Page 12 of Razor

Either way, I’m ready to find out if Razor’s going to rock my world or wreck it.

Sucking in a deep breath through my nose, I make my way out through the front of the club.

We don’t close for another two hours, but considering it’s in the middle of the week, I don’t anticipate making enough to stay until the end of the night.

With each step I take, my emotions begin to flood through me.

There’s a mixture of excitement and fear colliding with each other like two soldiers at war.

I moved out here to be with my father and stepmother, Shiloh, but on Halloween, everything changed.

I was caught in the line of fire, an innocent bystander left fighting for her life.

I didn’t do anything to the 17, but it didn’t matter.

All they wanted to do was send a message to the Satan’s Raiders MC, and because my father is the regent for the Reapers Rejects MC, it meant I was hanging around.

If my father was at another one of their allies’ clubs, I wouldn’t have ever gotten shot.

I’ve tried not to be angry with the club or my father, but it’s hard.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve kept my distance.

Sure, I live in the clubhouse—but I refuse to mingle in areas where the public has access.

I was shot in their bar, The Clubhouse.

Fury and Agony, their prospects, tried to tell me that it wouldn’t happen again and I should hang out with everyone like I used to . . . but how do they know history won’t repeat itself?

So, I stay in the actual part of the club, where the public isn’t permitted.

I try not to spend too much time there in general, usually only sleeping in my room or there to see my family. Otherwise, I use any excuse to get out of the club.

Since I was shot, it’s been a constant struggle to forget the pain.

Not just physically but emotionally too.

Looking back on the moments after I was shot, I somehow kept myself together, but I didn’t after I woke up from surgery.

I scan the club and find Razor’s still seated in the same leather chair he was in earlier.

I force every negative thought to the back of my mind and throw on my confidence like a second skin.

With an extra pep in my step, I head straight over to him.

He hasn’t caught me in his gaze yet, so I take this opportunity to soak in every ounce of barbaric man that he is.

His back is broad and sturdy, covered in a black shirt and his cut that clings to his bulky muscles.

Even from behind, his dominance is intoxicating, and I want to drown in it.

His shoulders and the nautical tattoos winding down his right arm only pull me in more.

His skin holds a sun-kissed tan, a stark contrast to the smooth sheen of his bald head.

I watch him carefully as I approach, my heart thumping louder with each step.

He’s everything I’ve fantasized about: rough and rugged masculinity.

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