The Liberator (A Dante Walker Novel) (Entangled Teen) by Victoria Scott

pretty boy?”
    I cringe, because “pretty boy” is what Max calls me. Max . Not him. I’m going to try and give Gage the benefit of the doubt, but we need to get off on the right foot. “Name’s Dante, asshole. Next time you call me something other than that, I’ll put you in the ground. Got it?” I slap him on the arm like we’re pals and brush past him.
    Behind me, I hear Gage laughing, but I’m not sure it’s authentic. If it is, we could end up being friends. Crazier things have happened.
    Aspen has already lodged herself in the backseat of the BMW 7 series—or the Regulator, as I’ve named it—and has pulled her knees to her chest. She bobs her head to the angry music Lyra’s flipped on, and I feel the beat rush into my veins.
    “Don’t you have a car?” I ask Aspen as I slide in after her.
    She nods her head toward the garage. “Old Man took the keys.”
    As we pull away from Aspen’s fortress-of-a-house, my eyes cling to the garage, because if this is the casa Aspen calls home, I’d kill to know what her sleigh looks like. I look back at her to ask what she’s packing in there, but she’s already lost to the music, her eyes glassed over.
    Gage turns around from the driver’s seat and grins at me. “Buckle up, Dante .”
    Lyra cranks the volume, and Gage steps on the accelerator.
    He drives fast.
    And it feels good.
    …
    A half hour later, we pull into an overgrown neighborhood that probably keeps Kool-Aid and ramen noodles in business. Gage turns behind a small blue house and into an alleyway. After throwing the car into park, he looks at me in the rearview. Holding a finger to his lips, he winks.
    I contemplate popping him in the eye but decide to let his douche lord move slide.
    He climbs out of the car, and the rest of us follow along. When we get to a garage immediately outside the alleyway, he turns and faces us. “You guys ready to get stupid?”
    Aspen wraps her arms around herself. “Just show us what’s inside,” she deadpans.
    Gage glances around and rolls the door open with a rattle. Inside are three motorcycles that look way too tight to be in this part of the city. I don’t know much about rides with only two wheels, but already my blood is pumping, because I appreciate anything with an engine.
    Lyra walks inside, her long brunette ponytail swishing back and forth. She’s dressed in all white—white blouse, white leggings, white heels—which makes me think she didn’t know about Gage’s idea. But it doesn’t stop her from turning around and saying with a smile, “Bad.”
    Gage walks past us and throws his leg over a yellow Suzuki that reads Hayabusa . Without missing a beat, Lyra gets on behind him and grabs onto his thighs. “Geezer won’t even know they’re missing,” Gage says. He pops his chin toward the other bikes, his gaze steady on me. “Two more bikes, two more players.”
    My head pounds with excitement, because this is the old me. I’m the guy who’d borrow some anonymous person’s pride and joy without thinking twice. But I can’t be that person anymore. Because I’m with Charlie, and she believes I can be one of the good guys. Gripping the horn in my pocket, my mind flashes to where she is—
    —and a bolt of anger fires through me. Because Charlie isn’t at home. And she’s not at school. But she is somewhere near her house, which means she’s probably spending her lunch break at Salem’s house.
    My body floods with concern, but then I remember how she stuck up for him and his brother. I also remember that Max and Valery are both around, protecting her from doing anything unsafe.
    So she’s just there…hanging out.
    My mind snaps to attention when I hear the snarl of an engine kicking on. “If you’re coming, you better hurry the hell up,” Lyra sings.
    Aspen straddles a storm cloud–colored bike with an exhaust pipe as wide as my biceps. She starts the engine like she’s done this a million times, though the rigidness in her frame