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Understanding causes the wrinkles to disappear and he sits up, pulling me with him. I yank out my cell and release a relieved breath when I see Addison’s face. I reject her call but send her a text: I’m still alive.
Addison: I can’t decide if I should call the cops or celebrate.
Me: Celebrate.
Addison: If you leave one detail out I will never speak to you again.
Me: We’ll talk. Later.
I pocket my phone and find Razor crouched across from me. The awkward part? I have to guide down my shirt and rearrange my bra acting as if it wasn’t entirely dislodged.
Razor kissed me and I kissed him back and I have absolutely no idea if that means he cares for me like I care for him or if he’s driven to touch and kiss me like I’ve been fantasizing of cuddling with him since the night we met.
“That was definitely wild.” I try to smile past the strange ache. With a tug of the material to the left, most of me falls back into place and I’m dying of embarrassment. I thought I could do it, just kiss a guy and not be attached, but...
“It was.” Razor offers me his hand “But it was more than that. Least it was for me.”
Thank God. I lay my hand in his and he leads me to a towering oak tree. He sits against it, then encourages me to settle between his legs. I do, enjoying the warmth of his body.
Razor’s arms circle my stomach and his fingers graze along my sides. My head rests against his shoulder and he switches between scenting my hair with his nose and resting his cheek against mine. Both create a pleasing thrill in my bloodstream.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he murmurs against my neck.
His lips on my skin? It’s a terrible idea. So terrible that I’m close to begging him to do it again. “What do you mean?”
He inhales deeply in the way my mother does when she has bad news. A twinge of fear strikes my heart. Razor lifts his head but keeps me tucked to him. “Us.”
My happiness evaporates and the cool breeze that rushes through the colored leaves causes a chill.
“We’re from two different worlds,” he admits. “I have no plans to leave the club and I’m not sure you could digest certain parts of my life.”
Nausea claws along the walls of my stomach. It’s here, the opening I’ve been searching for. The moment to ask all of the questions, but if I’m deep-down honest, I no longer crave the answers. “Do you hurt people?”
He chuckles and it’s such a sad sound. “Yeah, I hurt people. I mess up everyone I meet.”
“That’s not true.” Not with me. “I meant for your club. I’ve heard things about how your club does things. About how they treat people.”
He goes silent and it’s not his typical moments of quiet. There’s a heaviness that weighs the air around us.
“That’s one of the things I’m not sure you can swallow about me—I can’t talk about club business. Not with you. Not ever. I’m a brother of the club first and that’s something any girl who’s with me has to accept. But I can tell you we’re a legit club and the business I work for is also legit. We do our best to abide by the law, but we do play by our own rules. There are things you wouldn’t agree with, and being with me, you’d have to find a way to be okay with it.”
I’m dizzy with the whiplash. I’ve been number five of nine for so long that taking another step back i
n any relationship makes me physically ill.
Razor slowly brushes the top of my hand with his thumb and the gesture is so heartbreakingly sweet it causes a flash of pain.
“There are good things about the club,” he continues. “We’re a family. Take care of each other like we’re blood-related. There isn’t a need that isn’t met. Not a guy that wouldn’t have my back when I’m against the ropes. If you’re with me, those guys would also take care of you.”
I snort and Razor stiffens behind me. I angle forward and rest my hands on my knees. He doesn’t move, choosing to stay supported by the tree.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks as if my actions stung him.
“I’m from a big family, so that Hallmark card you’re trying to sell me isn’t going to fly.”
The leaves beneath him crackle as he readjusts so that he’s sitting next to me. In typical Razor style, he’s silent as he studies my expression. He then picks up a lock of my hair and plays with the strands. “We have our problems. That code you’re working on is my problem with them. I love the Terror. More than I’ve loved anything, and the thought of not being a part of them rips me in half, but...”
He drops my hair, then mimics my position—his arms on his bent knees. Razor surveys the field, but from the hollow look in his eyes, he’s not seeing the grass or the flowers or the red-and-orange leaves drifting to the ground. He’s seeing something in his mind that’s causing him to suffer.
