not fast, but persistent, and my instincts nudge me to turn to confirm it’s his pencil, but that would mean looking at Thomas, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I can already sense his warmth, and I recall how his fingers held mine when we shook hands.

  Our teacher writes on the dry-erase board: Zhofrph edfn, Vhqlruv!

  The sights and sounds fade as my mind rearranges and translates the letters. My notebook’s open and my pencil scrawls along the white paper. E is the most common letter used in the English language. T would be next followed by A, I, N, O, S.

  Our teacher’s talking. Rambling how she’ll give a hundred extra credit points to anyone who can solve the puzzle by the end of class. She’s saying some other things, too. Like my name. After a push of Addison’s elbow to my desk, I absently say, “Here.” After another passage of time I’m pulled out of the zone when I hear, “I only respond to Razor.”

  Then our teacher says other things. Things I should possibly pay attention to, but can’t.

  The wheels are spinning. I write down each train of thought, watching the correct letters come up like dials of a combination lock. Each click audible in my head, and it sends me higher and higher, and when the last letter falls into place, my seat jerks beneath me.

  Addison and Reagan turn at the sound, and so do others. I use my hand to cover my answer because I don’t want anyone to know I cracked it. I will not relive middle school again.

  Our teacher assesses me, then continues to summarize our syllabus. Everyone else eventually faces forward and I allow myself to revel in the solution glory.

  Forty minutes eventually pass. We hear about rules and projects. Books we’ll read and movies we’ll watch. As always, there’s a discussion of expectations. At the end, our teacher grants us ten minutes to tackle the problem and I spend that time doodling cloud-inspired sheep.

  The bell rings. Addison and Reagan give me a quick ’bye and bolt, since their next class is on the opposite side of the building. My class is down the hall, so I’m slow packing my stuff.

  The booted feet that were beside me are now drawn back, and there’s a squeak as the desk behind me tips forward. A quick scan confirms the classroom is empty. Our teacher stands in the doorway with her back toward us.

  “Are you really heading to Shamrock’s tonight?” Thomas is so near his breath tickles my neck and I like it way more than I should.

  “What if I am?” I inhale to calm the blood racing in my veins. He’s close, so close. Close enough I should be afraid. Close enough I wish he would edge nearer.

  “I am your bodyguard.” There’s a tease in his voice and I laugh without thinking. Thomas
chuckles along with me and a strange warmth curls below my belly.

  I angle slightly. His head is next to mine and he’s wearing that heart-stopping smile. The breath catches in my throat. How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

  I hear you have to kill people to be a member of your club. It’s what I’m dying to say, but after my foot-in-mouth moment a few days ago, I choose safe. “I thought you weren’t allowed to wear your vest at school.”

  Last year the school board freaked when Thomas showed to class with the vest on his back. They had a special emergency session and unanimously voted that his vest was the same as wearing gang colors and that anything gang-related was prohibited in school.

  “I’m not.” His smile widens and that’s when I spot the lethal. While a part of me shivers, another part of me finds his mouth completely thrilling. Oh, God, I do have a death wish.

  “Aren’t you concerned you’re going to get in trouble? I mean, if they write you up, it will be an automatic suspension, three weeks in detention, and it will go on your permanent record.”

  “Do I look like I care?”

  I bite my bottom lip with the surge of adrenaline. I’m actually having a conversation with Thomas Turner. This is insane. This is suicidal. This is the most fantastic moment of my life. “I think you’re looking for problems.”

  “Read the student handbook we received on Wednesday a few times?”

  “Maybe.” I read it once while eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

  Thomas rises from his chair and I fully appreciate his massive height. “It’s called a cut, not a vest.”

  Noted. Thomas hooks a thumb in his pocket and stands there as if he’s waiting for me, and after the longest seconds of my life, I comprehend that he is waiting for me. I fumble with my purse and folder and eventually coordinate myself enough to make it to my feet and stumble down the aisle.

  Thomas follows. When we breeze past our teacher into the hallway, Thomas’s head swivels between me and our classroom. Then he gives it a slight shake like he’s having an internal conversation about me, and I don’t like that I’m not a part of it. “What?”