Walk The Edge

Glass crashes in the living room. I hold my breath and a split second later Elsie’s screaming. It’s not her fake cry for attention, it’s the real one. I’m across the kitchen, slamming my hand so hard on the swinging door that it stings my palm, and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t spot blood pouring from her head.

Mom’s last nonbroken vase is in pieces on the floor and Elsie is nursing her elbow. There’s a small trickle of blood, but no bone sticking out of the skin. The small child who was bent on ignoring me for the rest of the night holds her hands up to me. I swing her up on my hip, then scan the room for Zac.

He’s crouched on the other side of the sofa, waiting for someone to tear into him because his younger sister is hurt. Elsie sobs and sobs in my ear like someone ripped off her arm. A heaviness descends upon me and the urge is to go upstairs, crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, but that isn’t an option. At the moment, I’m the designated parent.

“Zac.” Even I detect the exhaustion in my tone.

He stands and looks like a puppy someone hit with a rolled-up newspaper. I should ask what happened. I should tell him he has to play more carefully with our sister. I should tell him he knows better than to have that plastic sword in the living room, but I don’t. I may be the closest thing they have to a parent, but I’m only seventeen and right now seventeen-year-old me wants to run away.

“Let’s go upstairs and start baths,” I say.

With his head hanging, Zac trudges up the stairs in silence. Middle-school-demon Paul watches me with wide eyes from his spot on the couch. I very much notice the controller in his hand and the paused game on the TV. He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t take a shower. He didn’t even attempt to police our younger siblings or help Elsie when she fell.

A cell vibrates and I turn to see Addison offering me a face full of sympathy. “My dad wants me home.”

She lives a block away. I nod and she slips into the kitchen. The outside door shuts and Elsie wipes her snotty nose on my shoulder, then sucks in a shuddering breath.

I have glass to clean up, a boo-boo to kiss and bedtime routines to keep. I have dishes in the kitchen, garbage to take out and a social media account currently tracking my popularity.

In my bare feet, I gingerly step over the broken vase and ask a hollow question. “Can you at least pick up the broken glass, Paul?”

He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. I’m going to pretend that he’s going to do it anyway because he cares or feels guilty. I’ll accept either as an excuse.

RAZOR (#ulink_6f46df45-8138-589c-9efa-b77539f99168)

OZ AND I mount our motorcycles at the same time, but I block his path forward with my bike. “You’re not on this.”

“Last I checked, you don’t call the shots.” Oz revs his motor.

“You’re not allowed near the Riot.” This summer, Oz pointed a gun at the president of the Riot Motorcycle Club and it appears our unsteady peace treaty with them is cracking. He shouldn’t be the Snowflake welcoming committee. Besides, our clubs are about to go Fat Man and Little Boy, and I’m ready for this fallout.

“Last I heard,” Oz retorts, “neither are you. Only board members are allowed to approach.”

I’m not wasting any more time. “Call this in and I’ll tail them to make sure they leave town. We both know Eli won’t allow Emily anywhere near Kentucky if the Riot’s become a problem, and if the Terror don’t make a stand now, the Riot might come back. Then Emily will stay in Florida.”

Oz cuts his engine with a curse and pulls out his phone. Emily is his kryptonite. “You stay back from them, you got me? Do not engage.”

I flash him a smile, and it’s hard to keep the crazy welling up inside me from leaking out. “Sunday stroll, brother. All friendly.”

“There’s nothing friendly about you,” Oz says in that way I hate. It’s part joke, part sympathy. It’s part truth, too. I twist the throttle, pick up my feet and tear off into the night.

The wind blows through my hair and my speedometer climbs as I chase after the Riot. Their taillights emerge like the red eyes of a demon, beckoning me to follow straight to hell. The needle reaches fifty, sixty, seventy. Each new speed makes the blood pump faster.

The front wheel of my bike catches air off an uneven hill over the intersection. I’m racing, but it’s not with them. It’s with the devil breathing down my neck.

“It’s okay, baby.” Mom was crouched in front of me, uncurling my fingers from her hands. “I’ll always be with you.”

