“The opposite. Let’s go prove to you that some of the Terror are normal.” And in the next breath, he says to Lars, “Let’s go, boy.”
* * *
There’s this mixture of adrenaline and pure fear and I’m thirty seconds from throwing up. Razor is leading me through smaller groups of men in cuts and we’re walking toward the enormous building on the other side of the property. The closer we get, the less normal the world becomes.
The building—this clubhouse—it’s a huge two-story garage, or at least it once was. Both of the doors are raised and men pack the place. Razor guides me inside and I feel like Alice wandering into a demented Wonderland. There’s a long bar along the left side and men rest against it with alcohol in their hands. A guy wearing a cut
with a patch on the back of it that reads Prospect is behind the bar accepting orders.
Neon signs are everywhere and so are bras. Lots of bras. They are tacked up on the wall, lying across the shelves behind the bar, and I try not to think of Violet’s mother.
The place smells of stale beer and my feet stick to the floor. A woman laughs too loudly and so do some of the men. My hair stands on the back of my neck as instinct screams to leave.
Razor stops short and I have to adjust quickly so I don’t collide with his shoulder. Two little blond-haired boys are chased by a girl of maybe five. All three are giggling as they weave fearlessly through the towering men. There’s pure joy on their faces and I tilt my head as I recognize the little girl.
“She’s a friend of Elsie’s. She’s played at our house and I’ve dropped Elsie off at her parents’ house.” My forehead furrows. “I mean, her parents are so—”
“Normal?” Razor asks. “Oddly enough, some of us are capable of that. Wearing a three-piece patch doesn’t make you psychotic. It makes you a part of something bigger than yourself.”
I scan the wall of bras again and none of the information I’m consuming makes logical sense and that causes my head to throb.
“Razor!” someone yells, and a deafening round of applause and cheers fills the room. From the corner comes an earsplitting whistle. Every person is solely focused on him.
A hand on my back and I jump. Razor’s head snaps to check on me and to the left is Rebecca. She inclines her head to Razor and he nods his in response. It’s like the two of them have their own specific language.
“Take her to Emily,” Razor says.
“That was my plan all along,” she answers.
Razor sends me an encouraging glance. He’s leaving me and I need to be okay with it, but I’m so not. I sort of trust Rebecca, but in the end, I’ve spent only a handful of minutes in her company.
The clapping and shouting continues and Razor enters the crowd of men. They pat his back, hug him, purposely avoiding his injured side. There’s something beautiful in the way they smile at him and I love how he practically glows in return.
Rebecca leans over to me. “This is his moment. It’s huge that he shared it with you.”
“Is this because he was shot?”
“Yes and no. They respect him for taking his job seriously, but this moment is because he saved one of his brothers.”
A sense of awe overwhelms me and then I remember Razor as he stood with me outside the school, how he whisked me up in his arms outside the bar, and how he was willing to fight for someone he didn’t even know because I asked. Warmth settles into my heart—saving people is what Razor does.
“I’m proud to be with him,” I tell her as guilt tiptoes along my stomach lining. He’s introducing me to his family and he’s fine with keeping us a secret from mine. In fact, he’s fine with keeping us a secret altogether, explaining that our relationship is no one else’s business.
“You should be. But at the same time, life in the Terror isn’t easy. Most people will draw dividing lines and will make you choose between us and them. I’ll be honest, you’re too young to make that choice.”
Rebecca wears a cut, too, but this one is much different from Razor’s. It’s black like his and she has a nickname patch sewn on, but there are no other patches. The back simply states Terror Gypsy and a small patch at the bottom contains a name I’ve heard Razor use before—the name of another member.
She notices me studying her cut and she touches Razor’s jacket. “Keep this on. It’ll make tonight easier for you.”
So I’ve already been informed. “Any other tips?”
“Don’t come here without Razor. In fact, you aren’t allowed in the clubhouse without Razor, and if you’re under eighteen, you have to leave by eight. No exceptions.”
I can live with that. “How old were you when you chose this life?”
“The same age as you, and most days I don’t regret it.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Most days?”