We are so excited to bring you the Chapter One Reveal for WALK THE EDGE by Katie McGarry! WALK THE EDGE is a Young Adult Contemporary Romance being published by HarlequinTeen and is a part of Katie McGarry’sThunder Road Series. It is being released on March 29th, 2016. Be sure to pre-order your copy and unlock special content today!
One moment of recklessness will change their worlds Smart. Responsible. That's seventeen-year-old Breanna's role in her large family, and heaven forbid she put a toe out of line. Until one night of shockingly un-Breanna-like behavior puts her into a vicious cyberbully's line of fire—and brings fellow senior Thomas "Razor" Turner into her life. Razor lives for the Reign of Terror motorcycle club, and good girls like Breanna just don't belong. But when he learns she's being blackmailed over a compromising picture of the two of them—a picture that turns one unexpected and beautiful moment into ugliness—he knows it's time to step outside the rules.
And so they make a pact: he'll help her track down her blackmailer, and in return she'll help him seek answers to the mystery that's haunted him—one that not even his club brothers have been willing to discuss. But the more time they spend together, the more their feelings grow. And suddenly they're both walking the edge of discovering who they really are, what they want, and where they're going from here.
CHAPTER 1
THERE ARE LIES in life we accept. Whether it’s for the sake
of ignorance, bliss or, in my case, survival, we all make our choices.
I choose to belong to the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club. I
choose to work for the security company associated with them. I also choose to
do this while still in high school.
All of this boils down to one choice in particular—whether
or not to believe my father’s version of a lie or the town’s. I chose my
father’s lie. I chose the brotherhood of the club.
What I haven’t chosen? Being harassed by the man invading
my front porch. He’s decked out in a pair of pressed khakis and a button-down
straight from a mall window. The real question—is he here by choice or did he
draw the short stick?
“As I said, son,” he continues, “I’m not here to talk to
your dad. I’m here to see you.”
A hot August wind blows in from the thick woods surrounding
our house, and sweat forms on the guy’s skin. He’s too cocky to be nervous, so
that dumps the blame of his shiny forehead on the 110-degree heat index.
“You and I,” he adds, “we need to talk.”
My eyes flash to the detective badge hanging on the guy’s
hip and then to his dark blue unmarked Chevy Caprice parked in front of my
motorcycle in the gravel drive. Twenty bucks he thinks he blocked me in. Guess
he underestimated I’ll ride on the grass to escape.
This guy doesn’t belong to our police force. His plates
suggest he’s from Jefferson County. That’s in the northern part of Kentucky. I
live in a small town where even the street hustlers and police know each other
by name. This man—he’s an outsider.
I f lip through my memory for anything that would justify
his presence. Yeah, I stumbled into some brawls over the summer. A few punches
thrown at guys who didn’t keep their mouths sealed or keep their inflated egos
on a leash, but nothing that warrants this visit.
A bead of water drips from my wet hair onto the worn gray
wood of the deck and his eyes track it. I’m fresh from a shower. Jeans on.
Black boots on my feet. No shirt. Hair on my head barely pushed around by a
towel.
The guy checks out the tats on my chest and arms. Most of it
is club designs, and it’s good for him to know who he’s dealing with. As of
last spring, I officially became a member of the Reign of Terror. If he messes
with one of us, he messes with us all.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks.
I thought the banging on the door was one of my friends
showing to ride along with me to senior orientation, not a damned suit with a
badge.
“You’re not in trouble,” he says, and I’m impressed he
doesn’t shuff le his feet like most people do when they arrive on my doorstep.
“As I said, I want to talk.”
I maintain eye contact longer than most men can manage.
Silence doesn’t bother me. There’s a ton you can learn about
a person from how they deal with the absence of sound. Most can’t handle uncomfortable
battles for dominance, but this guy stands strong.
Without saying a word, I walk into the house and permit the
screen door to slam in his face. I cross the room, grab my cut off the table,
then snatch a black Reign of Terror T-shirt off the couch. I shrug into the
shirt as I step onto the porch and shut the storm door behind me.
The guy watches me intently as I slip on the black leather
cut that contains the three-piece patch of the club I belong to. Because of the
way I’m angled, he can get a good look at our emblem on the back: a white half
skull with fire raging out of the eyes and drops of fire raining down around
it. The words Reign of Terror are mounted across the top. The town’s name,
Snowflake, is spelled on the bottom rocker.
He focuses on the patch that informs him I’m packing a
weapon. His hand edges to the gun holstered on his belt. He’s weighing whether
I’m carrying now or if I’m gun free.
