Razor snorts. “Ms. Whitlock?”
“The woman begs to be wooed.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I hear that a lot. Enough about me. Let’s talk more about you.”
He twirls the rose. “I thought about giving it to Jill.” His father’s fiancé. “I thought about giving it to Rebecca, too.” Oz’s mom, Man O’ War’s wife. While Oz is her only biological child, she cares for all the teens as if they were her own.
“Either of them would have loved the gesture,” I say. Either would have cried their eyes out that he had chosen them.
“Yeah.” His eyes glisten, and that kills me from the inside out.
I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. If I could take his grief, I would. If I could take whatever weighs down this kid at any time, I would. I’d lay my life down for his in a heartbeat.
“I think—” He pauses as his voice becomes too thick to talk. “I think I’m going to buy other flowers for them. This one needs to go to Mom.”
“Want me to go with you?” To the cemetery where she’s buried under a flowering apple tree. I’ve gone with him before. He doesn’t know it. Followed him at times when his demons were close to destroying what was left of him. Those times I gave him space, but I was nervous about leaving him alone.
He clears his throat and looks me in the eye, and for the first time in years, I spot peace along with pain. “I’m going to take Breanna with me. It’s a nice evening for a ride, and she hasn’t been on the back of my bike in a while. It’s time she meets my mom.”
Next time I see that girl, I’m going to give her a Violet-worthy hug. In months, Breanna found ways to help heal Razor in ways none of us could accomplish in years. “Are you going to bring her by the party later?”
“Yeah.”
Good news. It’s all good news. “They want you for pictures.”
The smooth, cool kid returns. “I’ll pass.”
“You either come in now or I send Rebecca out. I’m going to warn you, she will kick your ass.”
Razor chuckles, but he doesn’t disagree. Rebecca is one scary and fantastic woman. Razor’s cell pings, and he pulls it out of his jeans pocket. His smile fades, and I don’t like that.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He mashes his lips together. “No.”
I hitch my thumbs in my pockets, because now I’m not going anywhere. “Spill.”
“I’m not sure you can help with this one.”
“Brother, I can launch rockets in space from my cell. Besides finding time to ask your English teacher out, I can do anything.” I don’t mention how his keeping problems to himself almost caused nuclear fallout for him and Breanna a few months back. I’m not a told-you-so type of guy, but I’m betting the glare I’m giving this kid is saying it all in plain, short sentences.
Razor turns his cell in my direction, and on it is a picture of bruises on someone’s arm—a feminine arm. The texts are from Breanna, and that causes a dark rumble in my chest. “Is someone messing with your girl?” Because that’s trouble I’ll happily take on, any day, any time.
“No, but her friend Addison is having problems with her father, and Breanna’s scared because it’s getting worse. If you have ideas of how to help someone who doesn’t want help, I’m all ears.”
Good thing for Razor, Breanna and Addison, I’m all too well-versed in helping people who don’t want to be helped. It’s all I’ve done with Razor, Chevy, Violet, and Oz for years. “Give me a few, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m not looking for you to beat the hell out of him.”
I bob my head as that sounds like a great idea, but… “Have some faith, okay?”
The side door opens and the utter look of love and devotion that radiates from him when Breanna walks out would be sickening if it were coming from anyone but him. Razor, though, deserves the world. I love her for handing the world to him.
“Pictures,” I say, then turn on my heel to give the two lovebirds time.
I round the corner, pull out my cell, and shoot a text to Dust, a brother of mine in the club. He’s closer in age to Razor, Oz, Chevy, and Violet than he is to me, but his soul is old. That happens when you experience hell on earth.
Me: I’m going to need your help on something.
Dust: Anything.
Good, because what I have in mind might take time.
At this rate, I’m never going to corner Ms. Whitlock and discover my own slice of heaven. When I walk back into the auditorium, Ms. Whitlock is chatting it up with Addison, the one Razor’s concerned about, and that causes me to focus. I don’t believe in coincidence, and I’m wondering if Ms. Whitlock is zeroing in on the same problems Razor and Breanna are crushed over.
Their conversation is intense. Ms. Whitlock talking more than Addison. Their movements are rigid and clipped. As Ms. Whitlock speaks, Addison shakes her head violently, and then they both fall silent. Addison’s shoulders crumple, and Ms. Whitlock, the woman I’ve been told is colder than an iceberg, wraps her arms around Addison and offers comfort.
Addison rests her head on the teacher’s shoulder only briefly, and then she’s gone so fast that I wonder if she has superpowers. After taking a second to absorb the loss, Ms. Whitlock pulls keys out of her purse. I don’t have much time to make initial contact—for multiple reasons. In case I need some background on Addison—background from someone over the age of twenty-one—and for my own selfish motives.
A girl in a cap and gown surrounded by a mob of family members is all smiles as she holds about two dozen red roses. She won’t miss one, right?
While I’m not as smooth at sleight of hand as Chevy, I’m able to swipe one of the roses as I walk in Ms. Whitlock’s direction. She’s heading for the door, which means I have to make an arc to make it appear I’m randomly walking in the opposite direction. She’s looking straight ahead, past me, because that’s what most people do when they see someone in a black leather biker cut.
As we start to pass, I inch toward her. Our shoulders brush and her gaze snaps to mine, the first time she’s laid her solid blue eyes on me. My heart stops beating. I switch my focus forward, keep walking past then pause, reaching out to lightly touch her wrist.
She jolts with the touch, and I have to admit I shake, too. She whips her head back to look at me. I regretfully drop my hand from her wrist and offer her the rose. “You dropped this.”
Ms. Whitlock blinks, confused. “No, I didn’t.”
I keep my hand outstretched, and my eyes glued on hers. “You must have. Someone as pretty as you deserves a rose.”
Her eyes smile first, then a sarcastic smirk slips across her lips. “That’s a terrible line.”
I crack a crazy grin. “Yeah, but it was worth it.”
“Why?”
I shrug one shoulder because I’m out of corny come-ons. “So I could talk to you.” I shift to extend the rose further to her. She’s hesitant, but she accepts.
Because even I’m aware that if I stick around I’ll find a way to screw this moment up, I wink at her and walk away.
It’s hard not to look back at her for the first few feet forward. Doing so will kill any credibility and mystery I hope to create. Yet I lose all self-control by the time I hit the folding chairs. I glance back, and I’m rewarded with the sight of her lifting the rose to her nose to inhale.