Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)(24)
But Rebel.
It’s inexplicable. It’s the worst decision I’ve ever made, and yet all the same, headless corpses or no, here I am, still sticking to it. What does that say about my mental state? It’s dark by the time Rebel returns. He never told me what time to expect him back, so I haven’t been worried, though when I catch sight of him that changes. He looks way, way worse than before if that’s possible. He looks like he’s literally nearly dead on his feet. Cade helps him through the cabin door and dumps him on the end of the bed, and I can do nothing but stare at him with my mouth hanging open.
“What…what the hell happened?” Rebel lies back on the bed, exposing the lower half of his stomach, which is red with fresh blood. It’s then that I notice the two small holes in his black t-shirt. “And what the hell happened to your clothes?”
“He got hit with a Taser,” Cade says dryly. “And then arrested by the DEA. I don’t know, man. I leave you alone for five f*cking minutes and look at the state of you.”
Rebel groans. “I appreciate your concern.”
“What?” My ears must be playing tricks on me. Rebel is so damned nonchalant, like being arrested and Tased is an every day occurrence. As soon as the thought hits me, I realize that perhaps it really isn’t so uncommon for him, though. “You feel like explaining what happened?” I say.
“Love to. I kind of need a second, though,” Rebel replies, pressing his knuckles into his sternum—he’s in a lot of pain, though I know him well enough to know that he’ll never say so.
“You should get into bed, man,” Cade tells him.
“Not yet. We need to go to the clubhouse. The others will be raging if we don’t explain all the cloak and dagger bullshit before the end of the day. They deserve to know.”
Cade shakes his head, throwing his hands in the air. “Why the f*ck did I just drag your ass up the damn hill, then?”
Rebel slowly turns his head to look at me. “Because we had to come get Sophia. It’s time the rest of the club met her properly. I’m sure they’re all asking questions.”
Cade laughs. “That’s one way of putting it. They were about ready to lay siege to this place this morning in order to find out who the hell she was.”
Rebel’s face takes on serious expression. “I hope you informed them how unwise that would be?”
“I did. And they didn’t like it.”
“They don’t have to like it. They just have to do as they’re told.”
I haven’t seen this version of Rebel before. He’s angry, that much is obvious, but he seems focused, too. Determined. He’s been intimidating since the first moment I met him, but right now he’s downright scary. He looks at me again, taking a deep breath. “This is what you wanted, right? Free rein of the place. Freedom to see and talk to whomever you like? Well, this is it. Do you want to come with us to the clubhouse?”
I bite my lip, images of Costco and the fiction section of a Seattle public library flashing before my eyes. I slowly shake my head, feeling slightly hysterical. It’s the challenge in his eyes. The look he gives me that tells me I need to be strong in order to immerse myself in this life.
I fold my arms across my chest, tilting my chin up in acceptance of his challenge. “Sure. Okay. I’ll come.”
Rebel’s eyes flash cold steel. “Fuckin’ A.”
******
My memories of the clubhouse the other night are pretty hazy. I was too concerned with getting Cade to follow me back to Rebel in order to assess my surroundings, but now things are different. Now I have plenty of opportunity.
The place is cavernous—an old remodelled barn with high rafters and recast concrete floor. Long wooden tables and benches line the room, and smaller tables dot the edge of the space. A bar runs the length of the back wall, stocked with a multitude of different bottles of scotch as well as everything else you might expect to see in any normal bar.
There is a sea of people gathered inside, seated at the benches and hovering by the bar. Most are men, huge guys with arms full of tattoos, larger than life, scary as all hell. There are a few women and kids, too, all of whom look generally terrified and out of place. Everyone stops talking when they catch sight of Rebel. And me.
A woman at the back of the hall gets to her feet straight away. I recognize her—she was the woman who gave me the dirty look as I raced out of here behind Cade. She’s different to the other women packed into the clubhouse. She’s inked up, her nose pierced, pink hair pinned back in a messy topknot. She’s wearing a torn Sepultura t-shirt and a snarl on her face that already spells trouble. Beside me, Rebel hangs his head, apparently sensing the same thing.
“What the f*ck is going on, man?” she snaps. “We’ve been sitting here with our thumbs up our asses all day. Keeler’s missing, and Cade hasn’t told us shit. And who the f*ck is she?” The woman stabs her finger at me like I’m an invading alien and she’s ready to go Independence Day on my ass.
“Sit down, Shay. And shut your damn mouth. This isn’t how we’re doing things,” Rebel says. His voice is monotone, controlled, but even I can tell he’s irritated by her outburst.
The woman—Shay—shakes her head. “That’s bullshit, Rebel, and you know it. You can’t keep us in the dark, and you can’t bring random women—”