Part 8 (1/2)
So was I. He didn't have to tell me why Mom never arrived to take me home. I heard it in his tone. Noticed it in his eyes. My mother was dead.
”That detective,” Eli continues now, ”showed to f.u.c.k with your mind. You're smarter than him. Better than him. Don't let him wedge a wall between us and you. Don't let him destroy you and your dad.”
We all have choices to make; what lies we accept to believe. Since I was ten, I loved this family so much that I never questioned believing the lie that had been told to me-that Mom's death was an accident.
But in this moment, the biggest lie I've chosen to believe is the one I tell myself: that I trust the Terror. I've always believed there was more, and the detective was correct-if I'm going to find any peace, I have to learn the truth.
”Who are you going to believe?” Eli asks. ”Us or him?”
”The brotherhood,” I respond with so much ease it should scare the h.e.l.l out of me, but it doesn't. The doubt's always been present. I've just now decided to no longer live in purgatory. I'm going to discover what happened. Not sure how, but I'll die trying.
I hold my hand out and, after a second of staring at the image of Mom's car, Eli returns my cell to me. With a flick of my finger, the photo disappears.
”It's my mom,” I say as if that can explain away everything that went down. As if that can absolve me from any sin I'll commit here on out with the club. It's a low thing to say to Eli. His mother, Olivia, recently died.
A shadow pa.s.ses over Eli's face and it's an expression that's all understanding. ”I know, and I also heard what you came home to the other night. It's been a rough few days for you.”
He allows me time to digest his statement and I wonder how many people are aware of the promise Dad made to me...or how many are aware he broke it.
”You and your dad-you two need to find some peace when it comes to your mom and you need to find some peace with each other, otherwise the entire club is going to suffer. That s.h.i.+t that went down with the detective-it wasn't right. He disrespected you and your father, which means he disrespected this club. Trust me when I say we'll take care of it.”
I should feel justified the board is pursuing some course of action with the detective, but the truth is I might need the cop. He might be the lone person willing to inform me what happened, and in the end I'm not sure I do trust the club to follow through.
The picture of Violet on Bragger did come down, not of my doing, but by the club's. Regardless, it's on the web forever. Even with my computer skills, I still can't prevent copies from popping up. But what I'm really p.i.s.sed at is that the club hasn't figured out who's responsible yet and nailed them to a cross.
Why should I trust them to watch out for me when they can't bring justice for Violet or look me in the eye when I mention my mother?
”Pigpen warned us the detective f.u.c.ked you up,” Eli says. ”But we had no idea how bad. I'll talk to your dad, tell him that you need time and s.p.a.ce, but you need to work through this. You need to find a way to trust the club and you need to work it out with your dad.”
I nod, and when I stand, Eli stands with me. He walks around the table and pulls me into a strong hug. One arm high to keep from hitting my three-piece patch. It's a sign of utmost respect and I return the gesture with the same amount of emotion.
The club has been my family, my rock, my port in a raging storm, and what I'm about to do might cost me my family forever.
Breanna WE BYPa.s.sED MY curfew of ten hours ago. This is the first time I've been out this late with friends without parental guidance and I have to admit it's exhilarating.
Shamrock's is a hole-in-the-wall. Hole. Like a dig-through-thirty-feet-of-slime-then-let-it-fall-back-in-around-you hole, and I'm loving every single second. The music pumps from the speakers and vibrates against the walls. Every corner is dark and strobe lights create this crazy movement of people like we're pages flipped through a comic book. The stench of sweat from too many humans occupying one room mingles with the scent of something sweet.
I hated the smell when we arrived, but with a few more drinks and a few more songs, I don't mind it nearly as much. What I'm loving the most is that the rumors are true. Army boys do buy drinks and they are glorious dancers.
”You know what I love?” I say to Addison as she wraps her arms around my neck in the middle of the dance floor. We start to slow dance with each other during a song that has too many beats and too many chords.
”What?” Strands of her blond hair stick to her face and a sheen of sweat covers her exposed skin.
