Long Live the Rebel

by E L Irwin

  Ryler tensed. I saw it, felt it, heard the soft growl of warning from him, the sound of pure irritation. And I relished it. Two can play at this game, buddy. You want to be a jerk to me? Well, mister, I have teeth, too. Deciding not to give him the opportunity to respond, I turned my back on him and continued pushing the bike down the road, my steps now strong and energetic, ire coursing through me, fueling me on.

  I’d gone only thirty paces or so when I heard the slam of his vehicle door, the revving of his engine, the squeal of his tires on the pavement and in the gravel. My gloating smile was short-lived as Ryler slammed the Bronco to a stop directly in my path, cutting me off. He was out of the vehicle, around the hood, and in my face faster than I’d anticipated he could move. And he was mad. Oh boy, was he mad.

  “Get in,” he growled.

  “No thanks. I’m good,” I snapped, trying to move around him once more, but Ryler took hold of my bike and lifted it away from me with one hand, carrying it to the back of the Bronco. His limp was minimal today, the squeak from the other day gone. Maybe the brace, or whatever it had been, was finally off. The bike was quickly placed inside, my packages carefully positioned next to it, before I could really do much of anything. Then he was right beside me, taking my arm, opening the passenger door, and saying, “Get. In.”

  Don’t ask me why, because I really couldn’t say, but Ryler’s come-and-go limp had sparked my curiosity. You’d think I might have had something — anything else — on my mind in this situation, but no. No, my response to his demand was “What happened to your leg, Ryler?”

  That stopped him short, which surprised me. His nostrils flared; his lips thinned. And I saw the vein throbbing in his neck.

  “That’s none of your business, AJ. Now get your butt in the Bronco, and do it now.”

  “No freaking way! And get your hands off me!”

  Ryler let go of me, stepping back some. “AJ, I’m not playing games here. Get in. Now.”

  “Well that makes two of us, Ryler. I’m not playing games either. I didn’t ask you to stop. I didn’t flag you down. I don’t need or want your help. So just give me back my bike and let me go home.”

  “Home? You stickin’ around then?”

  “That’s none of your business. Now give me back the bike.”

  “Just get in, AJ. You’re not walking home.”

  “Yeah? Watch me.” I turned from him, deciding he could keep the bike, and as I was already walking, at least it wouldn’t slow me down to have to push it.

  But he grabbed my arm again in a firm, yet gentle grip and pulled me around to face him. We were so close for a moment that we just stood there breathing the same air, and as his gaze flicked down to my mouth and back, I’d thought he was going to kiss me. And darned if that didn’t send my stomach into somersaults. The heat curling there made me shiver. And as I did, Ryler released me as if he’d been burned, seeming to realize what he’d been doing.

  “You really want to walk? Its nearly seven miles, and you’re in shorts and sandals. The temperature is going to drop another thirty degrees tonight.”

  Out of sheer stubborn will, I just mutely nodded at him. And also, there was the fact that my breath was still missing from my lungs, the desire to be kissed still pulsing through me, and therefore, I was still unable to speak.

  Ryler lifted his hands out to the side, took another step back, and said, “Suit yourself.” And in somewhat disappointed disbelief, I watched as he left me there; slammed the passenger door shut, and climbed back into his Bronco without another word. I stared after him for a moment, before turning away to, once again, begin my trek back to Jake’s place. It occurred to me as I moved forward that not only could I not remember just how far it actually was to the turnoff for Jake’s, I also had forgotten what the name of the street was. So, I took my backpack off and dug around inside for the little map. Of course, the light was fading quickly, making it difficult for me to see clearly. In daylight the map had seemed simple and easy to follow. Now, in the quickly fading dusk, nothing seemed to make any sense at all.

  Gritting my teeth, I shoved the map back inside and shot a glare over my shoulder at Ryler, who was still there in his Bronco, as if he was waiting for me, hoping I’d give up and just come with him. Well, I wouldn’t. I could do this. Without his help, darn him anyway. He could take his heat-inducing self and just shove it. I’d walked maybe twenty feet when I heard the rev of the Bronco and the crunch of the gravel. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Ryler was following me. Caution lights flashing, just creeping along behind me.

