Читать книгу Walk The Edge - Кэти Макгэрри, Katie McGarry - Страница 19

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.