"Do you still think they're evil?"

"As sure as I am that Satan's real, and in case you're wondering, he is. I still think you should run and never look back, but you're a big girl and can make your own choices."

I digest that and decide to switch the subject. "That's cool-that they look out for you."

Her smile falters. "My dad died. I'm not interested in anyone replacing him."

Wrong change of subject. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too. I have a feeling that isn't the question you were going to ask."

No, none of this is the conversation I planned on having. I rub my forehead and push forward. "How bad was it when that picture of you was posted on Bragger?"

Violet eases her foot off the gas and the car slows from her breakneck speed. I find the courage to look over at her and she mirrors the agony I felt when Kyle sat across from me in the library. "How bad is the picture they have of you?" she asks.

My throat tightens as the urge to share and the self-preservation to keep this secret quiet wages war within me. Violet focuses on the road again and her knuckles go white on the wheel. "Those a.s.sholes never know when to stop, do they? I mean, me? I walked into that mess, but you, what the f.u.c.k have you ever done wrong?"

"I went to Shamrock's. I drank and I ended up outside with Razor and someone took a picture. Razor was leaning into me, but we didn't kiss. We didn't do anything. We were talking, but the picture looks a million times worse and they were going to..." My chest constricts and my eyes burn.

"Label you a wh.o.r.e," she finishes for me. "They were going to post it and label you a wh.o.r.e."

Violet slams her hand against the steering wheel and pain slashes through me. She's lived through this torment. Even worse than me because people have gossiped about her for as long as I can remember, since she's a child of the Terror.

"I'm not going to lie. I knew you were being blackmailed. Not because Razor told me, but because Razor asked about the picture taken of me."

My eyes widen and she waves me off. "I put the pieces together. He didn't tell me, and because he's so d.a.m.n set on playing rogue, I bet he hasn't said anything to anyone else. And, by the way, it's in direct violation of club rules for him to keep a secret like this, but that's neither here nor there. Tell me what they're blackmailing you for."

"I'm being blackmailed to write papers."

"Kyle Hewitt is a f.u.c.king moronic a.s.shole," she spits out with enough venom that a chill courses through my blood.

"Was he the one that posted the picture of you?"

"No. Someone else. I was being blackmailed, too, but I didn't give in and look what happened to me. What sucks is, I have given in to keep more pictures from going up, but the damage was already done."

"What was it like?" I whisper, almost terrified of the truth. "When the picture went up?"

Violet's expression clouds over. "Awful. So awful I considered if life was worth living. So awful that some days I don't want to get out of bed. So awful that I have made myself a wh.o.r.e just to not go through it again."

It takes several heartbeats to ingest her honesty. She's painting the horrible future that I've created in my mind. "Razor's trying to help. He'll fix this for both of us."

She yanks out a chain around her neck that had been hidden by her shirt, and she fingers a silver cross. The charm is about two inches long and it's thick, like it belongs to a man. "Computers?"

"Yes."

"He's smart. But I'm not sure he's smart enough. Before Razor pulls the trigger on whatever he has planned, make sure he's a hundred percent sure he's keeping you safe. Otherwise this group of guys will make it rain brimstone and fire." Pity fills Violet's eyes. "No offense, Breanna, but you're not the type to dance in the rain. Especially the type that burns."

Hysteria wells up within me. "What do I do, then? Because I'm starting to go crazy. Always wondering if he's going to put it up, the guilt of keeping a secret, and if I do give in, I'll be doing something wrong. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep going like this."

Violet plays with her necklace and drives. Waiting for her response is skull-crushing and each second that pa.s.ses makes this entire situation nauseating.

"I was up for a scholarship," she finally says. "To someplace far away from here and I was told by a college recruiter that they were seriously considering me until they did a search for me on the internet. He told me their board of trustees couldn't in good faith give scholarship money to a candidate with a questionable reputation."

Hot moisture pools at the bottom of my eyes.

"No matter what happens, don't let Razor talk you into going to the club with this," she says.

"Why?"

"The Terror plays by their own rules when push comes to shove and I don't want blood on my hands." It's not an answer, yet it is one at the same time.

"You said most of the stories were lies."

"I did, but I didn't mention which ones were true."

My bottom lip trembles and I suck in a breath to prevent tears from falling. Violet places her hand over mine and I link our fingers together. "What am I going to do?"

"One of us is going to get out of this town. When you make it, remember me when I come asking you for a job." Violet squeezes my hand. "In the meantime, I would plan on writing those papers."

RAZOR.

BREANNA IS STRANGLING my hand so tightly she could rival a tourniquet. Gotta admit, the girl may be frightened, but she owns a bigger pair of b.a.l.l.s than most men.

It's Friday and we're still standing near the row of parked bikes. We arrived at the clubhouse a few minutes ago. She took her time to gain her land legs and then bought more time by combing her fingers through her hair, then checking her cell to see if her cover story is holding. It all adds up to stalling.

I swipe my thumb over her frozen hand. It's been a cool day, but I'm betting it's nerves causing her to be cold. "You ready?"

She nods too quickly. "Do I look okay?"

"Yeah." She's f.u.c.king gorgeous. Jeans that hug her right and a blue top that sets off that black hair. What I really love is that she's wearing my leather jacket. "Stick with me at all times. If I get pulled away, you stay with Rebecca or with Oz or Chevy. You never leave our sight."

Breanna blows out a shaky breath. "I thought this was a big old family-friendly dinner."

"It's the same type of rules as if you went to Shamrock's. Stick with who you know."

