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She laughs. “You’re the one that lifted your shirt.”
I lower it, she scowls, and I kiss her lips. Not long, but long enough that I miss her taste when I pull away. Long enough that I’m already thinking of kissing her again.
Her eyebrows rise and that mischievous glint that I’ve missed lights up in her eyes. “What happens to the pump when we make out? Like when we ditch here and we can seriously kiss like we’re supposed to?”
Those words hit me straight like a defibrillator and conjure up images of my hands on Abby’s skin. “If it gets in the way, I can remove it.”
“Is that hard to do?” she asks.
“No. Can do it now if you want.”
“Will that mess up your insulin?”
“Could.”
“Then no.” Abby sags and it’s not in a bad way. It’s the way that says the turkey just caught up to her. Possibly the past six months have caught up to her. “Will you take me to see my Grams?”
First place I planned on taking her was the cemetery. Figured that’s where she’d want to go. “Yeah.”
Abby flexes her socked toes then meets my eyes. “Do you mind if I go to sleep?”
I go to move so she can head upstairs, but Abby places a hand on my arm. “I mean with you. Do you mind if I fall asleep on you?”
Kissing Abby is heaven. Knowing we’ll be very alone soon is even better, but so is knowing that she’s here with me and I can hold her while she sleeps. Be the first person she sees when she opens her eyes. Life is how it’s supposed to be.
I kick off my shoes, lie on the couch, stretch out my arms and hug Abby tight to me as she cuddles in, closes her eyes, and drifts off to sleep.
* * * * *
Don’t miss NOWHERE BUT HERE, the first book in the THUNDER ROAD series, available now from Katie McGarry and Harlequin TEEN!
And read on for an exclusive sneak peek of book two, WALK THE EDGE...
Walk the Edge
by Katie McGarry
Razor
There are lies in life we accept. Whether it’s for the sake of ignorance, bliss, or, in my case, survival, we all make our choices.
I choose to belong to the Reign of Terror motorcycle club. I choose to work for the security company associated with them, and I’ve never given a thought about carrying a gun for the position. I also choose to do this while still in high school.
All of this boils down to one choice in particular—whether or not to believe my father’s version of a lie or the town’s. I chose my father’s lie. I chose the brotherhood of the club.
What I haven’t chosen? Being harassed by the man invading my front porch. He’s decked out in a pair of pressed khakis and a button-down straight from a mall window. The real question—is he here by choice or did he draw the short stick?
“As I said, son,” he continues, “I’m not here to talk to your dad. I’m here to see to you.”
A hot August wind blows in from the thick woods surrounding our house, and sweat forms on the guy’s skin. He’s too cocky to be nervous, so that dumps
the blame for his shiny forehead on the hundred and ten degree heat index.
“You and I,” he adds, “we need to talk.”
My eyes flash to the detective badge hanging on the guy’s hip and then to his dark blue unmarked Chevy Caprice parked in front of my motorcycle in the gravel drive. Twenty bucks he thinks he blocked me in. Guess he underestimated the fact that I’ll ride on the grass to escape.
This guy doesn’t belong to our police force. His plates suggest he’s from Jefferson County. That’s in the northern part of Kentucky. I live in a small town where even the street hustlers and police know each other by name. This man—he’s an outsider.
