Thunder Road: Walk The Edge Part 14

"Or you'll what?" He attempts a big and bad bravado, but his hands quake.

Or I'll throw him into the cement-block wall, smash his head into the mirror, and then I'll crack his skull on the sink. "I'm creative. Get talking."

"People will come in here!" Breanna says.

No, they won't. Chevy's guarding the door. "Twenty seconds, Hewitt."

"She didn't tell you?" he spits.

"Ten." I advance a foot.

He straightens for my attack yet yells at Breanna, "If he hits me, it'll go up and it'll never stop! That's not the only picture. They'll all go up."

All I see is red. Pictures. Breanna. The image of Violet crying uncontrollably at my house as she sobbed, That picture has ruined my life.

Breanna hijacks my arm as I launch myself at the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. "He's blackmailing me to write his papers! And he's doing it with a picture of me and you together."

Her desperation claws at me. "Nothing happened."

"But it looks like something happened." Her fingers dig into my skin.

"Yeah, it does." The pride in Hewitt's voice causes me to imagine killing him seven different ways until Sunday. He holds out his cell, and if it weren't for Breanna's grasp on my arm, reminding me that she's here, I'd tear off his b.a.l.l.s and shove them down his throat.

Friday night seemed like a dream to me. Her so close, the feel of her soft skin. Her laughter, her trust, the two of us sharing intimate details of our lives, and in front of me is a picture that makes dirty for her a night I enjoyed. This d.a.m.n snapshot could destroy her reputation.

"Are you suicidal, Hewitt?" I ask in a low tone. "Because it feels like you're begging someone to slit your throat."

He laughs like what I said is a joke. "You really are banging her, aren't you? I had no idea what we were going for was correct."

The crazy residing in me fractures and Breanna shouts my name as I bolt forward, curl my fingers into Hewitt's s.h.i.+rt and slam him into the wall. I'm eye to eye with the a.s.shole and overp.r.o.nounce my words in case he's a stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h. "You will not disrespect her."

His hands are on my wrists and he fails at freedom. Hewitt's face stains red and he breathes hard as I probably knocked the wind out of him. "I'm holding the cards, not you."

"Tell me who's mixed up in this." I give him another shove. "Tell me or I will start throwing my fist into your face until you cry."

"Razor!" Breanna's next to us. "I'll write the papers. Please let him go!"

No f.u.c.king way. He's torturing her and he's using me to do it.

Hewitt tries to kick me, but I'm stronger. "Leave, Breanna. Let me handle this."

He angles forward to gain my attention. "I will destroy her by the end of the day."

"Razor, please!" Breanna cries. "That picture can't go live. I'm begging you, let him go!"

The despair in her voice unbalances me, and for some screwed-up reason, I'm listening. She's asking the impossible. I don't back down from a fight. Everyone knows this and the fact I'm hesitating because she asked confuses the h.e.l.l out of me.

"Please, Razor," she whispers, and it's then that I notice her touch on my arm. It's a gentle caress. One that causes the buzzing in my head to vanish. "Let him go."

I do, and Hewitt places s.p.a.ce between us as he rights his s.h.i.+rt. "You're crazy, Turner."

Me? "I'm not the sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d blackmailing innocent girls. But if you want crazy, keep this up. I'll bring the wrath of the Terror down on you."

"Your club's not going to do a thing. They didn't do anything when we posted Violet's picture and, according to you guys, she's your family. But go ahead. Tell your club. Anything happens to me, there are others who will destroy Breanna for me."

I'm inhaling through my nose and pus.h.i.+ng away the urge to kill him. Clearer heads prevail. How many times did Olivia tell me that? Too many. I crave to tear him apart limb by limb, but I won't, not now. He's playing smart, and so will I. "I hear you."

Hewitt scrubs his hands over his face like he's free from a death row sentence, but he's sadly mistaken. There are only a few hours left before he's chained to the table. "Look, I had no idea she meant something to you, so no disrespect intended. I saw what happened at the club and I know you didn't kiss. I thought you guys accidentally ran into each other and she blew you off. I had no idea she'd run to you and that you'd give a s.h.i.+t if we did post the picture."

He's waiting for me to offer my hand and say that he read me correctly-that I don't care if he took pictures of me with any girl, but instead I stay silent. Either Hewitt's mentally unstable or he lies way better to himself than I do.

When he gets no reaction, he switches to Breanna. "It doesn't have to be like this. We can forget about the picture. Name what you want, I'll give it to you, and you can write my papers."

I have to keep from flinching. I made a deal with Breanna, as well. Her brains for my protection. Does everyone use her?

Breanna lifts her head, holding herself proud, but I can spot the anguish on her face. "I want nothing from you."

"Your choice." He regards me again. "This doesn't involve you, so stay out of our way or she'll pay for your sins."

He breaks eye contact with me first, not even lasting longer than two seconds before bailing for the door. Breanna crumples with her head in her hands. The anger that had been pulsating within me disappears.

