Читать книгу Walk The Edge - Кэти Макгэрри, Katie McGarry - Страница 17

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.