Razor’s crouched near the ground scratching behind the ears of a pudgy basset 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 shit 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-God 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 fucked-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.