Rebel

by Callie Hart

  He kind of has a point there. “And so this was it? This was the only solution you could think of?” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my index finger and my thumb, feeling a headache coming on.

  “She could hardly bunk above the shop with me, man. People are in an out of my place all day long. She’d have been seen in five seconds flat. If you can think of another option, I’ll head back to the compound right now and move her myself.”

  I scowl at the floorboards, the floorboards I laid myself, hammering each and every nail by hand, hating that he’s fucking right. “All right. All right. I guess you did the right thing.” I exhale, my head working overtime. “Wait, if you’re not at the compound, where are you?”

  “At the shop. I needed to pick up the gear for tonight. We had late appointments, too, and Chloe couldn’t work. I’m finishing off a back piece. Won’t take me more than an hour, though.” The shop, the Dead Man’s Ink Bar, the Bar for short, isn’t located within the compound. A twenty-minute ride down a dirt track brings you to Freemantle, the closest town to our location, though to call it a town is a stretch. There are five or six streets with actual stores on them, and then perhaps three or four as many residential streets, and that’s it. There was public outcry when the Widowers bought up High Street real estate and unveiled a full-blown, state-of-the-art tattoo parlor. The townsfolk probably wanted another florist or something. Instead they got burly bikers with a penchant for ink and very loud motorcycles. They complained at first, but that soon stopped when they realized the Bar was actually bringing a lot of out-of-towners into Freemantle. People from the surrounding small towns, who otherwise would have no reason to even pass through. More people means more money for the other local stores and diners; the folk who come to get inked at the Bar have to eat, after all. They buy groceries. They replace their old work wear at the army disposal store. Ironically, the business front we use to launder our ill-gotten gains has been really good for the local community.

  “Okay, well just get your ass back here as soon as you can. I need to tell you about what happened at the MGM Grand.” I don’t mention names. The girl sitting on my couch is staring quietly at a seam in the leather armrest, pretending not to be listening, but of course she is. She’d be fucking mad not to.

  “Got it.” Cade hangs up and I walk around my couch, staring at the girl. This is weird. If I fuck a girl, I do it at the clubhouse. I’ve never had anyone in here before. I’m not sure I like how normal it feels. It should feel like the place is on fucking fire and I have to get the hell out of dodge.

  I sit down on top of my coffee table, still staring at her.

  She blinks at me, digging her fingernails into the skin on her right leg. “What?”

  “It’s time for you to tell me your name.” She arches an eyebrow at me. I can just imagine her getting them waxed in some fancy fucking boutique beauty parlor in Seattle, run by Asian hipsters with shaved undercuts and thick glasses. She seems like the type. “Why do you want to know?” she asks, cockiness filling her voice—she’s asked me something personal and that’s what I said to her. Now she’s throwing it back at me. It’s fucking adorable.

  “I’m asking because I need something to call you. And if you don’t tell me your name, I’m going to be forced to call you One Eighty-One. And I’m guessing you won’t like being called one eighty-one.”

  “Why would you call me that?”

  “Because that’s the reference Hector Ramirez gave you when he uploaded your picture onto his skin site. Hector tags his girls chronologically. The first girl he sold was number one. The fifty-third girl he sold was tagged fifty-three. Using that logic, guess how many girls he sold before he tagged you one eighty-one?”

  “So one hundred and eighty other women came before me?” She looks like she’s going to throw up.

  “Exactly. And he hasn’t been caught. The police haven’t raided his place out there in the desert. No one has reported his website. No one came to rescue the one hundred and eighty other girls who came before you, and no one is coming for you, either. So if you want reminding of that every single time I call you one eight—”

  “Sophia!” She screws her eyes shut, clenching her jaw. “My name is fucking Sophia, motherfucker.” She spits out the words like they’re poison. When she looks at me again, I can see the fury burning in the depths of her dark brown eyes. She comes alive when she’s angry. A thrill of adrenalin stabs through me, sending mixed signals to my cock; provoking such a violent reaction from her is provoking an entirely different reaction from me. For the first time, I see her. Fucking Sophia. I don’t see her as a means to an end—a potential way to take down the bastard who killed my uncle. I see her. I see her as a woman, and she is beautiful.