  Are you freaking kidding me? Was he seriously planning to follow me all the way home like this? Fine. Whatever.

  If the temperature hadn’t indeed been dropping like he’d promised, if I hadn’t been wearing shorts and sandals, I’d have crawled home on my hands and knees just to annoy him, but as I was already feeling the bite of the chill, I just decided to ignore him as best I could and continue on.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been walking — a half hour, maybe more, maybe less — but despite my exertions I was shivering in the cold, cursing myself for not having brought, at the very least, a sweatshirt or something. And to make matters worse, it began to drizzle.

  Have you ever been so angry, so furious that you felt like crying? Because that was me right now. Tears pricked my eyes at the injustice of it all. Water now ran down me in rivulets from the ever-increasing downpour I was stumbling through; my eyes stung from the mascara that had been bleeding down my cheeks. I’d tried wiping it off as best I could, but I was sure I looked a mess, regardless. Roadside dirt and mud were splattered up my legs, which were screaming in protest, and I was sure I had blisters on top of blisters from my sandals. Ryler pulled up beside me once more. Stubbornly, I refused to even look in his direction, even though I was so relieved, so thankful that he hadn’t left me, and just continued to trudge along in my misery.

  He stopped the Bronco, stepped out, and made his way to my side. “You planning to walk all the way back to California?”

  Stupidly, I turned to him, unsure as to what he meant.

  “You missed your turnoff about a mile back.”

  Defeated, I pulled my gaze from Ryler and looked behind me, facing the roadway from where I’d just come, wanting nothing more than to lie down and cry. Shoulders slumped, in limping steps, I turned back the way I’d come. He muttered something unflattering under his breath, and the next thing I knew was the strength of his grip and the heat of his hands as Ryler swung me up in his arms, cradling me like a child.

  Against my will, unable to help myself, I turned into him, huddling near his warmth, breathing him in. Ryler smelled of wood and pine and something stronger, spicier.

  He opened the passenger door. “Get in the back, Shiv,” he muttered and deposited me gently on the seat. Ryler took the time to fasten my seatbelt before closing the door and making his way to the driver’s side.

  A deep rumbling humph sounded from behind me. Something sniffed at my shoulder, whining low, and concerned-like. And glancing behind me, I saw a massive, furry, black shape. A part of my mind thought I should be afraid, or at the very least concerned. But the dog’s golden eyes were soulful, thoughtful. Instead of being fearful, I found that his presence comforted me.

  When Ryler climbed inside the cab, he turned the heat on high then shifted to reverse, muttering to himself about stubborn women.

  “You named your dog after a knife?” I asked once the shivering had stopped.

  Ryler shot me a long look, nodding sharply before turning back to the windshield. Five minutes later, we pulled up to the house. Ryler turned the Bronco off, climbed out, and came around to my side. Without a word, he lifted me again into his arms and carried me to the house. He unlocked it somehow without putting me down and took me inside, all the way up to my room. The limp and the whirring squeak were back again. Gently, he set me on the bed and quickly stepped back, as if touching me were somehow now distasteful to him. I felt a curi
ous sense of loss at the absence of his touch.

  “Can you make it from here?” his voice was low, controlled.

  “Yeah.” I nodded.

  Without another word to me, Ryler turned and left.

  He was going to kill her. Either that or kiss her. Maybe both. Either option would land him in hot water, though. Ryler was still fuming by the time he returned to his cabin. Her scent clung to him, his clothes, his skin, making him restless, aggravated. Not since he’d first awoken after the explosion, after the initial surgery, once the healing had begun, had he felt this wound up, this ready to erupt. His body shook with the tension, the itch, the irritation that AJ aroused in him.

