Walk the Edge
Page 8
He glances over his shoulder straight at me and my mouth dries out. Holy hell, it’s like he’s aware I’m thinking of him.
“Oh my God,” Addison reprimands. “Don’t make eye contact. Do you want them to come over?”
I immediately focus on my sandals. As much as every girl is aware to keep a safe distance from Thomas and his crew, we’ve all sneaked a glimpse. Thomas makes it easy to cave to temptation with his golden-blond hair, muscles from head to toe and sexy brooding expression a few girls have written about in poems.
My cheeks burn and there’s this heaviness as if Thomas is still looking. Through lowered lashes, I peek at him and my heart trips when our eyes meet. His eyes are blue. An ice blue. His stare simultaneously causes me to be curious and terrified. And I obviously have a death wish, because I can’t tear my gaze away.
He raises his eyebrows and I lose the ability to breathe. What is happening?
Addison’s phone vibrates. “Reagan said she heard you have to kill someone in order to be part of their club.”
A guy in the circle clamps a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and tilts his head to the bike as he says something. Thomas returns his attention to his motorcycle and I draw in air for the first time in what seems like hours.
“Killing someone sounds dramatic,” I answer. “There’s a ton of guys in the club, and with the low population of Snowflake the police would notice if that many people went missing.”
“Phssh.” Addison squishes her lips together as she texts Reagan. “They wouldn’t do it in their hometown. They’re smarter than that. They’d go into a city. Their top guy was shot by another motorcycle gang in Louisville last month. And sometimes they do horrible stuff here. Everyone knows the Terror had something to do with the disappearance of Mia Ziggler.”
Every small town has this story. The one girls tell late at night during a sleepover. The one mothers use to convince their daughters to be home by nine at night. Five years ago, Mia Ziggler graduated from high school, hopped on the back of a Reign of Terror motorcycle, and she was never seen again. Ever.
“Anyhow,” Addison continues. “Have you noticed the patches on their vests? I overheard Dad tell Mom that the diamond one on the lower left means they’re carrying a gun.”
My head inclines in disbelief. “Seriously?”
Because that patch is stitched onto Thomas’s vest and he’s still a teenager...in high school. Everyone was shocked when Thomas started wearing his leather vest with the skull on it to school last year. It turns out the only requirements for membership in the club are to be eighteen and own a motorcycle. Oh, and commit murder.
Addison looks up from her phone. “Seriously. I’m surprised you didn’t know that already. That’s not a random enough fact for you to remember?”
Truth? I never heard what any of the patches on the Reign of Terror’s vest meant before, but because that was so random, I doubt I’ll ever forget. Instead of confirming or denying my freak of nature ability to remember weird stuff, I send a massive text to everyone in my family: I AM STILL WAITING ON A RIDE!!!
I added an additional exclamation point in my head.
“Just because you don’t acknowledge me on your memory,” chides Addison, “doesn’t mean I’ll forget what I said. Someday you’ll trust me enough to let me in your head.”
“I trust you.” The reply is immediate because her words stung—stung because they’re honest. I love Addison, more than some members of my family, but I’ve never flat out discussed my ability to recall things. Being near me as much as she has—she knows.
I avoid talking to Addison about this gift, or curse, because she’s one of the few people who make me feel normal, and there’s a comfort in fitting in, even if it’s just with one person. “I trust you more than anyone else.”
At least that statement is a hundred percent true.
“Then why didn’t you tell me how Kyle Hewitt cornered you in the hall and was trying to convince you to write his English papers for the year?”
My stomach rolls as if it had been kicked. “How did you know?”
She gives me the disappointed once-over. “I overheard you two when I was coming out of the bathroom. I stupidly thought that if I gave you enough time you’d tell me.”
My mouth hangs open and my mind races as I try to formulate an explanation for why I didn’t tell her, but the words embarrassed and ashamed and terrified freeze on the tip of my tongue.
Addison nudges my knee with hers. “I’m glad you said no. What did he offer in return for writing his papers?”
Then she must have not heard everything. “Money.”
“Kyle is such an asshole. Reagan heard U of K may offer him a football scholarship if he can raise his grades. His daddy and granddaddy are all proud and I guess Kyle is trying to cover his bases with his offer to you.”
“Do you think he’ll talk crap about me now?” Because that’s what a lot of guys at our school do. They spread rumors. Some true. Some not true. Unfortunately, the truth doesn’t matter once people start talking.
“Maybe,” she says with a tease. “But being the shining star in gossip is better than being invisible, right? You know what will help make you shine this year?”
“Oh, God,” I mumble. “Don’t start this again.”
“Cheerleading!” She lights up like a Christmas tree. “I’ll work my magic and get you on the squad. I’m not talking backflips. You can be the girl who holds the signs during the cheer.”