"Hey." I ease into her personal s.p.a.ce and tuck her hair that had swept forward over her shoulder. "Look at me."

She doesn't. My fingers slip under her chin and I nudge until she lowers her hands and raises her face. I swear at the pain in her eyes. "I'll take care of this."

The warning bell rings and Breanna bolts. d.a.m.n. She doesn't believe me.

Chevy sticks his head in and looks me over for signs of a fight. "We good, bro?"

I meet his eyes and he nods as he understands that I'm not. He inclines his head to the hallway and the two of us head to cla.s.s in silence.

Breanna IT'S ONLY THE third day of my senior year and today already ranks as one of the worst three days of my life. The first being yesterday, the second one belonging to seventh grade, the third is award-winning today.

Reagan slides a tray of food in front of me. There's plenty on it-pizza, a hamburger, French fries-but there is not an ounce of me that is hungry. She volunteered to stand in line and buy lunch for the three of us while Addison and I claimed the outside picnic table as far from everyone else as possible.

"It's just rumors." Addison props her chin on my shoulder in an effort to draw my attention from my cell. "It'll die down by tomorrow."

It's a sunny day. Enormous blue sky. White fluffy clouds. It's hot, though, like sweat-through-my-s.h.i.+rt hot, and because of that, there are only a few people outside, which is why we chose to sit here for lunch. I need alone time to regroup.

I lower my head into my hands. "Todd posted Razor from the Terror is trying to screw Breanna Miller. Yes, I can see how this will die down by tomorrow."

"Could be worse," she says in a light voice. "They could be saying you are definitely s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Razor. Everyone seems to have enough common sense to keep the rumors somewhat realistic."

My head slips down farther and my fingers creep into my hair. If Kyle posts that picture, that is exactly the story that will be flying around. Breanna Miller: Reign of Terror s.l.u.t. There are girls who have earned that t.i.tle from rumors and they have never lived it down. Boys hara.s.s them. Girls ignore them. The world has such a double standard and girls are on the bottom of this filth-ridden pond.

"I'm sorry for not finding you faster," Addison says. It's the millionth time she's apologized for the night at Shamrock's. She thought she saw me go into the bathroom after I ran from Kyle, and she'd been waiting outside the stall. My best friend was shocked when someone else walked out and then she went into panic mode.

"It's okay." And it is. Maybe life would be different if she had found me before Razor did, but I don't regret my time with him. I just hate Kyle.

Four more Bragger messages pop up. Because I'm a glutton for punishment, I click on the new messages, and sure enough, two of them involve me.

Lily @lilybear 20 s This morning was interesting. Is she sleeping with Razor from the Terror?

Because the use of p.r.o.nouns and not my real name will mislead me to thinking the message isn't about me. Blah...just blah.

Deke @deke575 10 s Y'all crazy. Twenty dollars @breanna212 is tutoring his stupid a.s.s and he tried something and Kyle came to her rescue.

My heart hurts. I went to the bar to find magic and I did find magic-magic that combusted into a curse when Kyle invaded my privacy by snapping a photo. No one deserves to have their private moments put on display and to be called names. It's like we've regressed to age two and we all need to relearn basic kindergarten manners.

"Finally," says Reagan as she sits across from me and Addison, obviously reading my cell. She doesn't understand the term personal boundaries. "A reasonable explanation, plus points to Deke for at-mentioning you instead of talking about you like you aren't watching the feed. I should totally accept his invitation to next week's dance for that."

"What are people saying?" I peer over at Reagan and she purses her lips.

Reagan's small, but she's full of personality. One of those people you know is there the moment she jazz-hands her way into a room. She's shorter than me, shorter than most of the girls at school, but she's runway pretty.

She befriended Addison and me in sixth grade and, I won't lie, my relations.h.i.+p with her has had its share of ups and downs. Reagan is infatuated with drama. She's like watching a busy little bee bouncing from flower to flower and Addison and I are the home-base hive.

Addison clicks her tongue in disgust at Reagan. "You're a gossip. It's a compulsion for you. We're aware, so dish what you know."

At least Reagan has the decency to fidget with her rings in guilt. "I didn't really gossip about you, Bre, as much as I discussed your current situation so I could get an appropriate sampling of the thoughts of the student population."

She'd make an excellent politician.

"I've considered buying you a muzzle," Addison says.

Reagan flashes us her brilliant smile. "Put diamonds on that baby and I'm your girl. But I swear, I didn't trash you."

What she's excluding is how she didn't defend me, either, but that's a part of Reagan I've had to learn to accept...or not accept. We're friends, but we'll never be close.

"What are people saying?" I ask again.

Reagan rests her elbows on the table and there's a spark in her eyes as she misreads my question as forgiveness. "The story going around is that Razor tried to hit on you and Kyle came to your defense when you got scared. Razor was p.i.s.sed Kyle interfered, so he threw him in the bathroom and they had a shouting match. I'm wondering if Kyle started that rumor because it makes him less a.s.sholey than normal."

