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“You did, but now you’re playing straight. What was your endgame?”
“Figure out who was involved. Go through their phones and computers, then wipe the picture clean in one swipe.”
“It’s a hell of a risk to take that they haven’t stored the picture someplace else. I taught you to never underestimate.”
Until they found my hack, I was convinced they were minor-league players. I crack my neck as I do something I hate—repeat myself. “I fucked up and Breanna’s suffering for it. If you can’t figure it out, I’m asking for help.” And doing so is like offering a pound of my flesh.
“Give me what you know and we’ll get it taken care of.”
“I promised Breanna this would stay out of the club. I’m asking this as a personal favor.”
Pigpen shoves off the railing and studies me like I got caught knocking over a liquor store. “I told you, no more personal favors. You have a problem, then you lean on your brothers. That’s the point of the whole fucking club.”
“I promised her—”
“You made a promise to us first,” he cuts me off. “Here’s the thing, I know the past couple of months have been tough. Fuck, I’m not going to even pretend what the past couple of years have been like, but you have a family willing to take the same type of bullet that you did for us. You expect us to trust you, but it’s a shitty position to be in when we’re the one giving all the blind faith. It’s a two-way street with us. You either start trusting us or you need to give up your patch, because without trust, those colors on you don’t mean shit.”
“That how it is?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says like it’s simple addition. “That’s how it is.”
We glare at each other as it crawls under my skin that he won’t look away.
“And another thing...you say you love her, then you better figure out quick if you can trust us, because if you want to get her out of this mess, you’re going to need the club. Just so you know, brother, you think it’s impossible to trust us with you, it’ll probably kill you to trust us with what you love the most.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches. “If you help her, I want in.”
Pigpen shakes his head. “We offered that help the night you brought her to the club. We saw you weren’t budging. This is it, kid. End of the road. The stakes are high everywhere and it’s time for you to go all in or to fucking fold. Which one is it going to be?”
Breanna
I’VE BEEN DRAWN to Razor—like a possessed moth to an inferno. So many reasons explain why: his beauty, his understanding, the way he protects, but it’s not until my chat with Clara that I understood what attracted me to him emotionally...at least initially. He understood what it was like to feel as if you had possibly driven someone to take their own life.
The guilt.
The self-hate.
The feeling that your existence is absolutely worthless.
I saw it in his face the night outside of Shamrock’s and I hurt for him because I still hurt for me. Clara pulled the knife away from her skin. She sank to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks, telling me that she would do it if I ever told anyone what I saw.
I never betrayed her secret. Instead, I’ve let it eat me from the inside out.
A rush of air escapes my lips. His mother didn’t commit suicide. I’m utterly relieved for him and still devastated for me. Year after year, Razor grew up tortured by the gossip of everyone in town, grew up believing that
his mother chose to take her own life rather than to be with him. The entire time, the people who think they know everything knew nothing, but the emotional damage has already been done. The same damage that’s already been done to me.
I stare at his mother’s picture. She was beautiful. Blond hair. Sky-blue eyes. She has a fantastic smile. Mom says she was smart and full of life and Rebecca said that being a club girl isn’t for everyone. Is it for me?
My eyes dip to a picture of Razor, Chevy and Oz crouched near a motorcycle. They’re flipping off the camera and they grin as if they were laughing like children.
“I like it when you smile.” Razor strides into the room and I jump. I hadn’t realized I had been smiling, but I got lost in the pictures. As weird as his world is to me, I do strangely find myself gravitating toward it. As if I do belong.
An undertow of sadness yanks me down. I finally find a place I belong and I’m being ripped away. I’ll have to tell him and doing so is going to break my heart.
I gesture to the picture. “This reminds me of the night of orientation. You were working on your motorcycle then, too.”
Razor gathers me so that his front warms my back. He props his chin on my shoulder and his breath tickles the sensitive spot behind my ear. A wave of pleasure races through me.
