Walk the Edge
Page 17

“You’re the one that said you wanted to be noticed,” she says. “Bragger’s a community of people. You can post pictures or something short, something long, something funny, something insightful, and then people like and comment. Whatever your little heart desires. The main point being, you will be interacting with other humans. If you want out of the box you hide in, then you need to crack open the flaps and bask in some sunlight.”
“Remember when we decided my wardrobe change was going to help?” I counter. “The result of that experiment was Kyle Hewitt trying to con me into writing his papers. Change is overrated and my box is comfy.”
“You told me all summer that you feel cramped in the box.” She’s right. I did say that. “You’re suffocating and I’m tired of watching you turn blue. This isn’t middle school anymore. People have matured. If you be yourself around everyone else, they’ll love you like I do.”
My heart pounds hard, but I pause because what she’s saying is what I want. For once in my life, I’d love to be myself around everyone else and be accepted for who I am instead of staying silent for fear of people mocking me.
Maintaining eye contact with me, Addison raises my phone and pushes Save.
The door to the living room swings open and my younger brother Joshua enters. He wanders over to us and his eyes flicker between us as Addison and I continue to stare at each other in recognition of how huge this moment is for me.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Congratulate your sister,” says Addison. “She’s on Bragger.”
RAZOR
IT’S A HUMID NIGHT. The day was so hot the air smells of melting blacktop. Bugs fly near the town’s light posts and the promise of violence is so thick I can taste it. Chevy swings off his bike and straightens to his full six feet. His pissed-off glare could shatter the diner’s window.
Since I arrived home last night to Dad’s broken promise, I’ve been itching for a release. A scan of the diner and I catch up on why Chevy nine-one-one’d me and Oz. Never thought I’d be happy to see Chevy’s ex-girl, Violet, locked in a kiss in the corner booth with the town’s biggest asshole, but God does work in mysterious ways.
Oz’s big black Harley rumbles up next to me. He kills the engine and his head is that of an owl as he swings his gaze between us and Violet’s public display. A crowd of guys from school are hanging in the diner. They eat and shoot the breeze as the guy shoving his tongue down Violet’s throat begins to move his hand near the hem of her shirt.
“Shit.” Oz verbalizes how deep we are in this minefield. People are automatically scared of Oz, with that unruly black hair and don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Now that he officially has the three-piece patch of the Terror on his back, people fall over themselves to get out of his way.
He flips me the bird and I flip it back. Not ready for Dad’s father-son talk, I went fishing at the Pond with Oz. Chevy texted a few minutes ago he needed backup, and Oz and I raced to town. I cut Oz off near the railroad tracks and he’s pissed I beat him on my pieced-together bike.
“We doing this?” Oz asks Chevy as he sidles up to the two of us.
Chevy’s dark eyes harden into an answer. He’s one hundred percent a McKinley. Chestnut hair, brown eyes, tall as hell and a mean bastard when he chooses to be. Even at seventeen, his personality mirrors that of his grandfather and uncle—the two most powerful guys in the Terror. Each of them are laid-back, easy to talk to, but if you push their button wrong, they’ll hurl you through a concrete wall.
“There’s six of them,” I state. And three of us. I thrive off those odds. “Two of those guys in there were some of the ones that stood back and watched when that asshole beat up Stone last year. I still believe a lesson should have been taught to them all.” Not just to the bastard who we made cry when he picked on a kid four years younger.
Stone is the fourteen-year-old and awkward-as-hell kid brother of the girl currently giving us heartburn. Stone and Violet’s dad belonged to the club and died in an accident a little over a year ago. Club takes care of their family now, but Violet’s gone rogue, alienating anyone from the Terror, even us—the guys who have grown up with her since birth.
“Should I mention hanging with them is Violet’s choice?” Oz asks. I level my glare on him. I want this action and logic could kill my one possibility of throwing a punch.
“Was that picture put on Bragger Violet’s choice?” Chevy spits.
There’s a damn account set up on that nonsense Bragger site called Snowflake Sluts. A couple weeks ago someone posted a compromising picture of Violet. Oz and Chevy confronted her on it and she laughed it off, claiming it didn’t bother her. But then she showed at my house later that night trashed and crying to the point I couldn’t understand her.
That’s a lie. She did make it clear she would never speak to me again if I sought revenge on the asshole who posted the pic or ran the account.
Fucked-up part—none of us can prove who posted the pic, and because I’d prefer for Violet to come to me when she’s in trouble, I haven’t tried too hard to figure out who’s responsible. But my gaze wanders into the diner again and it lands on the group inside.
I’ve heard rumors. Noticed the way girls targeted on the account look at those guys like they’ve stolen a part of their soul. As far as I’m concerned, that’s judge, jury and verdict.
“That’s our family in there being mauled by the biggest jackass we know,” Chevy argues with Oz. “You think he respects her? You think he has her best interests in mind?”