  “All right, Sophia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I wish I could say the same.” She’s flushed, her irritation making itself known on her cheeks as well as in her eyes. Her body language is speaking volumes, too. She’s locked up tight, shoulders angled away from me. Her hands are balled together now, interlocking fingers white at each joint, showing how hard she’s squeezing.

  My father was a fucking asshole—hated me from the moment I was born. He judged me as he saw fit, and I’ve made sure to prove him wrong at every available fucking turn. But he was right about one thing. He always said I had a stone-cold, manipulative side to me when I wanted to. And I do. That part of me, usually kept under lock and key for civility’s sake, pipes up, now, as I look at her. How hard would it be to make her change her mind about me? How hard would it be to alter that body language? It would be a mildly interesting game to play.

  Her head snaps up—she stares at me as though she can hear my thoughts and she’s daring me to even try it. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, slow as sin. “Cade says you need me to do something for you,” she snaps. “He says you’re gonna let me go if I do it.”

  “And do you believe him?”

  She fixes her gaze on mine, staring me right in the eye. There are few people who have the balls to do that. My coloring’s always been a little confronting to some people. Unsettling, even. My eyes are a piercing ice blue. They’re not the kind of eyes you’d forget in a hurry. It’s not vain of me to admit that. I just know how other people work, how they think, and I also know how I affect them. Sophia doesn’t look away. She’s nowhere near as fragile as I assumed she would be. My interest is now well and truly piqued. “I don’t know. I believe Cade believes you’ll let me go. But you? I haven’t worked you out yet.”

  I almost burst into laughter. Well, isn’t this interesting? I was just thinking the exact same thing about you. “Oh, I’m not a complicated man, Sophia. I do the things I say I’m going to do. I keep the promises I make. If I say something, you can take it to the bank.” But I’m lying to her. I am a complicated man. I make it my business to be as fucking complicated as I possibly can. If I were simple, I would be easy to pre-empt, and that’s not how you survive in the world that I live in. I can’t tell from looking at her whether Sophia believes me, but I’m enjoying the way she’s sliding her legs up and down against the other. In this case I’m sure it’s signifying discomfort, but it can mean other things, too. Sexual excitement for one. I suddenly realize that I want that—to sexually excite her.

  “So what do you want me to do?” she asks. The question could not have come at a more appropriate time. A number of things are flooding through my head as I answer her. I manage to keep them to myself, though.

  “I need you to testify what you witnessed in that alleyway in Seattle for me, Sophia. I need you to take the stand in a courtroom and tell a judge and jury how you saw a man murdered in cold blood.”

  Her face goes pale, the angry flush that was still present a moment ago vanishing entirely. “You want me to go up against those men that took me? You want me to go testify against Raphael?”

  “I do.”

  She shakes her head, each shake becoming more and more violent. “No. No, I c
an’t do that.”

  I didn’t think she was going to be happy about it, but in the same vein I didn’t think she was going to be this aggressively against the idea. Hector’s men did kidnap her, after all. “The guy they murdered was a judge. He was a good man. And you won’t do this, because?”

  She takes a stuttering breath, pushing back into the chair, as though the more space she puts between me and her distances herself from the very idea of testifying. “Because I can’t. I…I have a family to protect. Raphael threatened them. He said he was going to kill them all. I can’t allow that to happen. I’m sorry for the guy that died, but that’s it. He’s already dead, now. Taking the stand won’t help him any. If I do what you’re asking of me, they’ll find my family. They’ll kill my parents. They’ll kill my sister, too, but they’ll rape her first.” She shakes her head again, fear written all over her face. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t do it.”

  REBEL

  “Well it’s obvious. You can’t do either.”

