Bad Boy Rebel (Salma Rebels Book 1)

by Skye Darrel

  Oscar offers a hand, but Branigan pushes him off because he doesn’t want to look weak. I know how my boss thinks, even now. He’s never reminded me more of a child.

  “You two better go,” I whisper to Oscar.

  He gives me a sidelong look. Oscar is a good guy, always nice to everyone, from other brokers to the agents and lowest interns—as long as we’re out of Branigan’s earshot. When it comes to Branigan, Oscar is an ass kisser, but I can’t blame him. He’s got three kids in college and can’t afford to ruffle any feathers.

  “Made a new friend?” he mutters, keeping a wary eye on Asher, who watches us with a blank face that unnerves me far more than Branigan’s last-ditch bravado.

  “Yeah.”

  “Just so you know, Branigan ordered me to come. I thought he’d calm down once he found you.”

  “Didn’t work,” I say.

  Oscar rubs his shoulder. “Well, good luck.”

  “You too.”

  “Tell Mr. Asher he’s lucky I’m not suing him.”

  “It’s just Asher,” I say.

  Oscar helps my boss limp out of the bar, with Branigan giving me a look that says this is far from over.

  Safe to say, that bridge has been burned.

  Juno’s on the phone with Chief Dunkel. She hangs up after reporting what happened and walks over. “Guy with the bowtie came in here demanding to see you. Turned belligerent when I wouldn’t say where you were.”

  “My boss, Liam Branigan the Third.”

  Juno shakes her head. “Is there a Second and First?”

  “Not sure.”

  We share an uneasy laugh before I look at Asher.

  You know nothing of violence. Those words and the way he said them make me shiver. Asher was right too. Branigan looks buff because he’s a fitness nut, but the closest my boss has been to violence is probably a golf course.

  “Want a drink?” Juno asks me.

  “That’s why we came here. To celebrate finishing the lawn.”

  Juno smiles. “Then celebrate.”

  Asher and I take stools at the bar while Juno pours us each a shot of whiskey, leaving the bottle. She fills a bowl with pretzels. “You kids enjoy yourselves,” she says, going to the register.

  I look at Asher and wonder what he’s capable of. I remember all those rumors I heard during my first night at Goldilocks. How Asher had been kicked out of the Army for shooting the wrong people or something. Hotheaded. The town bad boy.

  Only rumors. Or are they?

  He drinks his shot and pours another. “You work with those people?”

  “Not for much longer. I’ll quit.”

  “I would’ve quit on day one.”

  “Easy for you to say. You have a house, you don’t have problems paying the bills. What exactly is your job anyway?” It’s a strange question to ask at a time like this, but I need to know more about the man who’s shared almost every intimacy with me.

  His hand tightens around the shot glass. “I have assets. I inherited my family’s estates. You’re right, I don’t worry about bills. You’re right.”

  We sit in silence.

  “Thank you for not hurting Oscar,” I say eventually. “He’s not a bad guy.”

  “Just following orders right? I know the type.”

  Asher’s tone prickles me the wrong way. “What’re you mad about? They’re gone.”

  “Branigan won’t let this rest, Natalie. He’ll be back for you.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t have beaten him up!”

  “He wanted to hurt you.”

  “He wanted to talk with me.”

  “He tried to put his hand on you,” Asher growls.

  “He’s done worse!”

  I drop my eyes, my face burning, and when I look up, Asher’s face has softened. He puts his hand over mine on the bar top.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  “It won’t help anything.” And I’m worried he’ll do something crazy, like chase Branigan down and beat him to death. I can see Asher Wade doing just that.

  “Tell me, Natalie.”

  I catch Juno watching us before she looks back at the register. Guess she’s curious too. Might as well spill the beans.

  “Last November, Branigan called me into his office for a meeting and locked the door. He told me to sit, then took his belt off. He tried to grope me, told me how nice he’d been, and it’s time I returned the favor. He took his junk out. I pushed him off.”

  Asher clenches his jaw.

  “I’ll be rid of him once I sell Gatsby’s house,” I say quickly. “I can start a new life. You know, be an artist.”

  I reach into my bag for my notebook, wanting to show Asher the drawing of him I’ve been working on, but he stands up. “I hope you find your dreams,” he says stiffly.

  He heads for the exit.

  “Where are you going?”

  He throws me a look. “Home. It’s late.”

  “It’s not even seven.”

  “I’ve had enough—” he starts. But doesn’t finish.

  Enough of what? Hearing me talk? Me?

  “You don’t need to drive me back, Natalie. I’ll walk.”

  His house is like fifteen miles outside town. “I’ll give you a ride,” I say, hopping off my stool.

  “No.” His voice is stone. “I’ll run. Need the exercise.”

  I’m surprised at the hurt in my chest. I wasn’t expecting him to give me a shoulder rub or anything, but after last night in his guest room, I was hoping for . . .

  I don’t know what.

  Not this.

  “It’s been a long day,” he says. “You should get some rest.”

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  I stand in stunned silence watching the door, until a hand touches my shoulder. It’s Juno. “How about something to eat?”

