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“I’ll be back, and I’m serious, no passing out—if you fall in that shower and bleed all over the damn place, I’ll kick your ass.”
I flip him off. He flips it back. I love the bastard.
“Hey.” I stop Chevy before he leaves. “Did you hear anyone talk about the Riot?”
“No, why?”
I shrug, but the conversation between Eli and Cyrus repeats in my mind. Problem is, I don’t know if it was real or if my head was off its rocker. Chevy points at the shower, and when I don’t say anything, he leaves. I pull off my shirt, kick off my jeans and enter the tiny bathroom.
Breanna
I’M COLD. I’M HOT. I’m on the verge of fainting.
What I really am is flush against a wall in an industrial kitchen. Beyond the fact that I can’t begin to comprehend why a motorcycle club needs an industrial kitchen, I’m questioning my decision-making skills and sanity.
Even if I wanted to bolt out the exit, Rebecca has pinned me to the wall with an arm she threw out like a mom slamming the brakes. She’s peeking out a serving window, and men’s laughter roars from the adjoining room. It sounds happy, but there’s a sharpness to the chuckles and I tremble.
As if she felt the vibration, Rebecca offers what I’m assuming is a reassuring smile. “When I say go, we’re heading up the stairs. Me first, and when I make sure the area is clear, I’ll get you to Razor.”
Razor. He was shot. He’s the reason I’m risking my life, because if I had chickened out, there’s no question I would have regretted it. What if he’s critical? What if he’s dying? What if he dies? There’s a sinking inside me that causes me to be dizzy.
Rebecca scans the other room again, grabs my hand, then drags me up the stairs. She doesn’t want me to get caught and what will happen to me if I do? This must be a sacred place to them. It has to be if they use terms like lockdown.
We reach the second floor and Rebecca slows and I don’t like the change in pace. She holds tighter to my hand and nausea disorients me as we creep along the narrow corridor. There are multiple doors and each of them is closed.
“What happens if they discover me?” I whisper.
“Let’s not find out.”
A door behind us opens. Men’s voices carry out. Rebecca whips her head to the sound, jumps in front of me as if her outstretched arms could protect me, then demands, “Go in the door on the right—now! Don’t leave until I come for you.”
My hands shake as I turn the knob, then stumble in. I shut the door behind me, my back collapsing against it in an effort to stay upright, and then gasp.
It’s Razor.
He’s standing with his back to me, and he’s absolutely breathtaking. Shirt off, jeans riding low on his hips, just enough that I can see where his spine curves to meet his gorgeous rear. A tattoo of the half skull with the fire blazing out of the eyes marks his back, but that’s not what has gained my attention. It’s the beads of water rolling over the pronounced muscles that have me absolutely captivated.
Razor drops the towel from his face and glances over his shoulder at me. Dear God, he really is an angel. Those deep blue eyes immobilize me and a single globe of water drips from the wet blond hair that’s partially covering his sight.
He’s sculpted and ripped and he’s alive. My heart beats hard twice and my eyes burn with a sense of relief. Razor is alive.
My best friend has warned me to stay away. Violet, a girl raised by the Terror, has warned me to stay away, but even after digesting her advice, knowing the rumors and experiencing what I have, I can’t leave. The bandage on Razor’s arm and the cuts and bruises along his side testify to how dangerous his life is, but with one long look into those beautiful eyes, I know that
I’m a lost cause to logic. I’ve already fallen in love.
RAZOR
I NEVER WOKE UP. The painkillers sent me into a coma and I’m hallucinating. No, I’m dreaming. Hallucinating suggests something bad and everything about Breanna Miller is all good. From the long raven hair that frames her face to that body with the right hint of curves.
As always, she’s the epitome of summer nights. A vision in her pleated skirt made with flowing material that ends above her knees. This skirt shows more thigh than the ones I’ve seen on her before and a shock wave of lust hits me in places she’d blush to ponder.
“I heard you were hurt,” she whispers like she’s in a church.
“Just a bullet graze. A couple cuts and bruises.”
Her head falls back, hitting the door. “Just a bullet graze. There’s nothing ‘just’ about that statement.”
According to her world, this entire situation is fucked-up. “What are you doing here?”
