Читать книгу Walk The Edge - Кэти Макгэрри, Katie McGarry - Страница 20

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.

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?”

“Nothing.”

“No, that wasn’t nothing. That was something.”

Thomas doesn’t answer, and he leaves two feet between us as we walk down the hallway. There’s a large enough gap that people easily stroll through, so it’s then I discover we weren’t really connecting.

My second period class comes into view and I decide to end this weird thing the two of us have going so we can return to our normal lives. “Hey, Thomas, wait a sec. Let me give you the twenty bucks I owe you.”

He studies me as if he’s trying to figure out if he likes the knee-length skirt and sleeveless purple shirt, and then his gaze drops just low enough he may be admiring a part of me no boy has explored before. The thought causes a rush of heat to crash onto my cheeks and it takes everything I have not to pull my hair off the nape of my neck in an attempt to cool down.

Thomas slips closer and I step back, colliding with the locker behind me. My heel throbs from the impact, but I’m so caught by the way his muscles rippled when he moved in my direction that I don’t utter a sound.

“Call me Razor.” This boy is immaculately pretty and he makes it terribly difficult to be coherent.

He told me to call him Razor. Razor sounds mean and menacing and he’s sexy and brooding with his cut on, but I recall the tease in his voice earlier and the way he fixed my phone. “What if I’d rather call you Thomas?”

Those light blue eyes freeze over. “I’d tell you you’re shit out of luck.”

A chill paralyzes me as he flips to dangerous. “Razor it is.”

Razor looks over my hair with intense interest and follows a strand to where it lies on my bare shoulder. “Do you know what I was going to do?”

I inch my head left, then right. My mouth has completely dried out and I couldn’t speak if my life depended on it. Thomas freaking Turner—Razor of the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club—is so close I can feel the heat of his body. He’s close enough that with every inhale I can smell his delicious dark scent. He’s close enough I’m not thinking of guns or abductions or of any warnings I’ve ever heard, but of how my body is begging to take one step forward and touch that gorgeous face.

“I was never going to take your twenty dollars. I was going to get you on the back of my bike and take you for a ride.”

Dizziness sets in as I’m not sure if he means a ride home or a very consensual ride. And here’s the thing: I’m not the girl guys consider offering rides to—either the way home type or the type that’s making my toes pleasantly curl.

“And now?” I hate how my voice quakes with anticipation.

Razor picks up a lock of my hair and the skin he barely touched while lifting the strands tingles. He allows my hair to slide between his fingers and then he eases entirely too far from me, his warmth retreating with him. “And now I want something else for protecting you.”

The bell rings and I’m thirty seconds from being late to class. Panic rips through me as being late is so not what I do. Razor pivots on the balls of his feet and leaves. It’s like my world is being torn in two as I’m desperate to understand him while I fight this desire to remain the girl who obeys the rules. “Razor!”

He rotates and walks backward for his class. I’m guessing his “what?” expression is the most encouragement I’ll get.

“I don’t need you to protect me anymore.”

He releases that soul-squeezing smile. The one that screams dark nights and perilous bike rides at breakneck speeds. The one that reminds me he’s not a model, but a biker. “Yeah, you do. We’ll discuss payment later.”

I slip into the safety of my class and watch as Thomas Turner, Razor the motorcycle boy, strides into the classroom across from me. My hands tremble as I sit. My senior year just entered the realm of interesting.