  13

  Birds and Flowers

  Asher

  I run from the right things and run toward the wrong things, that’s what Juno Newlin told me once. She had a point.

  When that piece of shit Branigan tried to grab Natalie, I lost it.

  I humiliated him, and a guy like Branigan won’t forget.

  Out of anger, I made Natalie’s life harder. I wanted to protect her, but I’ve always been a shitty protector. Just ask my sister.

  Natalie is not a quick lay or fuck buddy.

  I know too much about her, my feelings too strong.

  I care whether she sells Gatsby’s house, though I know she wasn’t put on earth to sell houses. A normal job, working in an office, talking with clients—that’s not her style. Her spirit would suffocate. She’s a rebel in her own way, and I get that. I respect that.

  I care whether she finds her dreams. I want her to be happy.

  Happy and alive.

  I can’t face her right now. Being near her feels like putting her life in danger. I need to handle my problems.

  That means Resnik.

  By the time I get home, it’s dusk. I finish half a jug of water before I head to my garage.

  I get back on the road in my Mustang and drive toward the overlook where I have my meetings with Leon Costello. Halfway up a wooded hill, I park on the shoulder. The trees rustle as a humid wind picks up.

  It’s July, hot as hell even at night.

  I touch my ribs and wince. There was a time when I could go four days without sleep, slug it out in the field, and catch a quick nap and wake up fresh enough for a ten-klick run. But I’m twenty-eight and twenty-eight isn’t eighteen.

  “Getting too old for this shit.” Never thought I’d say that.

  I’ve got one more war left to fight and then I’m done.

  I call Leon. We usually meet on Tuesdays, but time is running out. Every day that goes by is another day for Resnik to plot. He’ll make a move soon. He’ll go for my vulnerable spot. Natalie. He knows she’s important to me and he’ll target her on general, twisted principle.

  That’s what I realized on my run from Goldilo
cks back home: staying away from Natalie won’t save her from Resnik. Not anymore. In his eyes, she’s already fair game.

  I won’t let anyone touch her.

  “Wade,” Leon’s tense voice comes through my phone. “What the hell, man? Your throwdown at the casino yesterday almost blew my cover. Resnik had Titus search everybody’s lockers, they suspect someone’s been helping you.”

  I rub my eyes. “I’m sorry. I know how much you’re risking, and when this is all over, you can trust I won’t leave you hanging. You have my word.”

  “Hanging? Poor word choice. Why’d you do it anyway?”

  “Resnik’s people hurt Natalie.”

  “Who the hell’s Natalie?”

  “The real estate agent,” I growl.

  After a pause he says, “I knew she’d be a problem. Fuck.”

  “She’s not the problem. Resnik is. Can you meet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bring everything you’ve got on the Swan.” This Swan woman is my only real lead, the one person who can tell me about Pris’s final days. I’m certain she’d been one of the dancers at Lucky’s VIP Lounge.

  “I haven’t learned anything new yet,” Leon says.

  “Bring whatever you have. I’ll take it from here. From now on, I want you to lay low.”

  “I’m in this for the win, Wade. For Priscilla.”

  “I know, but I don’t need you dead either. You’re right, you’re risking too much. Just get here and bring whatever you have. Don’t worry about the beer, I’ve brought some.”

  I end the call and look around.

  In the grass a few feet away is a shrub blossoming with white roses.

  Salma’s Tears.

  Everyone who grows up in my town knows the old story about Salma and her nameless lover, some boy who went off to war and never came back. Just a legend probably, but legends are legends for a reason.

  Dale Buckley used to say that Salma’s ghost still walks through these hills, waiting for her lover to come home, and if you stay in the woods at night, you might see her yet, a beauty in the moonlight, forever lost.

  Makes me wonder about the nameless shit who left her here to rot. Then again, him and me have a few things in common.

  I kneel, breathing in the scent of a Tear. Stronger than any rose’s, burning the insides of my nose. I almost pick a flower for Natalie but think better of it. The tradition is for the girl to put your flower in water, and if it’s still blooming after three days, then your love is true.

  I’m not superstitious, but I’m not putting that to the test either. I do believe in luck. Lately I’ve had enough bad omens to not push mine.

  I utter a prayer to Salma before I get back in my car.

  It’s half past ten. I wait at the overlook holding a full can of Heineken, already open. Leon’s Jeep finally arrives. The moon’s high tonight, and I see how tired he is when he walks over. In silence, he grabs a can before we go to the railing.

  “In memory of Priscilla Wade,” we say together and upend our cans.

  This ritual always soothes me.

  “You believe in heaven?” he asks.

  That’s an unusually philosophical question for Leon. “I haven’t seen any evidence to suggest heaven exists.”

  “Really? I thought there were no atheists in foxholes.”

  “We didn’t use foxholes in Afghanistan.”

  Leon snorts. “My mother was in Iraq. The first time. Marines, a supply unit. She used to tell me these stories.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  “Stories that made me never want to join the Marines.”

  “Jarheads have their uses,” I say roughly.

  “You better watch that mouth, Wade.”

  I smile for a moment. I’ve known Leon Costello for two years now, and he’s the closest friend I have left besides Juno.