“Oh my God,” Addison reprimands. “Don’t make eye contact. Do you want them to come over?”
I immediately focus on my sandals. As much as every girl is aware to keep a safe distance from Thomas and his crew, we’ve all sneaked a glimpse. Thomas makes it easy to cave to temptation with his golden-blond hair, muscles from head to toe and sexy brooding expression a few girls have written about in poems.
My cheeks burn and there’s this heaviness as if Thomas is still looking. Through lowered lashes, I peek at him and my heart trips when our eyes meet. His eyes are blue. An ice blue. His stare simultaneously causes me to be curious and terrified. And I obviously have a death wish, because I can’t tear my gaze away.
He raises his eyebrows and I lose the ability to breathe. What is happening?
Addison’s phone vibrates. “Reagan said she heard you have to kill someone in order to be part of their club.”
A guy in the circle clamps a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and tilts his head to the bike as he says something. Thomas returns his attention to his motorcycle and I draw in air for the first time in what seems like hours.
“Killing someone sounds dramatic,” I answer. “There’s a ton of guys in the club, and with the low population of Snowflake the police would notice if that many people went missing.”
“Phssh.” Addison squishes her lips together as she texts Reagan. “They wouldn’t do it in their hometown. They’re smarter than that. They’d go into a city. Their top guy was shot by another motorcycle gang in Louisville last month. And sometimes they do horrible stuff here. Everyone knows the Terror had something to do with the disappearance of Mia Ziggler.”
Every small town has this story. The one girls tell late at night during a sleepover. The one mothers use to convince their daughters to be home by nine at night. Five years ago, Mia Ziggler graduated from high school, hopped on the back of a Reign of Terror motorcycle, and she was never seen again. Ever.
“Anyhow,” Addison continues. “Have you noticed the patches on their vests? I overheard Dad tell Mom that the diamond one on the lower left means they’re carrying a gun.”
My head inclines in disbelief. “Seriously?”
Because that patch is stitched onto Thomas’s vest and he’s still a teenager...in high school. Everyone was shocked when Thomas started wearing his leather vest with the skull on it to school last year. It turns out the only requirements for membership in the club are to be eighteen and own a motorcycle. Oh, and commit murder.
Addison looks up from her phone. “Seriously. I’m surprised you didn’t know that already. That’s not a random enough fact for you to remember?”
Truth? I never heard what any of the patches on the Reign of Terror’s vest meant before, but because that was so random, I doubt I’ll ever forget. Instead of confirming or denying my freak of nature ability to remember weird stuff, I send a massive text to everyone in my family: I AM STILL WAITING ON A RIDE!!!
I added an additional exclamation point in my head.
“Just because you don’t acknowledge me on your memory,” chides Addison, “doesn’t mean I’ll forget what I said. Someday you’ll trust me enough to let me in your head.”
“I trust you.” The reply is immediate because her words stung—stung because they’re honest. I love Addison, more than some members of my family, but I’ve never flat out discussed my ability to recall things. Being near me as much as she has—she knows.
I avoid talking to Addison about this gift, or curse, because she’s one of the few people who make me feel normal, and there’s a comfort in fitting in, even if it’s just with one person. “I trust you more than anyone else.”
At least that statement is a hundred percent true.
“Then why didn’t you tell me how Kyle Hewitt cornered you in the hall and was trying to convince you to write his English papers for the year?”
My stomach rolls as if it had been kicked. “How did you know?”
She gives me the disappointed once-over. “I overheard you two when I was coming out of the bathroom. I stupidly thought that if I gave you enough time you’d tell me.”
My mouth hangs open and my mind races as I try to formulate an explanation for why I didn’t tell her, but the words embarrassed and ashamed and terrified freeze on the tip of my tongue.
Addison nudges my knee with hers. “I’m glad you said no. What did he offer in return for writing his papers?”
Then she must have not heard everything. “Money.”
“Kyle is such an asshole. Reagan heard U of K may offer him a football scholarship if he can raise his grades. His daddy and granddaddy are all proud and I guess Kyle is trying to cover his bases with his offer to you.”
“Do you think he’ll talk crap about me now?” Because that’s what a lot of guys at our school do. They spread rumors. Some true. Some not true. Unfortunately, the truth doesn’t matter once people start talking.
“Maybe,” she says with a tease. “But being the shining star in gossip is better than being invisible, right? You know what will help make you shine this year?”
“Oh, God,” I mumble. “Don’t start this again.”
“Cheerleading!” She lights up like a Christmas tree. “I’ll work my magic and get you on the squad. I’m not talking backflips. You can be the girl who holds the signs during the cheer.”
