I hold his gaze for as long as he can handle. “Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious.”

Chevy mimics tipping a hat that isn’t on his head. “My pleasure.”

The right side of my mouth edges up. Damn him for being so charming.

“Stone,” Chevy says. “Have you made big plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Violet turns eighteen.”

Chevy and I had so many plans for eighteen. Spent too many nights in each other’s arms planning out how we were going to celebrate this year. Dinner out of Snowflake. Prom. Laughter with friends. Midnight and dancing on a blanket in our field.

“Mom’s mad at Violet and she said we might not do anything because of Violet’s attitude,” Brandon blurts, and he scratches his chin twice. “Violet cut class and the school called Mom to tell her. Mom’s really angry. She yelled. A lot. And Violet wouldn’t yell back. Violet always yells back, but not this time.”

Chevy’s adorable smile falls into a frown and it’s really a shame. Brandon looks over at me for confirmation that I’m not mad at him for spilling about my fight with Mom, because I’ve reminded him several times that personal conversations should stay personal, and I step toward him, then briefly squeeze my fingers around his wrist.

My brother isn’t trying to tattle, he’s nervous being out in the dark and upset over the fight Mom and I had before we left for the game. He has a problem with letting negative emotions go. They circle his brain like vultures do with roadkill.

Headlights shine in the distance, and my shoulders relax. Last thing I want to do is get into a discussion with Chevy as to why I didn’t tell Mom that I handed Chevy my note. This has been an awful day, and I’m ready to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed for days, maybe weeks.

I step out onto the road, and using the flashlight app, wave to signal Mom. This isn’t the first time Dad’s car has broken down, and unfortunately, it won’t be the last. Mom has passed us before. Though I’m not convinced those times were a mistake as much as Mom attempting to teach me another lesson of how unsafe I am in the world.

Footsteps against the rocks and Chevy eases beside me. The car weaves in and out of the center lane, and my arm hesitates in the air as unease tiptoes through me.

Chevy places his hand on my biceps and forces it down. “That’s not your mom’s car.”

It’s not. Mom would never drive like that and those aren’t the headlights of a minivan. Those belong to something with some muscle. A scary sixth sense creeps along my skin.

Growling engines, then three single beams appear. Motorcycles. Those motorcycles aren’t chasing the car, they’re following. My stomach lurches as I stumble back. Chevy steps forward and he draws his knife out of the sheath.

I swallow as my hands begin to shake. The Terror never come from this direction unless they’re driving to see me and none of them have a muscle car they would be following. “Brandon, get back in the car.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

My internal warning system blares like a foghorn, and instead of slowing down, the car picks up speed. I grab Brandon’s arm and I shove him toward the passenger side. “Get in the car, lie down on the floorboard in the backseat and don’t pop your head up until I say.”

Brandon moves with me and slides in when I open his door, then close it behind him.

“Get in there with him, Violet,” Chevy demands. “In the backseat, on the floorboard.”

“They’ve already seen me,” I hiss. “Odds are they didn’t see Brandon. We have to protect him.”

Chevy glances over his shoulder at me, his expression that of the grim reaper ready to take someone’s soul. “Then in the front seat. Doors locked and call the club.”

“Chevy,” I begin, about to ask him to join me, but he cuts me off.

“They’re looking for someone and I’ll be it. I’m the first wave of keeping them off Stone. You’re second. Call the club. Get me backup.”

Absolute fear seizes my body. I can’t leave Chevy to stand on his own. For the same reason I gave him my late note today. I care too much for him.

“Get in, Violet,” he demands.

But as the headlights draw closer, I remain cemented to the ground.

“You and I can’t take them alone. I need help. Get me help.”

That, I understand. My pulse races as I dash for the driver’s side. The engine of a Camaro roars as it pulls in front of us. Half of the car sticks out into the road, the other half blocks us in as if my car could actually move. The grille of the Camaro so close that the heat from the engine slams onto my legs.

I open my door as two doors on the Camaro open and two looming figures emerge. Nervous adrenaline crashes into my veins and I curse as I frantically roll up my window. The hand crank type, made in the ’70s, and it doesn’t go fast enough. By pure will alone, the window rises with a whine, and when mine is finished, I glance over to Brandon to reassure him we’re safe in the car, when terror seizes my lungs. The passenger-side door is unlocked.

The car shakes as the open hood crashes down. A towering man with weathered skin slams his hands onto my car and stares straight at me. He has on a leather vest, and I briefly close my eyes at the patches. Nausea roars through my gut and I fumble for my phone. This is the Riot Motorcycle Club, and we’re in serious trouble.

“Get out of the car,” the man shouts.