  Yet I know almost nothing about him, other than the fact he’d been in love with my sister. After Pris had ended her engagement with Resnik, she met Leon one night at Goldilocks and they hit it off.

  I never asked him about the details, both to honor Priscilla’s privacy and because I didn’t want to gut myself. He could’ve been my brother-in-law.

  “Tell me something,” I say, staring at the dark river below us. “Did my sister ever blame me for leaving? For not being there when she needed me.”

  Leon takes a long time to answer. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “Did she?”

  “She knew you left to avenge Eugene. She understood.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Tell you what, when you get to heaven you can ask her yourself.”

  I look at him, then look back at the river. “Pris would’ve liked Natalie. They would’ve gotten along.”

  “There’s a saying, Asher. Don’t live in the past or you’ll miss what’s in front of you. If your sister were here, she’d tell you that.”

  But she’s not here.

  I take a deep breath, turning my back on the river. “What do you have on the Swan?”

  We get in his Jeep and Leon brings out a thick folder from the glovebox. I flick on my pocket flashlight. The folder is stuffed with single pages covered with Leon’s messy handwriting. Each page has a name written at the top. Women’s names.

  “Those are my interview notes,” he says.

  “You talked with all the dancers?”

  “Just about. I made the notes later. Most of it isn’t too helpful. Here’s the thing, the dancers at Lucky Cherries are a closely knit group. They look after each other. They’re not gonna go out on a limb for no reason. Girls also come and go, most don’t last more than a few months.”

  I shoot him a look. “Titus?”

  “He’s one reason. Verne Resnik lets him do whatever the hell he wants to the dancers. Titus treats those women like a fucking harem.”

  “They put up with it?”

  “We’re not talking about heiresses and Ivy League kids here. Most of them are from broken families trying to make a fast buck. You got ones from Eastern Europe on overstayed visas. Others from south of the border. You got runaways and drug addicts. You also get a rare few who plain enjoy their work. And as far as money goes, you can do a lot worse than Lucky Cherries. The dancers get paid for their troubles if Titus gets too rough. Resnik likes to keep Titus happy. Titus Quinton is dependable, a fixer. When Resnik runs into a serious bother—such as yourself—he always sends Titus.”

  I shut the folder. “But all this time, the dancers have never complained? No one’s ever talked to the police?”

  “Police as in our dear Chief Dunkel? Look man, Dunkel’s good for parking tickets and shoplifting, but let’s face it, he’s not real police. Verne Resnik also runs a tight ship. The dancers fear him. I don’t even know what happens in the VIP Lounge, regular employees like myself don’t have access. Only Resnik’s security people can go back there.”

  “Do any of the dancers know a Swan?” I say.

  “Sure, lots of Swans,” Leon says quietly.

  “Say again?”

  “It’s a popular stage name at Lucky Cherries. The dancers like to change their names, right? It’s like rebranding. Swan this week, next week Bunny or Kitty. But some of the dancers shared a name with me.” He lowers his voice. “On the condition I not divulge their identities—to anyone.”

  “That’s fine.” I’m not building a court case here. “What’s the name?”

  Leon flips open the folder on my lap and pulls out a single sheet of white paper: Maral Swann. “That’s all I got,” he says. “This Swann isn’t a stage name.”

  “She one of the dancers?”

  “Not anymore.”

  I look at him. “Dead?”

  “She disappeared.”

  Disappeared means dead in Resnik’s world. “Good work. It’s another lead.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I may have to call in a favor from my Army days. I need to know more about this woman.”

  “
The Army can raise the dead?” Leon says. Then he sees my expression and goes quiet.

  I leave his Jeep, the folder heavy in my hand. It’s getting late and I want to get back to Natalie. I left her like an asshole.

  “Good luck,” Leon says after me.

  I turn around. “You heard of the flower story? Salma’s Tears? Three days and a jar of water.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Did you try it with Pris?” I say.

  It’s too dark to see Leon’s face, but his voice is soft when he answers. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “The flower lasted seven days.”

  I turn back to my Mustang.

  “Try it with your real estate agent,” he says.

  14

  Wars and Loves

  Natalie

  Goldilocks has closed for the day. I’m halfway into a slice of cheesecake at the bar. I already finished a loaded chicken salad sandwich, but food can’t fill the hollow feeling in my chest.

  I should be happy. Branigan must be licking his pride on the road back to DC, Asher’s lawn is perfect, and next week I can start showing Gatsby’s house again. With any luck, I’ll find a buyer well before summer ends.

  Except I can’t stop thinking about stupid Asher Wade.

  Juno leans over the counter, waiting for me to say something.

  I frown at my plate.

  She brings out two shot glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, fills the glasses, slides one to me.

  “I didn’t know you drink,” I say.

  “This is a bar, city girl. The occasion calls for it.” She smirks. “You’re old enough right?”

  I roll my eyes and we clink glasses. “Bottoms up.”

  We do three more shots before I shake my head, and Juno finishes half the bottle by herself.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll get there,” she says. “That boss of yours has me worked up.” She smirks again. “But you’re not thinking about your boss, are you?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Asher Wade?”