I pass over another intersection, my motorcycle growling beneath me. I hit a patch of cold air and my skin prickles. Is she here with me? Because it doesn’t feel like it. Instead, it feels lonely. So lonely it hurts.

A tight right turn, a twist of the throttle again, then I brake so quickly I have to slam my foot to the blacktop to prevent from spinning out. Five headlights blind me and tires squeal as two of the bikes come to a stop.

Three bikes fly by, and as I whip my head to see which way the Riot is headed, I spot the Terror patch.

“You, boy, are in a ton of trouble.”

My head lowers at the sound of the gravel voice. It’s Cyrus, the president of the Terror, and I got caught disobeying a direct order.

Breanna (#ulink_70af8d53-feba-5579-9119-8518800b9955)

“THIS IS GOING to be the best night of our lives,” announces Reagan. Addison sits at the desk in front of me and Reagan’s to the left of Addison.

I check the clock on the wall over our English teacher’s desk. In exactly two minutes, the bell will ring and the first day of my senior year will begin. It’s not only the first day of school, but also the first Friday of the school year.

Three years ago, Addison, Reagan and I promised we’d do something crazy on the first Friday of our senior year. After notifying High Grove that I declined their scholarship, crazy is exactly what I need. “Are you sure your parents aren’t going to check on us?”

“Trust me, everything will be golden.” Reagan uses the camera on her phone to fix stray pieces of her dirty-blond hair. She curled it this morning and much to her displeasure the curls are falling out. “Has Cass started following you yet? I told her you created a Bragger account.”

I sigh and Addison scowls. She’s less than thrilled with my lack of excitement. I currently have twenty-five followers. It’s better than none, but not nearly reaching Addison’s and Reagan’s totals. Not sure how this whole social media thing is supposed to be fun. It’s like being back in elementary school and waiting to be picked for kickball.

“To gain followers you must post something.” Addison has this teacher-to-pupil reprimand going on, and it’s scary on her. “Don’t make me start posting for you, brat. You’re the one that wanted to join the world. Reagan and I are trying to catch you up on how to participate in the land of the living.”

“Because everyone will love reading how I was up doing dishes until midnight,” I say.

“Tell them you were doing it naked and half the boys in school will follow you.” Reagan tosses me a sly smirk and I laugh. She’s always saying things that push the envelope. “Tell them you’ll post the picture if you reach five hundred followers. Watch your stats climb, girl.”

“That would be interesting.” A new voice joins the conversation.

I see jeans first. Actually, I see a rip in the jeans, and that rip is an inch above the knee, and I’m staring at a very muscular male thigh. I enter this weird zone, because there’s this sinking feeling of where this is heading, and ominous sirens are sounding off.

It’s like being stuck in slow motion as I glance up. My heart stops. Starts. And when it starts again, I find I can’t breathe. Golden hair that’s a little long on top. Light blue eyes drinking me in. All I see is a whole lot of gorgeous...and dangerous.

It’s Thomas freaking Turner. He wears the same leather vest that he had on the other night, and underneath it is a black T-shirt with the name of an old-school metal band. My eyes automatically scan his patches and I wonder which one is the warning that he carries a gun.

His fingers skim my desk as he strides past. There are small cuts on his knuckles, and the skin on his hands looks rough—like him. For some reason, I find that attractive. It reminds me of him hunched in front of his bike as he was repairing his machine. The steady way he moved. The serious set of his face. The way the muscles in his arms flexed as he worked.

“Hello, Breanna.” Thomas’s voice is deep, smooth, and feels like a caress along my skin.

“Hey.” It’s hardly more than a whisper.

“How are you?” Thomas settles into the seat in the back corner behind me as if this is where he’s determined to stay for the year. He kicks his long legs into the aisle and crosses one booted foot over the other.

“Good,” I answer, able to attain a somewhat normal voice.

“Good,” he repeats. “How’s your phone?”

“Terrific.” When did I become the queen of one-word answers?

“Terrific.” His eyes are laughing. At me. With me. I’m not sure, so I return to facing the front. Holy freaking crap, Thomas Turner is attempting conversation with me.