“Can I ask you something?” I probe.
Her car is old, possibly older than me and her combined. The windows of this overly large bucket of metal are rolled down because either the car was built without air-conditioning or the system is broken. Because of the age, either is feasible.
“Sure. It’ll beat the hell out of ignoring each other.”
“It’s personal.”
“You saw my mother’s bra on a wall. It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”
I choke and she smirks. It’s true. When Rebecca and I raced past the main room, I spotted bras hanging on the walls of the clubhouse. “Is your bra on the wall?”
Violet breaks out into a full grin. “No. I’ve never decided to donate one, and even if I did, I’m not sure they’d accept it. As much as I try to push them away, they still consider me a child of the Terror, which means each man in that club tries to act like my father. It would creep them out if their ‘daughter’s’ bra was on display.”
“So those bras...” I drop off.
“Are a contribution to the cause—whatever that means. There’re different stories of how and when the first bra went up, but since then when women come to party, they see the rainbow of colors and want to add theirs to the mix. It’s become a thing. A thing I don’t get, but a thing.”
Violet glances over at me and her hair blows wildly in the wind. “I would love to have been in your head for thirty seconds when you saw it. What horrible story did you invent for how the bras got there?”
Honestly, none. When I first darted by, I was too sick at the thought of getting caught, and the second time, I was still numb from Razor declaring me done with the code.
“Half the stories about the Terror aren’t true,” she says. “Some of them are, but most of the real bad ones aren’t. I still don’t think you should hang with the Terror, but that’s not my decision to make.”
“You didn’t have to bring me today.”
“True.” She hesitates. “I hurt someone recently because I was too dead set on making them think the Terror are evil. Call this my penance.”
“Do you still think they’re evil?”
“As sure as I am that Satan’s real, and in case you’re wondering, he is. I still think you should run and never look back, but you’re a big girl and can make your own choices.”
I digest that and decide to switch the subject. “That’s cool—that they look out for you.”
Her smile falters. “My dad died. I’m not interested in anyone replacing him.”
Wrong change of subject. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. I have a feeling that isn’t the question you were going to ask.”
No, none of this is the conversation I planned on having. I rub my forehead and push forward. “How bad was it when that picture of you was posted on Bragger?”
Violet eases her foot off the gas and the car slows from her breakneck speed. I find the courage to look over at her and she mirrors the agony I felt when Kyle sat across from me in the library. “How bad is the picture they have of you?” she asks.
My throat tightens as the urge to share and the self-preservation to keep this secret quiet wages war within me. Violet focuses on the road again and her knuckles go white on the wheel. “Those assholes never know when to stop, do they? I mean, me? I walked into that mess, but you, what the fuck have you ever done wrong?”
“I went to Shamrock’s. I drank and I ended up outside with Razor and someone took a picture. Razor was leaning into me, but we didn’t kiss. We didn’t do anything. We were talking, but the picture looks a million times worse and they were going to...” My chest constricts and my eyes burn.
“Label you a whore,” she finishes for me. “They were going to post it and label you a whore.”
Violet slams her hand against the steering wheel and pain slashes through me. She’s lived through this torment. Even worse than me because people have gossiped about her for as long as I can remember, since she’s a child of the Terror.
“I’m not going to lie. I knew you were being blackmailed. Not because Razor told me, but because Razor asked about the picture taken of me.”
My eyes widen and she waves me off. “I put the pieces together. He didn’t tell me, and because he’s so damn set on playing rogue, I bet he hasn’t said anything to anyone else. And, by the way, it’s in direct violation of club rules for him to keep a secret like this, but that’s neither here nor there. Tell me what they’re blackmailing you for.”
“I’m being blackmailed to write papers.”
“Kyle Hewitt is a fucking moronic asshole,” she spits out with enough venom that a chill courses through my blood.
“Was he the one that posted the picture of you?”
“No. Someone else. I was being blackmailed, too, but I didn’t give in and look what happened to me. What sucks is, I have given in to keep more pictures from going up, but the damage was already done.”