Breanna's eyebrows rise and a ripple of uneasiness rushes through me when I remember she didn't stick with who she knew that night. She danced with a whole lot of guys who would have knocked the h.e.l.l out of each other for the chance to be with her-the girl who had no fear.

"New rules-when you go to someplace unknown, you stick with who you know."

Breanna's face brightens as she watches my annoyance...f.u.c.k it, my jealousy.

I grab on to her belt loops and drag her into me as I sit on the seat of my bike. She's between my legs and she has this contagious smile that locks me into her. My hands settle on her hips and I imagine all the things I plan on doing with her tonight. After she meets the club, after we eat some dinner, I'm getting her back on my bike and we're riding to someplace private.

Breanna nervously glances around. "We aren't alone."

We're not. "No one's going to rat. What happens at the clubhouse stays here."

"Good to know." Breanna wiggles as if that nonverbal cue is enough to convince me to release her. "But there are a lot of people around."

The crystal ball grows clear. Breanna doesn't like an audience, but if she's going to hang around here, she's going to have to get used to a few things. My fingers stay on her hips and I attempt to distract her with a change in conversation. "My jacket looks good on you."

"Do you want it back?"

"No. I want every guy to know you belong with me."

"It doesn't have your name on it, so how do they know it's yours?"

"They'll know." Because it has a hole in the arm from when I got shot. Next time I go into Louisville, I'll buy a new one and let her keep this one. I'll tell her it's for protection on my bike, and it is, but it's also a nice calling card of get-the-f.u.c.k-away-from-my-girl. "Wear the jacket."

"Should I go feminist and say I belong to myself?" Breanna wraps her hands around my neck and her fingertips tease the ends of my hair. Fire invades my veins and my thoughts of where I want to kiss Breanna leave the realm of respectable territory.

"This isn't your world. It's mine. You're safer with that jacket on."

"Guess it's good that I like wearing it. It smells like you."

d.a.m.n, she always says the right thing. I pull her closer to me, tunnel my fingers in her hair and capture those sweet lips.

She's hesitant and I have no doubt it's because people are near. Breanna plays a little, then will slightly draw away, but I continue to coax. A nibble here, a slide of my tongue there. My hands sneak under the jacket so I can ma.s.sage her back and skim my fingers along her spine. Each and every movement slowly thaws Breanna and makes her as hot as a flame. Her sighs and her caresses cause me to want to drop to my knees and beg for more.

A dog barks and Breanna jumps. She laughs as she eases back and that sound soothes some of my rough edges. Another bark, and when I glance down, a part of me discovers the excitement of being ten on Christmas morning. "Well, f.u.c.k me."

"What?" Breanna asks.

I stand and give her a quick kiss before letting her go. "It's my dog."

Breanna HIS DOG. RAZOR has a dog. It feels strange that I never knew, but then again, our conversations lately have been so seriously set on my family or his family or schoolwork or on kissing that we've left out the small, fun things like dogs.

Razor's crouched near the ground scratching behind the ears of a pudgy ba.s.set hound with the largest dark eyes I've seen. "I didn't know you had a dog."

"I don't," he says, and then the dog leaps around Razor. The dog's tail wags, his tongue is hanging out and he continuously licks his master.

"Have you told him that?" I ask, but the big, bad biker has been reduced to cooing.

"What are you doing here, boy?" A rub behind the ears, a lick on the face in return. "Did you walk all the way from Florida?"

The dog chases his own tail three times before collapsing on the ground. He rolls over to show his belly and proves he really is a boy. I'm smiling as Razor rubs the dog's stomach with both hands, declaring him a "good boy."

Razor eventually peers over his shoulder at me and I'm knocked breathless with how happy he appears. "This is Lars."

At the mention of his name, Lars hops up on all fours, sniffs Razor's face and then plants another wet, sloppy kiss on him. Razor chuckles but moves Lars's snout away as he begins petting him again. "Lars, this is Breanna."

The dog's tongue rolls to the side again and he pants, surveying me as if he can understand Razor. "My mom gave me Lars the Christmas before she died." Some of the sadness that's always attached to Razor returns.

"So this is really your dog?" I kneel beside Razor and Lars pads over to me. I pet his head as Razor continues to run his hand over the length of the dog's back.

"When I was a kid, Cyrus's wife, Olivia, used to watch me when Mom and Dad had to work. She let me bring Lars with me to her house. When Mom died, I lived here for a while. Dad split after the funeral, and when he returned, he was a mess. When Dad got his s.h.i.t together, he came and got me but left Lars. Dad wasn't sure he had enough in him to take care of a kid and a dog."

My heart honest-to-G.o.d breaks. Like someone reached into my chest, ripped it out and has cracked it in two. "What happened?"

"To the dog or me?" Razor forces a grin like what he admitted doesn't matter-that it's not absolutely soul-shattering.

"Both," I answer seriously, and he frowns, unhappy that I'm not offering him the easy route.

"We both know I'm f.u.c.ked-up."

"That's not true-"

"Olivia kept Lars," he cuts me off. "I was here enough anyhow, so it's not like I didn't see him, but everyone eventually forgot he was mine and he became Olivia's. Then Olivia died this summer. When her granddaughter, Emily, returned to Florida, Eli had Emily take Lars with her."

I sort of crave to hit this Eli guy. "Why?"

Razor stops petting Lars and the dog whines as it peeks pathetically up at him. "Because Emily needed a reminder of this place more than anyone else did at the time."

Razor straightens and then takes my hand. "Which means if Lars is here, then so is Emily."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"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.