  Aroused — that was a good word. That was what he was, what his problem was. Ryler was good and aroused. The itch AJ was generating, fast becoming something he was unable to ignore. Not since he’d had to detox from all the pain meds he’d been on had he been this agitated, this trapped inside his own skin, clawing and scraping, just trying to get the tension out, relieve some of the pressure.

  Ryler opted for an ice-cold shower. It helped very little. He was still a smoldering mountain of tension and desire. Especially when he reentered his bedroom and could still smell her, and desire slammed into him once more. Grinding his teeth, he snatched up the discarded clothes from earlier and stomped into the utility room. He threw them in the wash and slammed the lid shut. He would master this, because no way in heck he was going down this road again. Once was enough. Ryler didn’t need women, and he sure didn’t need this one, no matter what his body was demanding.

  After showering last night and just weakly climbing into bed, I’d slept like the dead. The house could have burned down, and I’d have never known. I awoke in the morning feeling rather like I’d been run over, repeatedly, by a very large truck. Or Bronco. Either way, I felt like crap. Literal crap. And I looked it, too.

  My face was haggard, eyes still somewhat smeared with yesterday’s mascara, red and puffy. My hair, short as it was, looked like some sort of varmint had climbed inside and made a home. And as I stood in the bathroom, just looking at the image before me in the mirror, I decided that I just didn’t care. It took too much effort to care. And I simply had no energy for it.

  My head was pounding, and I could feel a cold coming on. My chest was tight, my throat achy. My middle was tight and cramping. Checking the calendar, I saw that my cycle was due to start. Perfect. I guess that explained my crazy emotions. With coffee in hand, I climbed into the bathtub full of steaming water and fragranced Epsom salts, a groan escaping me. I soaked for a good half hour, until the water had become tepid, before climbing out and getting dressed. Now I stood at the balcony door, staring unseeing out at the sunshine in the yard, my mind still on the events of last night. With a disgruntled groan, I turned away, climbed back into bed, and slept the day away, not waking again until late in the afternoon when my cell phone began ringing.

  Looking at the Caller ID, I saw it was Harley. Not wanting her to hear how miserable I was feeling at the moment, I decided to forego that conversation for the time being and would call her back later. So, I rolled myself out of bed and headed downstairs. I was sipping another cup of coffee, standing on the back patio, when I saw something big and dark move inside the tree line across the field behind the house. From this distance, I was unable to tell exactly what it was but wondered if maybe it was Ryler’s wolfhound. And I wasn’t ashamed to admit to myself that I hoped it was Ryler’s dog and not some wolf — or bear, even.

  Ryler. A conundrum if ever there was one. I wasn’t sure just what to do with him. What to do about him. For the most part, he seemed to barely be able to tolerate me… and then there were other times, times where I could swear he was feeling the same heat I felt whenever he was around. I told myself it was just because he was basically unknown to me, something interesting and new, and that it was because it had been a while since I’d last been in a relationship. Whatever it was, this ratcheting heat and tension between us would take care of itself one way or the other. Either we’d take a long close look at what was possibly between us, unable to ignore it any longer, or it’d burn itself out, and we’d move on, no longer interested at all.

  Suddenly annoyed with myself, I turned from the door, reaching for my cellphone. Harley answered on the second ring. “Doll! How’re you doing?”

  The sound of her voice brought tears to my eyes — stupid hormones — and I had to swallow past the lump in my throat to answer. “I’m good,” I lied. “How’re you? Things going well there? You surviving all right without me?”

  “Just barely. When are you coming home?”

  It was on my tongue to say, “Soon,” but instead I heard these words coming from my lips. “I’m not sure, Harley. There are some things that I’m still working on, trying to work out. Some things I need to figure out, ya know?”

  “You really all right, AJ? You sound a bit… I dunno… off, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right. I just have a lot on my mind is all.”

  “Stuff with your dad?”

  “That… and other things. Like I want to come home, but I really feel like I need to stay for a while.”

  “Like for how long?”

  “I don’t know. As long as it takes, I guess.”

  Harley drew in a long breath, holding it a moment before letting it out again. “Okay, I miss you, gobs and gobs, but I understand. Take all the time you need. Just, don’t let it be forever, all right?”

