Walk the Edge
Page 55
Can Kyle tell what’s happening? Will his phone beep like NORAD and he’ll realize we’ve deceived him? But none of that happens. Kyle interacts with me as if we’re friends and I let him talk, encouraging him to keep hunting for things on his phone.
If Razor’s true to his word, this nightmare is on its way to being over.
* * *
There’s ice cream in my hair. Why wouldn’t there be? In the tiny employee bathroom of the Barrel of Fun Ice Cream shop, I lower my head, run water over the sticky strands, then yank so many paper towels I can hear trees in the rainforest screaming in protest.
I squish the towels to my hair in an effort to dry it and the rumble of a motorcycle causes my stomach to fill with a million anxiety-ridden butterflies. Oh my God, I’m getting on a motorcycle with a member of the Reign of Terror. Scratch that. I’m getting on a motorcycle with Razor, voted by my school as the most feared member of the Reign of Terror.
I peer at my reflection in the mirror to see if I’ve gone insane.
My eyes are brighter than normal. My cheeks are flushed. In front of me is a girl I barely recognize. Texting with Razor, the occasional chat on the phone, the way we flirt when we’re together in independent study—all of that is crossing dangerous lines, but this...leaving with Razor? Being alone with him? I’ve lost my mind, and I’m loving the girl staring back at me.
A buzz of my cell and I fumble with it in my haste. It’s not Razor announcing his arrival, but Addison: What are you doing tonight?
My parents think I’m working until nine and my fingers hesitate over the letters. I trust Razor—but seventeen years of Reign of Terror doctrine is hard to combat. Me: I’m doing homework with Thomas Turner.
I wince at how quickly she responds: WHAT?!!!!!
Me: I’ll explain later, but keep this between us.
I pocket my phone and step outside. My phone pings every few seconds. My best friend will strangle me and then demand Razor details.
On the other side of the lot is a familiar angelic face, golden hair and a black leather cut that spells trouble. Razor leans against his motorcycle. His biceps are gorgeously flexed as he crosses his arms over his chest.
Adrenaline pumps into my veins as I walk toward him. Razor spots me and this devilish smirk forms on his face. A thrill runs through me and so do a million questions about what exactly will happen when we are completely and utterly alone.
Razor straightens when I reach him and then glides into my personal space so that we’re close. Super close. Almost as close as the night at Shamrock’s. I inhale to calm my beating heart and I detect his dark, spicy scent.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I swallow, as I sounded crazy raspy. “Do you have our rockets?”
We built them this week during our independent study.
He gestures to a black leather bag attached to his bike, then raises his fingers. Wrapped around three of them is a rubber band. “Figured you wouldn’t think of this.”
Riding a motorcycle. My hair. Lots of wind that would create tangles. Nope, didn’t contemplate it at all. I go to accept the rubber band, but Razor pulls back his hand. I frown, then freeze. Razor gathers my hair at the nape of my neck and pleasing goose bumps tickle along my skin. I suck in a breath of air to keep my heart from exploding with his touch.
There’s a gentle pull as he twists the band around my hair. Tingles. Beautiful tingles. When he’s done, he lets one finger trace the length of my chin. I can’t breathe.
“A few things before we go,” he says.
I nod, because speaking is officially impossible. He slips his cut off, then shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Put this on.”
I raise an eyebrow. Don’t get me wrong, the idea of wearing something of Razor’s makes me want to squee with joy, but... “It’s warm today. Like high of eighty-one warm.”
“Better you sweat than scratch the hell out of yourself if we take a spill.”
My stomach twists. “Spill?”
“Not planning on it, but I’m not taking any chances.”
I accept the jacket and draw my arms into it. It’s heavy and huge and smells like him and I’d die a happy girl if I never had to give this back. Razor produces a helmet. “When we get on my bike—”
“Wait up, Kyle.” The voice is unexpected and unwelcome. Near the Barrel of Fun, Kyle and two of his friends stand by the outside back bathroom entrance. Cold fear rushes into my veins.
Razor blocks me from their view. “I’m not ready for him to see us out like this yet. So short lesson. Climb on and hold on to me. If you’re scared, pinch my thigh and I’ll stop. Got it?”
I’m blinded when Razor places a helmet on my head. He adjusts it so I can see, then snaps the strap under my chin. It’s not one of those full helmets, just the type that covers my head.
He straddles his bike, eases his cut back on and glances at me. After wiping my palms against my jeans, I hop on behind him. Razor reaches back, gathers my arms, and I close my eyes when my fingers touch a very hard stomach. I slowly breathe out. Oh my God, this is happening.
He squeezes my fingers, lets me go, and within seconds the motorcycle roars and vibrates between my thighs. A fleeting moment of panic becomes a hiccup in my brain. I could pinch his thigh. I could jump off the bike. I could run.
But I do none of those things. Instead, I rest my chin on his shoulder, readjust my hold on his waist and press closer to him. When Razor turns his head to look at me, I swear he’s smiling.
