Walk The Edge

Maintaining eye contact with me, Addison raises my phone and pushes Save.

The door to the living room swings open and my younger brother Joshua enters. He wanders over to us and his eyes flicker between us as Addison and I continue to stare at each other in recognition of how huge this moment is for me.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Congratulate your sister,” says Addison. “She’s on Bragger.”

RAZOR

IT’S A HUMID NIGHT. The day was so hot the air smells of melting blacktop. Bugs fly near the town’s light posts and the promise of violence is so thick I can taste it. Chevy swings off his bike and straightens to his full six feet. His pissed-off glare could shatter the diner’s window.

Since I arrived home last night to Dad’s broken promise, I’ve been itching for a release. A scan of the diner and I catch up on why Chevy nine-one-one’d me and Oz. Never thought I’d be happy to see Chevy’s ex-girl, Violet, locked in a kiss in the corner booth with the town’s biggest asshole, but God does work in mysterious ways.

Oz’s big black Harley rumbles up next to me. He kills the engine and his head is that of an owl as he swings his gaze between us and Violet’s public display. A crowd of guys from school are hanging in the diner. They eat and shoot the breeze as the guy shoving his tongue down Violet’s throat begins to move his hand near the hem of her shirt.

“Shit.” Oz verbalizes how deep we are in this minefield. People are automatically scared of Oz, with that unruly black hair and don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Now that he officially has the three-piece patch of the Terror on his back, people fall over themselves to get out of his way.

He flips me the bird and I flip it back. Not ready for Dad’s father-son talk, I went fishing at the Pond with Oz. Chevy texted a few minutes ago he needed backup, and Oz and I raced to town. I cut Oz off near the railroad tracks and he’s pissed I beat him on my pieced-together bike.

“We doing this?” Oz asks Chevy as he sidles up to the two of us.

Chevy’s dark eyes harden into an answer. He’s one hundred percent a McKinley. Chestnut hair, brown eyes, tall as hell and a mean bastard when he chooses to be. Even at seventeen, his personality mirrors that of his grandfather and uncle—the two most powerful guys in the Terror. Each of them are laid-back, easy to talk to, but if you push their button wrong, they’ll hurl you through a concrete wall.

“There’s six of them,” I state. And three of us. I thrive off those odds. “Two of those guys in there were some of the ones that stood back and watched when that asshole beat up Stone last year. I still believe a lesson should have been taught to them all.” Not just to the bastard who we made cry when he picked on a kid four years younger.

Stone is the fourteen-year-old and awkward-as-hell kid brother of the girl currently giving us heartburn. Stone and Violet’s dad belonged to the club and died in an accident a little over a year ago. Club takes care of their family now, but Violet’s gone rogue, alienating anyone from the Terror, even us—the guys who have grown up with her since birth.

“Should I mention hanging with them is Violet’s choice?” Oz asks. I level my glare on him. I want this action and logic could kill my one possibility of throwing a punch.

“Was that picture put on Bragger Violet’s choice?” Chevy spits.

There’s a damn account set up on that nonsense Bragger site called Snowflake Sluts. A couple weeks ago someone posted a compromising picture of Violet. Oz and Chevy confronted her on it and she laughed it off, claiming it didn’t bother her. But then she showed at my house later that night trashed and crying to the point I couldn’t understand her.

That’s a lie. She did make it clear she would never speak to me again if I sought revenge on the asshole who posted the pic or ran the account.

Fucked-up part—none of us can prove who posted the pic, and because I’d prefer for Violet to come to me when she’s in trouble, I haven’t tried too hard to figure out who’s responsible. But my gaze wanders into the diner again and it lands on the group inside.

I’ve heard rumors. Noticed the way girls targeted on the account look at those guys like they’ve stolen a part of their soul. As far as I’m concerned, that’s judge, jury and verdict.

“That’s our family in there being mauled by the biggest jackass we know,” Chevy argues with Oz. “You think he respects her? You think he has her best interests in mind?”

“You think beating the hell out of them is going to make her like us again?”

“No.” Even I notice the chill in the air associated with my voice. “But it will keep them from touching her. You graduated this spring, Oz, and the burden to protect anyone in school associated with the Terror falls hard on me and Chevy. She thinks she can blend in with this crowd at school, but we all know how this is going to end. We need to prove a point.”

Violet eases back from her public display of torture and her face pales against her red hair when she spots us. Not really us. Chevy. She used to be in love with Chevy. Still is in love from what I gather, but she blames the Terror for her dad’s death. Though Chevy can’t patch in until he’s eighteen, he’s Terror to his bones. He won’t walk from the club. Not even for her.

