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“We do have an agreement.” An unfamiliar tremor runs through me with Razor’s deep voice. “Hewitt thinks he holds the power. I’m letting him know the power works both ways.”
“He’s going to post that picture!”
Razor reclines forward and his blue eyes pierce me. His body is so massive that he fills the windowless, cramped room that has more dust bunnies than square footage.
“Hewitt needs you. Never forget you also have power. I get you don’t want the picture posted, but that bastard is using fear to control you. You hired me and I’m covering your six by showing him we aren’t scared of him.”
My throat tightens. “But I am scared.”
“Don’t be. I’m telling you, that picture won’t go up.”
My temples throb and I slip the spiral-bound, printed-out wannabe textbook off the table in an attempt to pretend these past two days never happened. My eyes scan the page as if I’m interested in the words, but I’m not. I’m mad at Razor. At least I should be, but with each second that passes, the anger recedes.
“I heard what’s going down on Bragger,” Razor finally says. “You deserve better.”
I bite my lip, then summon the courage to look at him. “I’m sorry, too. People have said terrible things about you and that’s not fair, especially when what they’re saying isn’t true.”
“People talk shit. It happens. Don’t worry about me. You okay?”
Not at all. “I’ll be happy when people move on to talking about someone else. Did you also watch Bragger today with agonizing despair?”
“I avoid shit like Bragger, but Chevy showed me some of the feed. I’m not interested in what most people have to say to my face, much less what they have to say when they have the safety of a computer to hide behind.”
“I wish I was more like you.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but only men can join the Terror. But if you’re completely heartbroken, you can try to join the Terror Gypsies. That’s the women’s support group.”
“I wasn’t talking about joining your gang,” I say.
“Club,” he corrects. “Not gang.”
What’s the difference? “Fine—club, but even if I were, I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle.” Like that’s the sole thing stopping me from dancing over the line into crazy.
Razor rests his arms on his thighs, causing his golden-blond hair to fall forward. Through the strands, those beautiful eyes capture me, holding me completely and utterly under a spell. “I’ll teach you if you want.”
My mouth dries out and Razor’s eyes focus on my lips as I lick them.
“Teach me what?” I whisper.
“To ride,” he says in this slow seductive slide as he inches forward in his seat. His knee brushes against mine and a zap of electricity shoots up my leg to very private places.
My temperature spikes and I have to remind myself that inhaling is essential. Razor eases back in his seat but extends his leg so that our calves are touching. A ball of energy zings to life from the small amount of friction between our bodies and it races through my blood. I take a deep breath, gather my hair and pull it off the back of my neck.
“Hot?” There’s a definite tease in his voice.
Sizzling. This entire room is sizzling. From his voice to his eyes to that dimpled half smirk to those ripped muscles in his arms. Razor is so hot the fire alarms should be blaring. I wave my hand toward the ceiling. “There’s no vents in this room—no flowing air. It’s stuffy.”
“Mmm.” That’s his response to my attempt at logically explaining away my attraction to him. I have never felt like this with a guy before—like a moth drawn to the raging inferno. My entire body hums breathing the same air as him.
“Do you want out of our deal?” he asks, and the humming stops.
A mental pause. The real question he’s asking is do I believe he can keep the picture from going up...if I can trust him to help me. “I’ve heard your club kills people and I don’t want that. I’m mad at Kyle, but I don’t want him dead. I want out of the deal if he’s going to get hurt.”
Razor
steals a few seconds of silence as he methodically rubs his hands together. There’s a hard glint in his eyes that causes a spark of fear within me.
“Our club isn’t what you think,” he says as if he honestly believes he means it. “Are you saying you don’t want to work on my code?”