  I smiled at that. “Thanks, Harley. I promise.”

  She reminded me to call both Leslie and Mrs. Carson to let them know my change in plans. We chatted a little bit longer, Harley filling me in on her work activities. We laughed over the antics of a younger couple with two small children, who were apparently learning to potty-train, as they continually attempted to strip down to their bare skin, regardless of where they were. Like at the table in the dining room. By the end of the evening, both parents had been at their wits end as they led two screaming toddlers upstairs for bed.

  Both Leslie and Mrs. Carson understood my need to stay longer and wished me well. Leslie even offered to fly up here to help me go through papers and things. I’d been blessed when I’d landed her as my agent. Not only had she looked out for me as an author, steering me in the right direction, guiding me along the way as a writer, but she was also a true and trusted friend. I couldn’t ask for better. Once I hung up the phone with Leslie, I wrote a quick blog post, talking about how beautiful it was here. Then, I decided that I should go ahead and read through that envelope that Jake had left for me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Choices We Make

  If I’d thought my eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot yesterday, then today I looked like I’d contracted some sort of disease. I hadn’t slept at all and had cried most of the night through. Hard, crushing sobs that stole the breath from my lungs, that made my head throb and my eyes ache. I cried until there were no more tears. Cried until there was nothing left.

  I’d had a dad, a father-figure who had loved me as his own child, who loved me still. Dave, my stepdad, had been good to me. We still talked on the phone; I still called him for advice or to share some new triumph in my life. And I’d wanted to call him last night. Wanted to hear his voice. Wanted him to tell me everything was going to be all right, that everything would work out. To talk about all that I’d learned. To ask him what he had known, and confirm whether Mom had ever told him the truth.

  But I was also afraid. What if he had known and had kept the truth from me? What if he’d been a part of the deception?

  It wasn’t that hard to imagine Mom doing what she’d done. But Dave? Just the thought of Dave being a part of this made me want to dry-heave. So, I hadn’t called him. Not when I’d first learned of Jake and not now. That was a phone call I would postpone for the time being. Talking to my mother, confronting her, was another phone call I’d be postponing for a good, long while.

  I knew that in life we made d
ecisions. Sometimes we were forced to make very difficult ones. Even painful ones. After spending last night reading through all — and I mean all — every last scrap of paper that Jake, my biological father, had left for me, I felt hollow, a void inside me. Sounds echoed. Memories fluttered. I wasn’t numb. It was almost like I was vacant. Numb indicated pain was still there, just buried. I wasn’t numb. I was empty, as if every last part of me had been scooped out. And now, as I looked around myself at the papers strewn all over the bed, it was like I was looking at what was left of me. Trying to decide what to put back, what to leave out. Trying to decide who I was now.

  The choices we made in life, sometimes they were simple, other times they could be indescribably complicated. Jake had made some hard and difficult decisions. Some he’d had support for, some he hadn’t. Like when he’d joined the Army, and again, when he’d been selected into the Ranger program. His parents had been proud of him. Worried, but proud. When, after his injury, he’d reenlisted, they hadn’t been as happy. They’d felt he’d already done enough, sacrificed enough for his country. Jake had dealt with a lot when he came back. The least of it, PTSD. And at the time, PTSD wasn’t something really talked about. You were simply expected to soldier on. Stay strong. Never quit. Jake had written that civilian life was difficult for him. He’d been more comfortable with his unit. There were too many variables in civilian life, too many unknowns. Slowly, he said, he’d begun to unravel.

  Then after his injury, after I was born, still unravelling, still unable to adapt, he’d believed Mom. She’d convinced him then that I’d be better off without him. He’d never be ready to be a father. He hadn’t even known how to be a man, only a soldier. Only a warrior. She’d told him that he’d die in service to his country, and that if he’d had any true honor, he’d want what was best for his child. And that was to let me go. To let her find and create a life and family for me that wouldn’t include death. One that was safe.