I jump to my feet, and my cell, my sole source of communication, my only method of calling for help, falls to the ground and cracks open.
RAZOR
HER FACE IS white against her raven hair. Ghost white. I’d bet my left ball she hasn’t breathed since I spoke. Her hand is outstretched toward the busted cell on the ground, but her wide hazel eyes are cemented on me. I turn my head and I’m greeted by the amused faces of my brothers from the Reign of Terror who stand next to their bikes in the parking lot. They’ll be harassing me on this for weeks. Fuck me for trying to be chivalrous.
“You okay?” It’s a variation of the question I asked a few seconds ago, but this one she seems to understand as her body trembles to life.
“Um...” she stutters. We’ve been at the same schools since elementary age, otherwise I’d wonder if she was a foreign exchange student with limited English. “I only have twenty dollars.”
The muscles in the back of my neck tense. “I’m not going to jack you for your money.”
She quits breathing again.
“Nice to know your current bank account status,” I bite out. “But I asked if you were okay.”
Color returns to her cheeks as I pin her with my gaze. She accused me of trying to rob her. I know it, she knows it and she’s now informed I’m not the asshole in this scenario.
“Yes,” she finally answers. “I’m okay. I mean no... I mean... I broke my phone.”
She did and that sucks for her.
Her eyes flicker between me and the phone like she wants to retrieve it, yet she’s too paralyzed. Saving us from this torture, I swipe the pieces of the cell and lean against the wall.
The distance between us relaxes her and that gulp of air was audible as she tucks herself tight in the corner farthest from me. This reaction isn’t new. I’ve seen it since I was a child whenever my father or anyone from the Terror entered a room full of civilians. To everyone outside of the club, we’re the evil motorcycle gang bent on blowing the house down.
People and their hellish nightmare folklore involving us pisses me off. I don’t know why I told the guys to give me a minute. I’m late for plans I made with Chevy and some girls, plus I’m on call in case the board chooses to meet sooner rather than later to discuss Detective Jake Barlow.
But something about how this chick appeared alone and frightened messed me up. It reminded me... The thought stalls and the emotional speed bump causes a flash of pain in my chest. Screw it, her expression reminded me of Mom the last time I saw her—the night she died.
My mom. I shake my head to expel her ghost. One visit from one bastard trying to use me and I’m being haunted by a past I can’t change. That’s what the detective was salivating over—to use me for info on the club. He’s one of too many who believes our club is the devil’s prodigy.
What he doesn’t see is that we’re a family—the type of family that comes when called. Obviously not like this girl’s family.
“Is it yes or no?” It’s damn difficult to shove the battery in now that the frame is bent.
“Yes or no what?” Her long black hair sweeps past her shoulders. She has the type of hair that would have to be pulled up if she rode on the back of my bike. Gotta admit, I like her hair, especially how it shines under the lights of the school’s overhang.
“If you’re okay.” I survey the mostly empty area to prove a point. “If we leave, you’ll be alone, and I don’t care for that. There’s some real psychos out there.”
She swallows. I’d be number one on her list of psychos. With a snap, the battery lodges into place. The casing takes me longer, but I wrestle that back into alignment, too.
She wears sandals with a heel and has pink painted toes. The girl fidgets and it draws my attention to her body. Her jean skirt displays some seriously mouthwatering thighs and her sleeveless blue button-down has flimsy fabric that hints at the outline of her bra strap. She’s this mix between conservative and sexy. Breanna Miller is bringing it our senior year.
Under my scrutiny, she bends one knee, then straightens the other. Bet she hasn’t realized how half the male population drooled over her tonight as she walked down the hall.
What she does know? She’s terrified of me. I stretch out my arm, inching her cell closer to her. If I were a great guy, I’d lay it in the middle between us and let her scurry to it from there, but I’m not a great guy. I’m just good enough to stay behind to protect her from being raped by some bastard with a meth addiction who could be wandering past the school.
Despite efforts from the Terror to help crack down on drug dealing, there’s a growing drug population in town. There’s been some robberies, some break-ins, and I don’t feel right leaving her alone.
“Not sure if it’ll work,” I say, nodding toward the phone, “but it’s back together.”
Breanna nibbles on her lower lip, then releases it as she shuffles toward me. She accepts the cell, and this time she rests her back against the middle column of the school entrance instead of rushing away. Still a nice distance in case she needs to bolt. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
It’s getting darker faster, and under her touch the cell springs to life and brightens her face. There’s no way I’m abandoning her. On top of the meth heads in town, the Terror have had issues with a rival motorcycle club, the Riot.
There’s a lot of history between the Terror and the Riot. Tip of the iceberg is that they’re mad we won’t give them money for riding in their “territory.” We’re mad that they believe they have the right to ask. Last I checked, America was still the land of the free.