Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)(6)
“The cops are tearing the compound apart, looking for evidence to link the club to that shooting in Los Angeles.”
I’m horrified when it takes me a beat to remember what he’s talking about—the shooting at Trader Joes, where all those civilians were killed by men wearing Widow Makers cuts.
“Yeah, one of Rebel’s uncle’s friends called and gave him a heads up. Told Rebel the police caught the guys who did it in Irvine, still wearing the fake cuts, drunk as all hell. The fat one who was supposed to be the club president confessed that they’d been hired for the job. Gave up Maria Rosa in a heart beat, in exchange for a lesser sentence.”
“Is she still going to cause problems then? This Maria Rosa?”
Carnie gets a far away look in his eye that looks almost romantic. “From what I’ve been told, the Bitch of Columbia causes problems wherever she is in the world. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
He drove me back to the compound at nightfall and took me straight back to the cabin, ignoring my colorful language and my threats to take him out at the knees.
That was last Wednesday. Now it’s Wednesday again. Tomorrow morning I should be getting up at seven and going for a run before heading to my Human Sciences class. Instead, Carnie, with his busted up glasses and his hipster side-parting will bring me my breakfast and refuse to tell me anything, and I’ll swear at him or completely blank him depending on my mood. The cycle repeats itself endlessly, over and over.
Tonight, however, Carnie’s already dropped off my evening meal. I called him a soulless bastard and threw the plate of meatloaf at his head, but the thing missed him entirely and impacted with the wall. I need to do some serious work on my aim. The meatloaf has sat on the floor since then, getting colder and staler by the second, in amongst the shattered shards of the chinaware.
If Sloane were here she would have figured out how to free herself from this f*cked up situation. I can guarantee it. She’s resourceful, independent and stubborn, and she wouldn’t give up until she found a way to get what she wanted. That makes me even madder as I sit and watch The Hangover for the eighteenth time. The TV in Rebel’s cabin has no reception, just a handful of DVDs, all of which are the same kind of stupid, mindless humor I would never normally watch. Now, I’ve seen every single last one of them. I’m beginning to know them line for line.
Alan is just confessing that he drugged the other guys in the movie when the door to the cabin flies open and Rebel stalks in, larger than life. It’s the last thing I’m expecting, given that I’ve been asking to see him for the past week and a half and he hasn’t graced me with his presence. A part of me got to thinking that maybe he was hurt or something. Injured, to the point where he was laid up and incapable of walking. Standing in the doorway now, I can see that he’s walking just fine. He glances down at his feet and scowls at the debris from my evening meal on the floorboards.
“What the f*ck?” He looks at me like I’m a naughty child, caught misbehaving, and I automatically shrink back into the sofa. I catch myself, almost screaming out loud at how ridiculous my reaction is. I shouldn’t be shrinking from him. I’m a f*cking prisoner. I’m allowed to revolt if I damn well want to. “Got a problem?” I snap, sitting up straighter.
“Yeah. There’s f*cking food all over my damn floor. I hand-sanded these floorboards,” he growls.
“Then you should have thrown me in the basement or something and had done with it, shouldn’t you?”
“Don’t f*cking tempt me.” Rebel steps over the mess and slams the door behind him, locking it before he storms into the room. I try not to flinch as he comes to a stop in front of me. “Stand up, Soph.”
I take a deep breath. “No.” My skin feels tingly, the same way it used to when I would defy my father. Not that I’m comparing the man standing in front of me with the mild mannered preacher left worrying about me back in Seattle, but this situation feels…it feels very much like I’m about to get punished.
Tilting his head to one side, Rebel drops into a crouch so that our eyes are at the same level. His are ice-blue, cold. Intense. So fierce I can hardly meet them. I’m proud of the fact that I don’t look away, though. “What seems to be the problem?” He asks this slowly, as though he’s wrestling with his temper.
Had a bad night, buddy? Well guess what? So have I. Leaning forward so my face is closer to his, I breathe deep and even down my nose, trying to tame my own anger. “You’re f*cking kidding me, right?”
He blinks. He’s frozen solid, staring straight at me. He’s holding himself back, but from what I’m not entirely sure. Not for a second do I think he’s going to hurt me, but there’s something about the brooding, stillness of him that’s intimidating. “Have you been bored or something?”
“You could say that.”
“You know what’s not boring?” Calm. He’s too f*cking calm. It’s beginning to put me on edge. He continues speaking softly, but there’s a dangerous lilt to his voice. “Being chased down, raped and murdered. That’s not boring, right?”
“This place is a fortress, Jamie. I would have been fine out there with everyone else. How many people do you have living at the compound for crying out loud? There must be twenty motorcycles here at any one time!”
He cocks his head again, frowning. He’s probably wondering how I know that; you can see nothing but trees and then a distant ridgeline from the cabin windows. With so little to do all day, I’ve gotten really good at listening, though. I knew nothing about engines before I came here. I don’t really know anything about them now, either, apart from the fact that each one sounds different. I’ve spent hours laying on Rebel’s bed with my eyes closed, listening hard. Figuring out which motorcycle was which. Who was coming and going. Not knowing who was riding what, of course, but still.