She might need it. “I came here tonight to watch over you. You and I, we made a deal. We shook on it, and as I’ve said, once you make a deal with the Terror, you don’t break it. But I’m going to give you a chance to back out with no repercussions.” Because I like her and she shouldn’t feel forced to hang out with me, no matter how much I need her help.

“You came here because of me?”

I already told her that and I don’t repeat myself. I cross my arms over my chest and wait for my statement to sink in.

“You’re taking this bodyguard thing seriously, aren’t you?”

I keep to myself that she should be glad I upheld my end of our agreement. “I’ve protected you twice. Now I need something from you, but if you don’t want to help me, I’ll let you out of our deal with no hard feelings.”

Breanna yawns and her eyes grow heavy. She’s the type who gets tired when she drinks instead of annoying or weepy. It’s one more thing I like about her. “What do you need?”

“Your brain.”

Breanna

MY BRAIN. HE NEEDS my brain. Of course he does. Why else would he be talking to me? No guy would choose to be alone to kiss me. I practically threw myself at Razor, confessing I was hoping to be kissed, and he gives me a rain check, which I’m realizing is the equivalent of a gentle letdown. What was I expecting? Him to admit he lured me to the bed of his truck to ravish my body?

Yeah, I know. I’m supposed to be this twenty-first-century woman and obsessed with a man desiring me for my massive intellect. I am woman, hear me roar, and all that stuff, but for once, it would have been really freaking awesome to be the girl in the pretty dress left alone with the gorgeous bad boy who wants to kiss me.

I evidently expected too much out of the universe. “I’m not writing your papers.”

Razor goes rock solid and I make myself smaller when those blue eyes ice over again. “Did I ask you to?”

“No,” I croak.

“Do you believe what everyone says? You think I can’t write my own papers?”

I know what he’s referring to. People say he’s stupid because he failed fifth grade, but until he brought it up, that fact had stayed stored away in the dark recesses of my mind. “No.”

“Did I ask you to cheat?”

“No.” Once again, I made a horrible presumption. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think. Remember that, now let it go.” Razor pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket and flips through icons. A split second later he’s showing me a picture.

I’ll admit, my vision isn’t the best. In fact, everything has a blurry haze on the edges. My eyes are drying out and my contacts are irritating the crap out of me. My goal in life is to find a pillow and my glasses. Give me that combo and I’ll die a happy girl.

A blanket would be like sprinkles on ice cream.

I squint at the lit-up cell and the thoughts in my head disappear. I reach out, grab Razor’s phone and use my thumb and forefinger to enlarge the picture. “What’s this?”

“Some sort of a coded message. Can you decipher it?”

“I’m not a puzzle ATM where you insert the code and I spit out the answer.”

“Do you speak to all bikers this way?”

I choke on a laugh or a hysterical sob. I’m too tired and light-headed to analyze which one. “I was raised to never speak to any of you.”

“Guess that makes you a rebel.”

“Guess so.” But I’m too lost in the numbers and letters to enjoy this easy banter between us. “It’s worked like a crossword puzzle.”

“Yeah.”

“That’ll help. It means some of these words share the same letters.”

“There’s another one.” Razor switches the image. My eyes scan the code, attempting to force a pattern, but my mind is already stuck on the crossword.

“Does it matter which one I try to crack first? Because once I get going on something I have a hard time moving on until I figure out the current problem in front of me.”

“You can pick one or do both. Order is up to you. Does this mean you’ll help?”

There’s a soft question in his tone that causes me to look up. In the brief time I’ve known Razor he’s been as sharp and tough as his nickname, but that one plea made him sound vulnerable.

“What’s this about?” I ask.

Razor shoves his hands into his front pockets and rolls his neck. He’s uncomfortable and I like how we had so quickly moved past unease.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I say. “If you can keep my secret, I can keep yours.”

His expression darkens. “I think it’s related to my mom’s death.”

I sway as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. Everyone gossips about how Razor’s mom drove off a bridge. For some people, it’s the go-to story when other conversation fails. Hey, do you remember when that kid’s mom drove herself off the bridge because she was so miserable...

“I know what everyone thinks,” he says. “But when it comes to my mom, my family and the Reign of Terror, this town doesn’t know shit. Can you look me in the eye and say every rumor involving you is absolutely true?”

“No,” I answer slowly. “I’m not sure anyone in this town really knows me.”

“Then are you going to help?”

I incline my head as I assess Razor. All of him. Not just his body and beauty or the threatening cut and the patches sewn onto the leather, but his collapsed posture and the desperation in his eyes. “What do you think happened to your mom?”