RAZOR
BREANNA COVERS HER face with her hands. “This is impossible!”
If Razor’s true to his word, this nightmare is on its way to being over.
* * *
There’s ice cream in my hair. Why wouldn’t there be? In the tiny employee bathroom of the Barrel of Fun Ice Cream shop, I lower my head, run water over the sticky strands, then yank so many paper towels I can hear trees in the rainforest screaming in protest.
I squish the towels to my hair in an effort to dry it and the rumble of a motorcycle causes my stomach to fill with a million anxiety-ridden butterflies. Oh my God, I’m getting on a motorcycle with a member of the Reign of Terror. Scratch that. I’m getting on a motorcycle with Razor, voted by my school as the most feared member of the Reign of Terror.
I peer at my reflection in the mirror to see if I’ve gone insane.
My eyes are brighter than normal. My cheeks are flushed. In front of me is a girl I barely recognize. Texting with Razor, the occasional chat on the phone, the way we flirt when we’re together in independent study—all of that is crossing dangerous lines, but this...leaving with Razor? Being alone with him? I’ve lost my mind, and I’m loving the girl staring back at me.
A buzz of my cell and I fumble with it in my haste. It’s not Razor announcing his arrival, but Addison: What are you doing tonight?
My parents think I’m working until nine and my fingers hesitate over the letters. I trust Razor—but seventeen years of Reign of Terror doctrine is hard to combat. Me: I’m doing homework with Thomas Turner.
I wince at how quickly she responds: WHAT?!!!!!
Me: I’ll explain later, but keep this between us.
I pocket my phone and step outside. My phone pings every few seconds. My best friend will strangle me and then demand Razor details.
On the other side of the lot is a familiar angelic face, golden hair and a black leather cut that spells trouble. Razor leans against his motorcycle. His biceps are gorgeously flexed as he crosses his arms over his chest.
Adrenaline pumps into my veins as I walk toward him. Razor spots me and this devilish smirk forms on his face. A thrill runs through me and so do a million questions about what exactly will happen when we are completely and utterly alone.
Razor straightens when I reach him and then glides into my personal space so that we’re close. Super close. Almost as close as the night at Shamrock’s. I inhale to calm my beating heart and I detect his dark, spicy scent.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I swallow, as I sounded crazy raspy. “Do you have our rockets?”
We built them this week during our independent study.
He gestures to a black leather bag attached to his bike, then raises his fingers. Wrapped around three of them is a rubber band. “Figured you wouldn’t think of this.”
Riding a motorcycle. My hair. Lots of wind that would create tangles. Nope, didn’t contemplate it at all. I go to accept the rubber band, but Razor pulls back his hand. I frown, then freeze. Razor gathers my hair at the nape of my neck and pleasing goose bumps tickle along my skin. I suck in a breath of air to keep my heart from exploding with his touch.
There’s a gentle pull as he twists the band around my hair. Tingles. Beautiful tingles. When he’s done, he lets one finger trace the length of my chin. I can’t breathe.
“A few things before we go,” he says.
I nod, because speaking is officially impossible. He slips his cut off, then shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Put this on.”
I raise an eyebrow. Don’t get me wrong, the idea of wearing something of Razor’s makes me want to squee with joy, but... “It’s warm today. Like high of eighty-one warm.”
“Better you sweat than scratch the hell out of yourself if we take a spill.”
My stomach twists. “Spill?”
“Not planning on it, but I’m not taking any chances.”
I accept the jacket and draw my arms into it. It’s heavy and huge and smells like him and I’d die a happy girl if I never had to give this back. Razor produces a helmet. “When we get on my bike—”
“Wait up, Kyle.” The voice is unexpected and unwelcome. Near the Barrel of Fun, Kyle and two of his friends stand by the outside back bathroom entrance. Cold fear rushes into my veins.
Razor blocks me from their view. “I’m not ready for him to see us out like this yet. So short lesson. Climb on and hold on to me. If you’re scared, pinch my thigh and I’ll stop. Got it?”
I’m blinded when Razor places a helmet on my head. He adjusts it so I can see, then snaps the strap under my chin. It’s not one of those full helmets, just the type that covers my head.
He straddles his bike, eases his cut back on and glances at me. After wiping my palms against my jeans, I hop on behind him. Razor reaches back, gathers my arms, and I close my eyes when my fingers touch a very hard stomach. I slowly breathe out. Oh my God, this is happening.
He squeezes my fingers, lets me go, and within seconds the motorcycle roars and vibrates between my thighs. A fleeting moment of panic becomes a hiccup in my brain. I could pinch his thigh. I could jump off the bike. I could run.
But I do none of those things. Instead, I rest my chin on his shoulder, readjust my hold on his waist and press closer to him. When Razor turns his head to look at me, I swear he’s smiling.
RAZOR
BREANNA COVERS HER face with her hands. “This is impossible!”
