Breanna
RAZOR’S TALKING, BUT the words aren’t registering. I’m guessing it’s because his palms are pressed against the bed of the truck, near my legs. His thumbs move—a brush against the material of my skirt. Each slow circle sends a jolt of electricity from my thighs straight to my stomach, and it’s a glorious feeling.
He’s touching me. Thomas Turner, Razor of the Reign of Terror, is on purpose touching me. And if that wasn’t enough, his body is wedged between my legs and he’s leaning toward me, into my personal space. That angelic face is so close. Beautifully close. Close enough that seconds ago I was absolutely convinced he was going to kiss me.
My body hums with expectation, with this secret uncontrollable desire. I’ve been kissed before—at a party. It was freshman year and it was Reagan’s birthday and there was a game. But that was awkward and this is a gravitational pull.
“Breanna,” Razor says in this deep voice that rumbles to my toes. “Are you bleeding?”
My eyes snap to my elbow and Razor steps back, taking my arm into his hands. Oh, God, my fingers had been lying against his chest. My face flushes hot with the idea of what has transpired between us and somehow that brief moment was important and I didn’t fully appreciate any of it because my mind is swimming.
His rough fingers delicately sweep across the area near my elbow. “You peeled back the first thin layer, but it’s not too bad. Bet it burns like a bitch.”
It does, a little, but I’m more interested in the tiny electric shocks happening with his caress. “I’m fine. I ran into the wall when you popped out.”
Razor keeps his hold on my arm, sliding his fingers gently along the scrape, and he doesn’t talk. We look at each other and it feels oddly comfortable.
I could get used to this type of comfortable.
But then the entire world shifts and nausea twists my stomach. Strong hands grip my shoulders and I grab on to Razor’s wrists as an anchor.
“The world’s moving,” I say. “And it’s moving fast.”
“The alcohol’s taking over.”
“I didn’t drink that much,” I whisper as the lights from a passing car blinds me. “At least I don’t think I did.”
“You drank enough.”
I continue to use him as an anchor and he continues to keep me from drifting off into this dizzying storm. Eventually the spinning stops and I inhale twice before trying to salvage my pride. I am never drinking again. “I’m serious. I only drank a little.”
“So you’re a little drunk?”
My spine straightens. Kyle said everyone at school laughs at me. Why would Razor be an exception? I release him and I do it with enough of a shove that he retreats.
“Are you making fun of me, too?”
He’s silent and I clearly hear the answer. Yes, he is. Yes, he thinks I’m a freak. Yes, I definitely made a fool out of myself.
“No,” he says. “Is that why you bolted from the club? Was Hewitt talking shit?”
Yes. Yes, he was. I throw my head back and appraise the stars. I could tell Razor everything. Tell him how Kyle demanded I write his papers. Tell him how he offered me the ability to be seen in a way that won’t be an encore of middle school, but where would that get me? Nowhere. Plus telling Razor would suggest we’re friends, and besides the people who belong to the Reign of Terror, he has never done friends, not even in sixth grade.
The stars twinkle in the darkness and they remind me how small and insignificant I am. I came to the bar to kill off the old me and I ended up being reminded. It all feels rather hopeless. “Did you know we live in the outer edge of the Milky Way?”
His eyebrows rise like I’m crazy, but, hey, I probably am. “Astronomers think there are over a hundred million stars in the Milky Way and they also think there are anywhere between one hundred billion and two hundred billion galaxies, so that means there are...”
I pause because I should be able to add a hundred million stars to a hundred billion galaxies, but my train of thought floats away. Maybe I am drunk. “That there are...”
“A shit ton of stars.”
“Yes.” I point at him and my lips lift. “That. Do you want to know something else?”
“Sure.”
What makes my smile grow is how his blue eyes that are always frozen slightly thaw with this brilliant light that somehow represents laughter. Not the mocking type of those girls inside the bar, but the type that lends itself to warm fuzzies.
“The closest star to our sun is Alpha Centauri, but it’s not the brightest star.”
“It’s not?” Razor appears honest-to-God interested and I must be misreading him. No one is fascinated by my worthless knowledge. Not even Addison.
“Nope, that’s Sirius.”
“Gonna be an astronomer?”
“I don’t know what I want to be yet, but whatever I do, it won’t be in Snowflake.”