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Another knock and Razor roars, “In a minute.”
He rams his fingers through his hair with so much force that I study the bandage on his arm to confirm spots of red don’t bleed through. “Don’t do the other code.”
Shock strikes me with such force, I’m dizzy. “What?”
Razor grabs both of my arms. “Don’t do the other fucking code. Leave that folder here and delete everything off your phone. And don’t ever mention to anyone what I asked you to do and you never tell anyone what you learned from that code, do you hear me?”
My mouth gapes, but no words come out. This code has been my life for the past two months. I’ve researched it. I’ve thought nonstop about it. He doesn’t understand, it’s impos
sible for my brain to let it go.
“Breanna!” He shakes me slightly. “Tell me you understand.”
When I remain speechless, he releases me and tears off across the room, and my folder is in his hand. My heart gallops. Two months of my life is in his grasp. “What are you doing?”
“I’m saving your life. Get the code off your phone when you get home.”
“What do you mean, saving my life?”
Razor breathes hard as if he had run a marathon, and the way his eyes freeze into ice, I know that I could beg and plead and he’d never tell me.
Another knock, the door opens and Rebecca walks in. “We have to go.”
Razor picks up my backpack, hands it to me, but keeps my folder. My mind is a train wreck, but I accept my backpack and the swift kiss from Razor, but it’s like I’ve entered another dimension as I follow Rebecca out of the room.
The folder isn’t a complete loss. I read and wrote everything in there, so I remember it. I could have it back on paper in a half hour if I wanted, but what frightens me is Razor’s warning. He implied that if I continue I could be in harm’s way.
But Razor doesn’t understand how my brain is twisted. I have to work on the code because I’ll never be able to function without noise until it’s solved. Days like today, I realize that my mind is most definitely a curse.
RAZOR
I’M IN A CAGE and it pisses me off. I crave the wind on my face and the power of my bike pushing me forward. Because everyone is still treating me with kid gloves, Pigpen’s driving me in his pickup truck, blasting music that’s more screaming than music. I prefer electric guitar over voices, but it’s not my fucking truck.
Two guys ride on bikes in front of us. Two behind. It’s like our own messed-up version of an honor parade.
Pigpen takes the wide curve on my dad’s property and my bike’s sitting pretty under the carport of the garage. It shines in the evening sun, sparkles even. I was told it’s been buffed up, gassed up, and it’s ready to go. Everyone knows I’ve been staying with Cyrus, so the fact that they dropped my bike off here feels staged.
Pigpen pulls off the gravel road near the house and severs the engine. I go to open the door and he stops me. “Talk to me for a second, and I don’t mean me talking and you nodding your head like that’s acceptable conversation.”
I release the handle of the door and look in his direction. It’s the best I got at the moment, especially with the cracked code weighing on me: RMC equals the calling card of the Riot Motorcycle Club.
A million questions form in my mind. How current are those codes? Do they have anything to do with my mother? The detective said he found them recently, so it may not be related to her, but could be shit going down with the club now: the Riot shooting Eli this summer, the detective coming to town, the RMC running through the streets of Snowflake when they’ve never done that before...
“What’s going down in your brain?” Pigpen asks.
“Who shot me?”
“We don’t know.” The way he makes direct eye contact, he’s not lying.
“Do you have ideas?”
“We got shit we’re looking into, but nothing definite. You gotta trust us that we won’t let you down.” Which means they aren’t letting me in. It also means I could dump what I learned about the Riot onto Pigpen and he’d once again shut me out.
I stare out the front windshield and watch as Dad greets the guys who drove over with us. That woman, the one with the blond hair, she walks out of the house in a black tank and a pair of jeans and smiles when she wraps herself around Dad. “What’s she still doing here?”
Pigpen taps his steering wheel. “He’s in love with her, but he won’t fully commit until you’re on board with her or at least talk to him again.”
The muscles in my neck tighten. “Commit? Commit how?”
