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Kyle moves his fingers across the screen, then slides his cell over the table to me.
Bile claws up my throat and a sweat breaks out along my hairline. I collapse into the seat. It’s a horror show. One I crave desperately to flee, but can’t.
It’s a Bragger message on Kyle’s account and I don’t miss how it hasn’t yet been sent into the universe. The picture is of me and Razor and beyond us is a sign for Shamrock’s. I’m on the bed of the truck and Razor is leaning into me, settled between my legs. His head and lips extremely close to mine. My skirt is pulled dangerously up my thigh, exposing areas that no one should ever see, and Razor’s hands appear to be touching my skin.
The picture is damning enough, but it’s the words above it that causes my head to throb: #snowflakesluts #bikerwhore
“I won’t send the picture from my account. It’ll be sent from Snowflake Sluts’. I’m sure you noticed it has a nice following.”
It does. Too many people. Way more than the population of our school, or town, or even county. This has a reach that could devastate futures. Specifically, my future.
“I’ve got more,” Kyle says. “Of you drinking, but I figure this one would get more attention.”
More...of me drinking. I’m sure the college scholarship and admission committees would love to see one of their prospective students participating in underage drinking at a bar and then appear to be about to have sex in a parking lot in a bed of a truck with a member of a notorious biker gang.
“I’m sorry,” Kyle says. “But failing isn’t an option. It doesn’t have to be like this. I can still give you whatever you want. You can forget you saw this picture, and when the year is done, I’ll delete it and the others I took. This can be a great year for the two of us. I pass and get a scholarship out of Snowflake. You can become the most popular girl at school.”
I fight the compulsion to dry heave. “But nothing happened between me and Razor. We didn’t even...” I choke on the word kiss.
“Doesn’t matter what the truth is. Only matters what people think.”
He’s right. Kyle is so right I’m dizzy. “That’s Razor from the Reign of Terror. If you hurt me by putting that picture up, you’re hurting him.”
“The guys put up a picture of Violet and the Terror didn’t do a thing.” It’s the crazy in his eyes that scares me. “What makes you think he’ll do anything for a one-night stand?”
“I didn’t do anything with him.” I grit my teeth. “He’s my friend.”
“Razor doesn’t have friends. His own club is terrified of him. Even his mother drove over a bridge to get away. If the Terror didn’t save Violet, Razor sure as hell isn’t going to help you.”
“What if I still say no? What if I tell you to go to hell?”
He looks me point-blank in the eye as if he’s a firing squad. “Then I walk away from here and tell the people who run the Snowflake Sluts account to push send.”
RAZOR
Cyrus: I have something for you. Something Olivia wanted you to have.
ACROSS THE YARD, the clubhouse is shut up and the yard is empty. It’s Monday around noon. Most of the guys from the club who are employees for the security company are out on runs. The other half of the club, the guys who work normal jobs, are out doing their thing. It’s quiet—lonely—and the only sound is the rustle of leaves moving with the breeze.
In front of Cyrus’s log cabin house, my hand’s poised on the railing ready to go up. If it weren’t for Cyrus’s text, I wouldn’t be here. Dad said the patch on my back is borrowed—that no one believes I’ve earned it. It’s an open-palmed slap in the face and being anywhere near the club wounds my pride enough that my skin crawls.
But Cyrus brought up Olivia. I lower my head. She was the one person in the world who didn’t think I was fucked-up beyond belief.
“Are you coming in or not?” Cyrus appears on the other side of the screen door.
I climb two steps at a time and Cyrus holds the door open. The place looks the same as when Olivia was alive. She passed a month ago, but even if ten years had gone by, I can’t imagine the house changing. We loved her too much for this to be anything less than a living tomb.
Eli bought the flat-screen television and sectional couch for Olivia, his mother, after his stint in prison. There’s a throw rug on the wooden floor and picture frames are everywhere. Olivia insisted on having visual reminders of the people she loved.
There’s a ton of pictures of people in the club: Olivia and Cyrus; Eli and his brother, James; Olivia’s granddaughter, Emily; and then plenty of the brat pack: Oz, Chevy, Violet and me. We weren’t born to her, but we were her children. She loved us when we were unlovable.
Cyrus enters the kitchen and I hesitate near a framed three-by-five of me and Olivia. Olivia’s beside me and I have my arm
lobbed around her shoulders. I’m smiling because she was laughing. Olivia had a contagious laugh and the world is too silent without it.
“Where did you stay last night?” Cyrus calls out.
Figures Dad would notify the club I left. Leaving: another thing I’ve done to add to the list of how unpredictable and untrustworthy I am. “I drove around.”
