“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?”
“Demons haunt the souls of some of these men. It’s what drives them to belong to a part of society most can’t understand. Razor’s not exempt and loving someone like that can be hard.”
Razor’s demon is his mother. I haven’t told Razor, but I’m still working on the second code. Maybe this is a demon I can help exorcise.
“Have you had enough of the clubhouse yet?” she asks.
I force my lips to move up like I’m fine even though I’m practically quaking.
Rebecca laughs. “Emily feels the same way. She’s at a picnic table outside. Let me introduce the two of you.”
RAZOR
I’M IN THE BACK of the clubhouse and I have a line of guys willing to buy me a beer. Conversation is flowing fast. Everyone has something to say and they’re saying it at once. I’m the one who’s silent, so to them, it means I’m the one who listens.
Pigpen slips in between a group of guys and waves two fingers at the prospect behind the bar. The prospect slides two longnecks to him and, with them in hand, Pigpen motions with his chin for me to follow. Brothers pat me on the back, on my good side, as I tail him. Pigpen cuts into the kitchen, holding the door open for me with his foot. When I’m through, he hands me the other beer and the entire board claps.
The door shuts behind me and the serving window is closed. We aren’t in the boardroom, so whatever is about to happen isn’t official, but serious enough that they prefer privacy.
Pigpen sets his beer on the counter, then lifts himself to sit on it. Eli leans his back on the wall next to him, and Dad’s beside Cyrus near the stainless-steel table in the middle of the room. They stare at me as if they’re expecting something, and I’m at a loss.
“We’re dying here,” Eli says. “Spill.”
Still doesn’t help.
“You brought a girl,” Eli says slowly as if I’m mentally impaired. “Is this Breanna?”
“Better be.” Pigpen grins. “Otherwise she’s going to be pissed when you roll over and whisper another girl’s name in the morning.”
My head lowers. I’ll never live that down. “Yeah, that’s Breanna.”
“Miller?” Dad asks.
I nod, curious how he knew her last name.
“Her mom works in accounting at the hospital,” he says.
It’s not new knowledge, but it’s something I never gave a second thought to. Curiosity creates a stab of physical pain. How is it we’ve been together and I never asked about her family?
“Breanna’s mom and your mom worked closely together. Your mom considered Breanna’s mom a good friend.” There’s a mournful smile on his face that slices me deep. “She said Breanna’s mom was pregnant all the time. Then she’d come into work with a baby and your mom used to come home begging for us to have another once she got a whiff.”
I want to ask why I was an only child, but then I think better. It’s not like he’d answer.