  I drop my head into my hands, groaning. There was no persuading Sophia that she needs to speak out against Los Oscuros. She wouldn’t even listen. She locked herself in the bathroom, and I took the opportunity to leave the cabin, locking the door behind me, too pissed off to try any further. The clubhouse is packed full of Widowers, just like it is every night, but tonight’s different. Tonight they know not to approach the quiet table in the corner of the bar that Cade and I occupy when shit is hitting the fan. If they could see the black bag sitting on the bench in between my second and me they might have tried, though.

  “You can’t involve yourself with the DEA, man. And there’s no way the club will pass running Maria Rosa’s blow and dope all over the country for her. She tried to strong arm us into that the last time we got caught up in her shit, remember?”

  “I do remember. But it was almost worth the risk back then. We had no other leverage. I thought this time she’d agree just for the sake of fucking with Hector.”

  Cade stares grimly down into the bottom of his rocks glass. I know he’s not seeing the burned amber of the whiskey in the bottom, though. He’s thinking about Laura. Laura, my best friend. Laura, Cade’s sister. Laura, who went missing from my father’s estate years ago, never to be seen again. That’s what started this whole fucking thing—the MC, the gun running, the small time weed operation the Widowers sometimes dabble in.

  I couldn’t accept Laura was gone. I left home, set up out here, started up the club. Cade came out later. We decided we would try and find her. Made enough mob contacts that we could submerse ourselves into the seedy underworld of skin trading without being suspected as cops. There were rumors about American girls being sold down in Central America. Mexico. Colombia. We tried Mexico first. A skeevy motherfucker in a bar, selling his own sister out of the back of his van, told us he’d seen Laura, yes, but she wasn’t in the country anymore. She’d been purchased by the Desolladors and they’d taken her back to Colombia.

  So naturally, that was our next stop. I rolled up on Rico and cut his face open. Cade and I were detained by a very intrigued Maria Rosa for nearly two weeks, during which time she managed to show us that she didn’t have anything to do with Laura’s disappearance, and also convince herself that she was in love with Cade.

  When she said we were free to leave, Cade declined Maria Rosa’s invitation to stay behind and be her sex toy, which did not go down well.

  Our exodus from Colombia was a rushed one, complete with threats on our lives and absolutely no sign of Laura.

  She was in the wind. There were no more leads regarding her whereabouts, no matter which country we asked in or who we asked. Just like that, Laura was gone.

  Now, neither of us like talking about her much.

  I grind my teeth together, growing more and more restless by the moment. “So what, then? We go after Ramirez on our own?”

  “Yeah, sure. If you want to commit suicide and get the rest of us killed, why not? How many Widow Makers are there? Twenty-one? Hectors got forty people around him at all times. And then there are the hundreds of people he has working on the streets. We go against him without support and we’re all dead.”

  “Then we do nothing. We forget all about him killing Ryan. I let him get away with it?”

  Cade slugs back his whiskey and slams his glass down on the table. “Plan B, man. Use the girl. Get her to stand up.”

  I take my own drink in my hands, rolling the glass between my palms. Sometimes alcohol makes me think clearly, can give me a better perspective when I’m trying to solve a problem. Not right now, though. It’s making my head muzzy. “Not an option. Dela Vega told Sophia he’s going after her family. He told her he was gonna rape her fucking sister. She says there’s no way for him to find them if she doesn’t testify.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It does if she’s lying about her name, and she’d be stupid not to. I’m sure Raphael doesn’t know her real name, either.”

  “Is Danny working on finding out who she really is, then?”

  I nod, catching sight of our hacker in the corner, laughing with some brunette I’ve seen him with a couple of times before. He’s the best. If anyone’s going to figure out who this woman is, it’s Danny.

  “Okay, well in the meantime you just need to tell her we’ll put a detail on her family,” Cade says. “Promise her that we won’t let anything happen to them.”

  I grunt, drinking my whiskey after all. I fucking need it. I doubt my brain cells are gonna come up with anything useful tonight. Might as well kill a few of them off. “She’s stubborn, man,” I say. “Really fucking stubborn. How do you propose I convince her without threatening physical violence?”