She drenches a fry in ketchup. "Everyone thinks Kyle is all heroic for saving our poor, defenseless, quiet Breanna Miller from the clutches of the Terror."

Kyle is a psychopath. "No one thinks I'm sleeping around?"

"G.o.d, no." Reagan chokes on the fry and pounds her chest as if she can't breathe. I glance over at Addison and she rolls her eyes. As I said, Reagan's dramatic.

I release a relieved breath, but tension still cramps my muscles. I'm safe, but for how long? In theory, if I write Kyle's papers, then I won't be branded with a big scarlet letter for life, but it kills a part of my soul to think of helping him cheat.

"The bright side of the whole debacle is that your number of Bragger followers is going through the roof," says Reagan. "Everyone wants to see your response."

If it weren't for the fact that being on Bragger and following Kyle's account is the only way I feel secure he hasn't posted the picture, I'd delete my account in a nanosecond. Bragger is proving to be a nightmare. "There won't be a response."

Addison and Reagan share a long look and I consider crawling under the table to die.

"A nonresponse is still a response," says Addison. "It means you're hiding."

"I am hiding," I mutter.

"Posting a cute picture of a kitten should do the job." Reagan dips another fry into the ketchup, then points it at me. "It'll say you're innocent, plus half the girls in school will share it. I'll find one and send it to you via email next period. If you don't post it immediately, I'll steal your cell on the way home and I'll post it for you."

Reagan would also make a great public relations savior.

"So..." Addison cuts the hamburger in half and takes a bite. "What really happened in the bathroom? And let's not forget you were in a boys' bathroom. I have to say, Bre, I had no idea so much drama would be coming from you."

Me, either.

The bell rings and I hop to my feet. "We'll talk later." No, we won't. I'm praying Addison's right and that the rumors will dissipate and everyone will forget. "See you."

I squeeze into the crowded hallway and, like a salmon, fight against the current of bodies to reach the stairs. There's three floors, and the higher up I go, the less populated it becomes.

Nausea crawls along my insides when I arrive at the desolate third floor. Kyle leans against the lockers like he was waiting for me. He jerks his head to a hallway off to the side that has a clearly marked no-trespa.s.sing sign.

I scan the hallway. No other students. No other teachers. Only two rooms are used on the third floor because the heating and cooling systems fail whenever they attempt to regulate the temperature in more than two cla.s.srooms.

I follow Kyle but stay near the corner in case I need to run. I could have turned and gone the opposite direction, but it doesn't matter if I run. He'll find me, and I can't deny he holds all the power.

Kyle acts like he's normal, but every hair standing on end informs me he's completely unstable.

There's an unnatural silence surrounding us compared to the echoes of noise from the corridors below. The air is stale, like no living soul has visited here for centuries. People have told ghost stories surrounding the third floor-a girl who killed herself a few years back, a boy who snapped the neck of another fifty years ago, the forever fables of homeless students who squat here because there's nowhere else to go.

I believed they were stories until now. What else would explain the cold chill slithering down my back?

"In case you're wondering," he says, "I have a plan in place if Razor touches me, or if I go missing or end up dead. That picture will still be posted on Bragger and then a letter from me will be sent to the police and you will be arrested for being an accomplice in my murder."

Talk about being dramatic. "Razor isn't going to kill you."

"You spend ten minutes alone with the most psychotic member of the Terror and you think you have them figured out? You heard about the Terror shooting in Louisville this summer, right? I'm sure you've also heard about how Razor was seen tearing through town a few days ago chasing after the rival gang involved in that shooting."

A sickening sensation causes a cold sweat to break out on my palms. No, I hadn't heard that. Being around Razor, talking with him, listening to him...it makes it easy to forget there are some rumors that are true-that the Reign of Terror are dangerous.

"I'm saving you by telling you to stay away. Remember Mia Ziggler? She trusted the Terror and no one's heard from her since. I'm doing you a favor."

"He's not the one blackmailing me."

"I'm not blackmailing you," he says in a clipped tone. "We made an agreement. You write my papers, I'll help you make this a great senior year, and I've already started on my part. Our problem is that I had no idea Razor would be p.i.s.sed. The way the Terror runs through girls, I had bet he would've forgotten when that picture was taken and who he was with."

It's like he socked me in my stomach and I wince with the verbal impact.

Kyle eyes my reaction. "Did you think you were special with him on Friday night? I've seen this guy and his buddies work. Girls are like running faucets for them."

A stupid part of me did feel special with Razor. Special in how he listened, special in the way he touched and treated me. A lump forms in my throat. I threw myself at him, and the boy who goes through girls like toilet paper rejected me. Like Kyle, Razor's sole interest in me is for my brain. "The lies on Bragger, that's from you, isn't it?"

"I may have said a few things. Explained how Razor was bothering you and I was helping you out. The story took off from there. Consider it my gift to you for writing my papers."

"Everyone is focused on me and him. That doesn't feel like help. That feels like a threat."