Three years ago, Addison, Reagan and I promised we’d do something crazy on the first Friday of our senior year. After notifying High Grove that I declined their scholarship, crazy is exactly what I need. “Are you sure your parents aren’t going to check on us?”
“Trust me, everything will be golden.” Reagan uses the camera on her phone to fix stray pieces of her dirty-blond hair. She curled it this morning and much to her displeasure the curls are falling out. “Has Cass started following you yet? I told her you created a Bragger account.”
I sigh and Addison scowls. She’s less than thrilled with my lack of excitement. I currently have twenty-five followers. It’s better than none, but not nearly reaching Addison’s and Reagan’s totals. Not sure how this whole social media thing is supposed to be fun. It’s like being back in elementary school and waiting to be picked for kickball.
“To gain followers you must post something.” Addison has this teacher-to-pupil reprimand going on, and it’s scary on her. “Don’t make me start posting for you, brat. You’re the one that wanted to join the world. Reagan and I are trying to catch you up on how to participate in the land of the living.”
“Because everyone will love reading how I was up doing dishes until midnight,” I say.
“Tell them you were doing it naked and half the boys in school will follow you.” Reagan tosses me a sly smirk and I laugh. She’s always saying things that push the envelope. “Tell them you’ll post the picture if you reach five hundred followers. Watch your stats climb, girl.”
“That would be interesting.” A new voice joins the conversation.
I see jeans first. Actually, I see a rip in the jeans, and that rip is an inch above the knee, and I’m staring at a very muscular male thigh. I enter this weird zone, because there’s this sinking feeling of where this is heading, and ominous sirens are sounding off.
It’s like being stuck in slow motion as I glance up. My heart stops. Starts. And when it starts again, I find I can’t breathe. Golden hair that’s a little long on top. Light blue eyes drinking me in. All I see is a whole lot of gorgeous...and dangerous.
It’s Thomas freaking Turner. He wears the same leather vest that he had on the other night, and underneath it is a black T-shirt with the name of an old-school metal band. My eyes automatically scan his patches and I wonder which one is the warning that he carries a gun.
His fingers skim my desk as he strides past. There are small cuts on his knuckles, and the skin on his hands looks rough—like him. For some reason, I find that attractive. It reminds me of him hunched in front of his bike as he was repairing his machine. The steady way he moved. The serious set of his face. The way the muscles in his arms flexed as he worked.
“Hello, Breanna.” Thomas’s voice is deep, smooth, and feels like a caress along my skin.
“Hey.” It’s hardly more than a whisper.
“How are you?” Thomas settles into the seat in the back corner behind me as if this is where he’s determined to stay for the year. He kicks his long legs into the aisle and crosses one booted foot over the other.
“Good,” I answer, able to attain a somewhat normal voice.
“Good,” he repeats. “How’s your phone?”
“Terrific.” When did I become the queen of one-word answers?
“Terrific.” His eyes are laughing. At me. With me. I’m not sure, so I return to facing the front. Holy freaking crap, Thomas Turner is attempting conversation with me.
I’m greeted by two wide-eyed and slack-mouthed friends. Addison’s gaze flickers between me and Thomas so quickly that I’m afraid she’s going to make herself cross-eyed. So...yeah. I left out telling Addison about my few minutes alone with the motorcycle boy, so that would mean that Reagan’s also in the dark.
Please act normal, I mouth.
They tilt their heads as if I asked them to explain osmosis.
Addison blinks as she snaps out of her shock, then clears her throat. “So...it’s settled. As soon as you break free from babysitting prison, we’re going to Shamrock’s tonight.”
Thomas shifts in his seat and my neck twinges as I feel his eyes on me. We live in a small town in a sparsely populated county. Everyone knows Shamrock’s is a bar near the Army base. They allow anyone eighteen and older, but we’re not supposed to drink. Rumor has it the Army guys have no problem buying alcohol for any girl underage.
I’m going to admit, I’m not eighteen. I’ve never drunk before, not counting a few sips of my mother’s wine under her visual guidance, and a small glass of champagne at my grandparents’ anniversary party last year. Other than that—nothing.
I’m also going to admit, I’m curious. About drinking and bars and Army boys. I’m excited about a dimly lit room and neon lights and a glittering disco ball creating a rainbow.