  Cade slaps me hard on the arm. When I look up at him, there’s a broad grin spreading across his face. “You’re a fool, you know that? I’m pretty sure you could convince any woman in the world to do whatever you wanted. You have a seriously annoying talent for that.”

  I glare at him, tapping my finger against the rim of my glass. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Cade sighs, leaning closer across the table. “I can’t believe after all these years you’re gonna make me say it. Women find you attractive, asshole. You’re a handsome son of a bitch.” He’s about to finish off his whiskey when he pauses, the glass halfway to his mouth, and says, “Not that I think you’re attractive, though. I think you’re fucking hideous.”

  “Right back at ya, fucker.” We raise our glasses, draining what was left in them, and then we sit in silence, listening to the chatter of the club members around us. Carnie’s still trying to crack onto Shay. Pathetic. I lean back in my chair, scrubbing my hands over my face. “So you’re saying I should flirt with her to get her to do what I want? Am I understanding you right here?”

  Cade nods gravely. “A means to an end, my friend. And, come on, she’s hardly ugly. I have faith in your ability to mac on some beautiful woman in order to get what you want. You’ve done it a million times before. I’ve witnessed it myself.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You deny it?”

  I can’t really do that. He’s right. I have used the way I look in the past to get a girl into bed, and I’m not sorry for it. But this is different. This is Sophia’s life, the lives of her family. Can I be a total douche bag and potentially put her whole family in danger to get justice for Ryan?

  I pose myself the question because it’s the right thing to do. But I’ve already let that devious, calculating part of me out of its cage today; turns out I haven’t managed to cram him back into his box. I can do it. And using Sophia is a hell of a lot better for a hell of a lot more people than any of the other options open to me. So be it. I’ll win her over and convince her she needs to help us, and I’ll do it fast. That way I can honor what I’ve said to her and get her home quickly. Et voila. Everybody’s fucking happy. Cade refills his glass and holds out the bottle of Laphroaig to me, offering me more. I hold up my glass, resigning m
yself to my fate. Tomorrow, Operation: Woo Sophia will be in full effect. Cade was right—she’s all kinds of hot—so it won’t exactly be taxing on my part. Might not be as easy as Cade thinks it will be, though. There’s only one reason Ramirez would have sold her at such a high price, and that’s because she must be a virgin. Virgins aren’t exactly the types to jump into bed with a guy just because he pays them a bit of attention. I push that thought from my mind, not wanting to think about claiming this girl’s virginity. A hard-on would be seriously fucking inappropriate, as well as the last thing I need to deal with in the clubhouse. “So tell me, Cade. Which part of me do you think’s my best feature?” I try not to laugh.

  “You’re a fucking asshole,” he says, shaking his head. “And it’s getting late. Shall we get things rolling then?” I place my hand on top of the black bag sitting in between Cade and me. My best friend smirks, tipping his glass in my direction.

  “I’ll leave this one up to you,” he says.

  “Why, thank you.” I may sound sarcastic, but it’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of making a call like this. The Widowers need this, and so do I. The bar’s full, club members drinking at tables and leaning against walls. There are over twenty members to the club, and they’re permitted to bring people into the bar once they’ve been vetted by Danny to make sure they’re not cops. The place can get pretty rowdy. The arrangement isn’t perfect. Fights break out. Members, both male and female, end up sleeping with the wrong person. Shit gets broken. But for the most part we make it work.

  I draw some curious looks from the guys closest to me when I get up, Cade’s bag of tricks in my hand. Fatty, the Widowers’ resident bartender and sometimes chef sees me approaching the bar, sees what I have in my hand, and has an unopened bottle of Texas Trader’s Bourbon out on the counter before I can even ask for it. Trader’s is the cheapest, nastiest, shittiest bourbon ever made. I can still remember the bottle I had to finish when I first started this thing. My gut twists, also remembering the vast majority of that cheap, nasty, shitty bourbon coming back up again. Violently.