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I don’t give my word often, Pigpen knows this, and the confusion causes him to scratch his jaw as he surveys me. “What do you need?”
“A virus that will give me a back door. Something that can travel from a cell to a home computer if it’s hooked up. Nothing I’ve found will do the job and I need it to be undetectable.”
Anyone else my age making that type of request would have their parents grounding them for a month. Pigpen goes deep in thought, then nods his head that he has what I need. “I’ll send you the code tomorrow, but next time you have a favor or a problem, it’s time for you to man up and come to the club. I don’t care how many promises you made to other people. You got me?”
“Got it.” Pigpen hugs me and I hug him back. I’d be lost without him.
With a sly smile he flickers his gaze over my shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
A warm body pushes up to my back and then her scent surrounds me. I take another drink. I made a mistake with this girl and, tonight, I hate the reminder.
“It’s packed,” she says into my ear, and I turn to discourage her from touching me again. Amy combs her light brown hair away from her forehead. She’s showing off her tight body in a pair of painted-on jeans and a red corset. “Wasn’t sure I was going to find you.”
Yet she did. I like Amy. She doesn’t laugh too loud to gain a guy’s attention, doesn’t act like a fool when she’s drunk. Amy’s older than me, in college, majoring in business, and she loves to play at the clubhouse on the weekends as a middle finger to her iron-fisted daddy.
Trying to find the attraction I had for her, I scan her from head to toe. It’s gone, and that causes me to be unbalanced. I haven’t thought of being with another girl for weeks. Can’t bring myself to do it. None of them compare to Breanna Miller.
I gesture from the prospect tending bar to Amy. He hands her the usual—Fireball. She downs it, then takes a burning gasp. “Thank you. You’re a classy guy to buy a girl a shot.”
I snort and peel the label off my beer. Funny how I found plenty to say to Breanna, but I’ve got nothing for the girl I lost my virginity to. It was the night I patched in. We did it twice and then I hooked up with a friend she brought along for the evening. The friend was Amy’s idea, and at the time I thought she was brilliant.
“Are we going to play tonight?” she asks. We’ve played since I patched in...multiple times, but we haven’t fucked. I regret that part of the night. In the morning light, I felt like I had morphed into my dad.
I kiss her cheek and walk away. She follows, smacking my ass, and smiles as she shoulders by me. “You’re too young to be in love, Razor, but whoever it is, she’s a lucky girl.”
I snatch her wrist before she disappears into the crowd in her search for her rebound good time. “I’m not in love.”
Amy sadly laughs and it’s the type that hits her eyes in that sympathetic way I hate. “I lied about just now finding you. I’ve watched you text for the past half hour. Me and you—we had fun together, but I never made you smile.”
She touches the edge of my lips. “You should smile more often, but if whoever it is makes you sad, you know where to find me.”
Here on any Friday or Saturday night. “Have fun tonight.”
She waggles her eyebrows. “Will do.”
My back pocket vibrates and I leave the clubhouse, striding past the bonfire and groups of guys cutting up. The night is dark, no moon, and it’s even darker when I enter the tree line and head for the towering oak Chevy, Oz, Violet and I used as home base. I can almost hear Violet singing, “Not it.”
There’s a shadow of a form leaning against the tree and I’m impressed she showed. It’s taken me two weeks of groveling to get her to agree to this, but I did grovel because this will be my first solid lead. “You missed your dad’s memorial.”
Violet powers on her cell so the two of us have light during this clandestine reunion. “It’s the club’s fault he died. Why would I parti
cipate in something that will ease their guilt?”
I cross my arms over my chest, not caring to get into a pissing match with her. “The picture of you that was put up on Bragger, were you being blackmailed?”
She goes pale against her red hair. I smacked the nail on the head.
“How did you know?” she whispers.
“It’s happening to someone else.”
“Who?” she asks, then answers her own question with an annoyed huff. “Breanna Miller.”
I don’t verbally confirm it, but I do meet her eyes.
“That sucks,” she says. “Not that it should happen to anyone, but she’s too nice for someone to be messing with her.”
“This stays between us.”