”I am not number five tonight!”
”No, brat, you are not! You, girl, are number one!”
We take each other's hands and spin like we did when we were six, except then it was in my backyard and the sun was s.h.i.+ning. We slow, and when I search the room for Reagan, the world around me fades. I become concreted to the floor and my breathing hitches. He's here.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. A body so ripped that every girl near him is gaping. It's Razor. He's in the corner on the opposite side of the room. His elbows rest on a raised table, and he's staring at me.
As always, he's the perfect mix of heart-stopping gorgeous and dangerous. His hair is styled so the longer bangs almost cover his eyes, but not quite. He wears his black biker cut and in the darkness it blends into the black T-s.h.i.+rt that hugs the muscles of his biceps.
My mouth dries out. I bet he can dance. I bet he could rival any Army boy here. I bet he's every fantasy I've ever had and I bet he's a fantastic kisser.
I smile. He smiles. I melt.
Addison appears by my side and whispers in my ear, ”What is up with you and Thomas Turner?”
I give her my best answer. ”I don't know.”
”He's hot,” she says.
I agree, he is. I should stop looking at him, but I can't, and I love that he hasn't stopped watching me. He inclines his head as if he's a.s.sessing my outfit. To show off my dress, I c.o.c.k a hip and even lift my skirt like I'm about to perform a curtsy. I'm here to be seen, to be someone other than the Breanna everyone thinks they know, and I like being seen by Thomas Turner.
His response is a raised red plastic cup in my direction. The smile on my face grows and there's a tingle in my blood as the corners of his mouth tip higher.
There's a boldness I have in this moment I've never had before and I'm not done admiring all that Thomas Turner is. Not Thomas Turner-Razor of the Reign of Terror. ”He's trouble.”
”Sometimes a girl needs a little trouble.” Addison howls as she twirls me, breaking my connection with Razor. ”I told you this year was going to be different.”
I've had three drinks tonight. My lips purse together. Maybe four. Is it normal to lose count? They were sweet and tasted like strawberries and I feel light on my feet and I also feel pretty.
I love my dress. It's formfitting, except for the skirt, which ends above my knees and flares out at the hem. The dress is royal blue and it reminds me of the pretend games Addison and I used to play when we were five. We dreamed we were princesses and this dress swishes in a way that makes me grin. What I really love is how a few guys have studied me like I was someone worth giving their attention to.
I keep spinning, but my feet don't and then my entire body jerks into something hard.
”Hi.” The voice is gravelly, and when I glance up, I frown. Yes, this place is wall-to-wall testosterone from the Army base and, yes, we are not the sole girls from school who decided this was the first pit stop for senior year, but boys from school should not be invited.
Well, Razor can be invited, but that's because he's the type of guy who would show because he wasn't invited.
”Hi.” I push away from Kyle Hewitt. It's not that Kyle's disgusting to look at. He's far from it. He has that grown-man baby face so many girls fall for, but after orientation I a.s.sociate him with Satan.
”Do your parents know you're here?” he asks.
”Do yours?” I retort.
He smirks as he leans back against the bar. We're in the corner and beside him his friends regard me as they always do, as if they barely recognize me.
”I'm sorry I lost my temper the other night,” Kyle says. ”It doesn't make what I did right, but I've been under pressure. From my coach, from my teachers, from my parents...”
Kyle pauses on parents and there's a s.h.i.+fting in the hate I have for him. I never entertained much thought involving Kyle until he cornered me and asked me to write his papers in exchange for money. But when he brings up parental expectations-family expectations-I can understand.
How many times have I wanted to scream at my parents that I'm not a live-in nanny nor their prize-winning state fair intelligent pumpkin, but never do? ”It's okay.”
”Good,” he responds.
I consider the conversation done and start to walk away, but evidently Kyle didn't receive the memo that I'm not in a talkative mood-at least with him. ”Bre, I need this help. What can I do to get you to write these papers?”
There's the use of my nickname again-like he knows me, but he doesn't. ”I'm not writing your papers.”