Violet stands. The guys in the diner all look out the window, and one by one they cast down their eyes. Like most everyone else in the town, they’ll talk shit about us, but they won’t back up anything they have to say with action.

Chevy mutters a curse and pivots away like he’s going to vomit. He lowers his head as he scrubs his face. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Then don’t,” comes a familiar feminine voice. Violet sways by the door to the diner. I notice her lack of balance, and by the subtle way Oz readjusts his feet as if he’s readying to spring toward her, so does he. She rubs her bloodshot eyes, then glances at her parked car.

Great, she’s drunk and/or high. Night before school, too. This year’s going to suck.

“We won’t let you drive home.” There’s a sharpness in Oz’s tone. Even when we were tight, Oz and Violet tore into each other. Violet claimed it boiled down to hair color—her fire-red hair and temper and Oz’s black hair and attitude to match.

They’ve always fought because Violet pretends she’s in control. Oz is the one in charge, Violet was our glue, Chevy’s the follower, and me? I don’t follow and I’ve never cared enough about leading to challenge Oz for the role. I exist.

Violet rolls her shoulders like she’s preparing to attack. “Are you guys stalking me?”

“I wanted food.” Chevy keeps his back to her. “Just some fucking food.”

“We’re going to get you home,” Oz informs Violet.

Her hands wave in a huge, unbalanced way. “No. No way. I’m staying. You don’t have any say over me. The Terror doesn’t—”

“Violet,” I cut her off. I may not be vocal about every damn thing, but I understand Oz’s anger and Chevy’s pain. There’s only so much of her mouthing off even I can stomach.

Her eyes meet mine. I’ve protected her secret like she’s asked. I’ve broken Terror code by withholding the fact that she’s shown at my house in trouble. But sometimes, we all have our secrets to keep. I’ve done this for her. She can shut up and let someone take her home for me.

“I’ll do it,” Chevy says. “I’ll get her home.”

Lines form between her eyebrows. The idea of being alone with Chevy clearly rams a stake through her heart. But as Chevy starts for her car, because there’s no way she can hold on to him to ride his bike, Violet trails after him—swerving.

“I’ll get Eli’s truck,” Oz says. Eli’s the father of the girl Oz is dating. He’s also a board member. “Then I’ll pick Chevy up.”

I nod. Not much else to say to that. We watch as the taillights of Violet’s rusted Chevelle pull away. “We could still do it,” I say. “Beat the shit out of those guys.”

Because truth be told, there’s this slow burn that’s peeling away at my insides. The edginess is getting harder and harder to control. First the detective, Breanna’s family leaving her for dead at school, Mom on the brain, Dad’s woman at the house, and now this shit with Violet. Someone’s got to pay for something. There can’t be this much injustice in the world.

“I think one of them’s behind that Bragger account.” I’m dangling bait, praying Oz bites.

Oz gives me the once-over. “Do you have proof?”

I shove my hands into my jeans pockets and Oz shakes his head. “Then we can’t make a move. Board told us we’re frozen with the Bragger situation without proof and their approval.”

“The board can kiss my ass.”

Oz stiffens. He’s a club boy. I am, too, but I color outside the lines. The rumble of motorcycles interrupts his sure-to-be-well-thought-out lecture on how I need to conform.

Two bikes tear past, and it’s not the speed at which they are flying through our town that causes my blood pressure to rise. It’s the patch on the back of their cut. It ain’t a skull, it’s a reaper. The Riot are a long way from Louisville, and they are currently in our town.

Breanna

“YOUR SISTER HAS officially joined civilization.” Addison props an elbow on Joshua’s shoulder, and because he’s taller, her arm is angled up. Joshua stares at her like he died and went to heaven. He’s sixteen and has been way too infatuated with my best friend for two months.

They look odd yet beautiful together. She’s blond-haired and fair. Like me and Liam, Joshua also has black hair and is well tanned from summer.

Joshua clutches his heart. “I’m so proud. It seems like yesterday Bre was making up stories about being around the Reign of Terror. Oh, wait, it was yesterday.”

Addison swats him on the back of the head, and when Joshua overly dramatizes his pain, she throws him a mock kiss as she walks over to me. She tosses my cell in the air. I catch it and sigh. Thomas just fixed it and, thanks to Addison, that cell was seconds away from breaking again. “How is it possible that I already have five followers?”

“I sent out an invite to everyone in your email contacts. You now have to wait and see if the rest of your contacts will actually follow.”

My stomach rolls. Great. A popularity contest and my senior year hasn’t even started yet. “I can delete the account, you know.”

“You could,” Addison responds. “But you won’t. I know you’ve wanted on Bragger but have been hesitant to do it. Consider this your push.”

“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 pieces 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.