Part 18 (1/2)

My eyes are brighter than normal. My cheeks are flushed. In front of me is a girl I barely recognize. Texting with Razor, the occasional chat on the phone, the way we flirt when we're together in independent study-all of that is crossing dangerous lines, but this...leaving with Razor? Being alone with him? I've lost my mind, and I'm loving the girl staring back at me.

A buzz of my cell and I fumble with it in my haste. It's not Razor announcing his arrival, but Addison: What are you doing tonight?

My parents think I'm working until nine and my fingers hesitate over the letters. I trust Razor-but seventeen years of Reign of Terror doctrine is hard to combat. Me: I'm doing homework with Thomas Turner.

I wince at how quickly she responds: WHAT?!!!!!

Me: I'll explain later, but keep this between us.

I pocket my phone and step outside. My phone pings every few seconds. My best friend will strangle me and then demand Razor details.

On the other side of the lot is a familiar angelic face, golden hair and a black leather cut that spells trouble. Razor leans against his motorcycle. His biceps are gorgeously flexed as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Adrenaline pumps into my veins as I walk toward him. Razor spots me and this devilish smirk forms on his face. A thrill runs through me and so do a million questions about what exactly will happen when we are completely and utterly alone.

Razor straightens when I reach him and then glides into my personal s.p.a.ce so that we're close. Super close. Almost as close as the night at Shamrock's. I inhale to calm my beating heart and I detect his dark, spicy scent.

”You ready?” he asks.

”Yeah.” I swallow, as I sounded crazy raspy. ”Do you have our rockets?”

We built them this week during our independent study.

He gestures to a black leather bag attached to his bike, then raises his fingers. Wrapped around three of them is a rubber band. ”Figured you wouldn't think of this.”

Riding a motorcycle. My hair. Lots of wind that would create tangles. Nope, didn't contemplate it at all. I go to accept the rubber band, but Razor pulls back his hand. I frown, then freeze. Razor gathers my hair at the nape of my neck and pleasing goose b.u.mps tickle along my skin. I suck in a breath of air to keep my heart from exploding with his touch.

There's a gentle pull as he twists the band around my hair. Tingles. Beautiful tingles. When he's done, he lets one finger trace the length of my chin. I can't breathe.

”A few things before we go,” he says.

I nod, because speaking is officially impossible. He slips his cut off, then shrugs out of his leather jacket. ”Put this on.”

I raise an eyebrow. Don't get me wrong, the idea of wearing something of Razor's makes me want to squee with joy, but... ”It's warm today. Like high of eighty-one warm.”

”Better you sweat than scratch the h.e.l.l out of yourself if we take a spill.”

My stomach twists. ”Spill?”

”Not planning on it, but I'm not taking any chances.”

I accept the jacket and draw my arms into it. It's heavy and huge and smells like him and I'd die a happy girl if I never had to give this back. Razor produces a helmet. ”When we get on my bike-”

”Wait up, Kyle.” The voice is unexpected and unwelcome. Near the Barrel of Fun, Kyle and two of his friends stand by the outside back bathroom entrance. Cold fear rushes into my veins.

Razor blocks me from their view. ”I'm not ready for him to see us out like this yet. So short lesson. Climb on and hold on to me. If you're scared, pinch my thigh and I'll stop. Got it?”

I'm blinded when Razor places a helmet on my head. He adjusts it so I can see, then snaps the strap under my chin. It's not one of those full helmets, just the type that covers my head.

He straddles his bike, eases his cut back on and glances at me. After wiping my palms against my jeans, I hop on behind him. Razor reaches back, gathers my arms, and I close my eyes when my fingers touch a very hard stomach. I slowly breathe out. Oh my G.o.d, this is happening.

He squeezes my fingers, lets me go, and within seconds the motorcycle roars and vibrates between my thighs. A fleeting moment of panic becomes a hiccup in my brain. I could pinch his thigh. I could jump off the bike. I could run.

But I do none of those things. Instead, I rest my chin on his shoulder, readjust my hold on his waist and press closer to him. When Razor turns his head to look at me, I swear he's smiling.

RAZOR.

BREANNA COVERS HER face with her hands. ”This is impossible!”

It's not, but knowing any response I have will annoy her, I avoid commenting. Instead, I grab the paper she had been murdering with an eraser. She slams her hand on her notebook in an effort to capture it, but I'm too fast.

”I can do this,” she says. ”If I get a new brain maybe, but I can do this.”

”Let me try.” I also steal the notebook and pencil.

”Fine,” Breanna huffs, then collapses back onto the tall gra.s.s. Beside us are the remains of our three rockets. Our job now is to mathematically prove why one went higher than the other.

”It really is pretty here,” she says, and I glance over at her. The early autumn day is warm and the brittle gra.s.s surrounding her is green and yellow. Above us are trees colored with orange and red leaves. I agree it's a sight under the clear sky, but not for the reasons she believes. Breanna's the one who's pretty.

”I can't believe I've never been here before,” she says.

”No one comes here.” It's why I like it. This meadow is a quarter mile from my home. I stumbled across it the summer after Mom died. I couldn't stomach being home, especially on those days Dad brought a girl to the house. Since that summer, this place has been my refuge.

It's encircled by trees, and during the spring and summer, flowers of multiple types bloom. But what I found interesting as a kid was the abandoned railway trestle. I've walked over that bridge more times than I can count. I've even climbed to the top.

Breanna's a vision with her black hair sprawled around her. There's not a soul around for miles, which means this place is perfect for the two of us.

A distant rumble and the ground vibrates. Breanna rolls over to her stomach and I have to tear my gaze away from her tight a.s.s to watch as a train flies around the bend and crosses the current railroad trestle farther down from where we're settled. It's because of the newer trestle that I was able to bring Breanna here. There's an access path off the main highway. It's dirt and it was b.u.mpy, but Breanna rode the back of my bike like a pro-like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with me.

”It seems impossible, doesn't it?” she asks.

My heart stops. Is she also thinking about us?

Breanna points at the paper in front of me. ”The math. It's impossible.”

The math. Get your s.h.i.+t together. ”If acceleration is equal to gravity, then the number would be...”

”Negative 9.81 meters per second squared,” she rattles off. I'd give up my bike for a week to be inside her head for a minute.

She's quiet while I focus on the problem, which I appreciate. When I solve the equation, her face brightens. ”Wow.”

I prop my arms on my raised knees and pretend to admire the field. Yeah. Wow. If only everything in my life came as easily as it does with numbers. I wasn't just admitted into AP in science, but in math, too. School told Dad my science score teetered on admission to the program, but it was my knowledge of numbers that pushed me over.

”You're the anti-me, aren't you?” she says.

I chuckle and it comes out bitter. I am. She's beautiful and smart and all that's good with the world. ”Yeah.”

Her forehead furrows as she reads my expression. ”I mean with math and the hacking stuff. Your brain is built for math whereas mine isn't. Like how you knew how to apply the kinematic equation. I know the equation, but I have a hard time applying the knowledge. I'm saying you're smart.”