I cock a hip against the railing and hitch my thumbs in the
pockets of my jeans. If he’s going to talk, it would be now. He glances at the
closed door, then back at me. “This is where we’re doing this?”
“I’ve got somewhere to be.” And I’m running late. “Didn’t
see a warrant on you.” So by law, he can’t enter.
A grim lift of his mouth tells me he understands I won’t
make any of this easy. He’s around Dad’s age, mid to late forties. He gave his
name when I opened the door, but I’ll admit to not listening.
He scans the property and he has that expression like he’s
trying to understand why someone would live in a house so small. The place is a
vinyl box. Two bedrooms. One bath.
A living room–kitchen combo. Possibly more windows than
square footage.
Dad said this was Mom’s dream. A house just big enough for
us to live in. She never desired large, but she craved land. When I was
younger, she used to hug me tight and explain it was more important to be free
than to be rich. I sure as hell hope Mom feels free now.
An ache ripples through me, and I readjust my footing. I
pray every damn day she found some peace.
“I drove a long way to see you,” he says.
Don’t care. “Could have called.”
“I did. No one answered.”
I hike one shoulder in a “you’ve got shit luck.” Dad and I
aren’t the type to answer calls from strangers. Especially ones with numbers
labeled Police. There are some law enforcement officers who are cool, but most
of them are like everyone else— they judge a man with a cut on his back as a
psychotic felon.
I don’t have time for stupidity.
“I’m here about your mother.” The asshole knows he has me
when my eyes snap to his.
“She’s dead.” Like the other times I say the words, a part
of me dies along with her.
This guy has green eyes and they soften like he’s
apologetic. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve received some new evidence that may help
us discover what caused her death.”
Anger curls within my muscles and my jaw twitches. This
overwhelming sense of insanity is what I fight daily. For years, I’ve heard the
whispers from the gossips in town, felt the stares of the kids in class, and
I’ve sensed the pity of the men in the Reign of Terror I claim as brothers.
It’s all accumulated to a black, hissing doubt in my soul.
Suicide.
It’s what everyone in town says happened. It’s in every
hushed conversation people have the moment I turn my back. It’s not just from
the people I couldn’t give two shits about, but the people who I consider
family.
I shove away those thoughts and focus on what my father and
the club have told me—what I have chosen to believe. “My mother’s death was an
accident.”
He’s shaking his head and I’m fresh out of patience. I’m not
doing this. Not with him. Not with anyone. “I’m not interested.”
I push off the railing and dig out the keys to my
motorcycle as I bound down the steps. The detective’s behind me. He has a
slow, steady stride and it irritates me that he follows across the yard and
doesn’t stop coming as I swing my leg over my bike.
“What if I told you I don’t think it was an accident,” he
says.
Odds are it wasn’t. Odds are every whispered taunt in my
direction is true. That my father and the club drove Mom crazy, and I wasn’t
enough of a reason for her to choose life.
To drown him out, I start the engine. This guy must be as
suicidal as people say Mom was, because he eases in front of my bike, assuming
I won’t run him down.
“Thomas,” he says.
I twist the handle to rev the engine in warning. He raises
his chin like he’s finally pissed and his eyes narrow on me. “Razor.”
I let the bike idle. If he’s going to respect me by using my
road name, I’ll respect him for a few seconds. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
Damn if the man doesn’t possess balls the size of Montana.
He steps closer to me and drops a bomb. “I have reason to believe your mom was
murdered.”
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Katie McGarry was a teenager during the age of grunge and boy bands and remembers those years as the best and worst of her life. She is a lover of music, happy endings, reality television, and is a secret University of Kentucky basketball fan.
Katie is the author of full length YA novels, PUSHING THE LIMITS, DARE YOU TO, CRASH INTO YOU, TAKE ME ON, BREAKING THE RULES, and NOWHERE BUT HERE and the e-novellas, CROSSING THE LINE and RED AT NIGHT. Her debut YA novel, PUSHING THE LIMITS was a 2012 Goodreads Choice Finalist for YA Fiction, a RT Magazine's 2012 Reviewer's Choice Awards Nominee for Young Adult Contemporary Novel, a double Rita Finalist, and a 2013 YALSA Top Ten Teen Pick. DARE YOU TO was also a Goodreads Choice Finalist for YA Fiction and won RT Magazine’s Reviewer’s Choice Best Book Award for Young Adult Contemporary fiction in 2013.
