Rogue (Dead Man's Ink #2)

by Callie Hart

  “Open wide,” he tells her.

  “I’m not normally so eager to please, but…whatever you say, my love.” Maria Rosa opens up, unflinching, unwilling to show that she’s even slightly afraid. Sophia reminds me of her a little, in a way. While Soph is admittedly a little more intimidated by our fucked up world, she wears this look of defiance wherever she goes, like she’s ready to throw down should the need arise. I respect that about her.

  Rebel jams the rag into Maria Rosa’s mouth. He then gestures for another one from me. I wet it in the container and hand it over. That goes into her mouth, too. And then another. And another. He’s hitting her with this hardcore. She really won’t be able to breathe in between rounds of water being poured into her mouth, but it doesn’t look like Rebel cares. He kicks out Maria Rosa’s feet from underneath the chair and grabs her by the ankles, pulling her down so that her head is tipped back. The position looks sexual, especially with Rebel standing with one leg either side of hers, but it’s not. He stands like that in order to lift up the heavy water container without tearing open his stitches anymore. Maria gives Rebel a dead-eyed smile around all of the material he’s forcing into her mouth.

  He smiles back, holding her face in both of his hands. “What happened to you, Mother?” he asks. He genuinely looks like he wants to know, though there’s a touch of madness to him. “Something fucking terrible must have happened to you.” She looks up at him, not even attempting to speak, not even attempting to answer his question.

  He tilts the water canister, and we begin our adventure.

  No matter who you are, no matter how strong your will, if someone pours a gallon of water into your mouth when it’s stuffed full of rags, you’re going to choke. You’re going to splutter. You’re going to half drown. Maria Rosa does all of these things as Rebel pours and breaks, pours and breaks with a grim efficiency.

  Predictably, she doesn’t tell him a fucking thing. Eventually she loses consciousness. Rebel straightens, glaring down at her limp, soaked body, and shrugs his shoulders. “Well. I guess that was a pointless exercise.”

  He sounds way too calm. Frankly, it’s a miracle that he’s functioning on any rational level at all. “You’re not gonna wake her up?”

  Rebel grunts, tips his head back, closes his eyes, and then draws in a deep breath. “No. No point. If I carry on with this shit, I won’t be able to stop until she’s fucking dead.”

  At least he knows this. That in itself means he’s keeping his shit together. Kind of. “Can you stay with her?” he asks. “When you leave, have Carnie come sit down here and watch both rooms. Make sure Mother and Dela Vega are behaving themselves. In the meantime, do what you have to. Find out what she’s doing in New Mexico, and why the hell she thought it was a good idea to come here.”

  “Has to have something to do with Ramirez, right?”

  Rebel slowly shakes his head. “Maybe not. Remember that DEA agent she wanted me to sort out for her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it took me a while to put the pieces together, but the DEA agent that picked me up yesterday…?”

  “Lowell? She’s the same agent? No way.”

  “Way.”

  “What are the chances?”

  “Pretty high, actually.” Rebel rolls his neck, opening his eyes. He looks at me, the cold blue of his irises almost the color of ice. “She’s in town because of Ramirez. He and Maria Rosa are the two biggest drug importers into the United States. It’s normal that the same unit would be investigating them both. She must be the big, swinging dick, this Lowell. She’s a viper for sure. Find out what you can about her from Maria Rosa when she wakes up. In the meantime, perhaps you could dig the bullet out of her, please? I don’t feel like finding her dead tomorrow.” He cocks his head to one side, surprise chasing across his face. “Weird. I actually mean that.”

  TWELVE

  SOPHIA

  I don’t go to Bron’s funeral.

  I didn’t know her, and besides…if I were to look at her oddly shaped figure, wrapped up in layer upon layer of white sheets, I’d know it looked odd because the poor woman is without her head, hands and one of her feet. I’m doing my best not to recall the image of her hanging by her one remaining foot as it is. And the club still doesn’t know or trust me. A funeral is a deeply personal event. I don’t want to intrude.

  I spend my time reading in the cabin instead. Pretending to read. Really, I’m trying not to be hyper aware of the fact that Raphael is so close. It does not feel safe with him no more than a hundred feet away. Rebel assured me he was tied to a freaking chair, that there’s no way for him to get to me, but the hairs on the back of my neck keep standing on end every time I hear the cabin settle.

  Later, when Rebel returns from mourning with his club, he tells me to grab a coat and follow him. For the first time since he came and collected me from Julio’s compound, he tells me to climb on the back of his Ducati and hold onto him tight.

  When I was a kid, maybe about seven or eight, Dad took me to see Santa Claus at Christmas. He took me to an expensive department store, the kind that hire genuine white-haired old men with real beards—men who didn’t feature on any sex registers. My father sat me on Genuine Santa’s knee, and he told me to tell the old man everything.

  Santa had gentle brown eyes, the eyes of a Labrador or a Golden Retriever. When he asked me what I wanted more than anything in the world, I told him I wanted to be just like my big sister. My parents loved her more. She got all the best presents. She was really smart, so she understood what our father was talking about half the time. I wanted to be just like Sloane.

  I felt that way for a long time. I was about sixteen before I realized that the eternal quest to Be Like Sloane was a futile one, and it was just as well being Alexis as it was being anyone else. Better, in fact, because being myself required very little effort, and being Sloane took so much concentration that I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

  I think about what Sloane would or wouldn’t do a lot, though. I’m think about what she would do now, as Rebel places his hands over my mine, wrapping his fingers around the trigger of the gun I’m holding. The gun he told me to take hold of back in the storage room in the bar.

  In the distance, somewhere out toward the highway and civilization beyond, all that remains of the daylight is a hazy pink band, burned orange where it meets the horizon. The sky overhead is darkening with every passing minute, revealing a deep, rich blue, scattered with the pinprick of stars.

  “Hold it like this. Make sure you keep your finger straight along the length of the gun up here. Don’t curve it around the trigger just yet,” Rebel tells me.

  “This what they teach you in Motorcycle Gang 101?” I’m full of snark, since he dragged me out of his cabin in the dusky night air and refused to tell me where we were going or why. I shouldn’t have been surprised that he would lead me out into the middle of nowhere and want to teach me how to shoot a gun.

  Little does he know I can already fire a gun perfectly well. Dad taught me when I was a teenager, the same way he taught Sloane. I keep this information to myself. Having Rebel’s chest pressed up against my back, feeling his warm breathing in my ear, is too nice to pass up. It feels wonderful, actually. I lean back into him, feeling him tense and then ease at the contact.

  “No,” he tells me. “Not motorcycle gang 101. Military School. Very different organization, I assure you, sweetheart.”

  It slips my mind from time to time that Rebel even went to Military School. And then I remember the dozens and dozens of pictures on his father’s wall, and it seems entirely normal that the man standing at my back fought for his country and defended his people. Being a protector is second nature to him.

  “Now, when you fire,” he tells me. “Don’t pull at the trigger. Don’t jerk it. Squeeze it softly. Don’t hold your breath. Just inhale…” He removes his left hand from over mine and places it over my sternum, above my belly, making a satisfied sound at the back of his
throat when he feels my ribcage rise. “Good. Now, nice and steady. When you breathe out—”

  The report of the gun fire shatters the silence in the desert. Fifty feet away, the rusted Budweiser can Rebel balanced on top of a round fence post jumps into the air—a direct hit. No more than two seconds later, the echo from the shot comes back to us, weakened by the distance it’s traveled but still bracingly loud. Rebel grunts. He sounds more than a little bemused. Using the index finger on the hand resting over my chest, he digs me in the ribs, burying his face into my neck.

  “Cheat,” he growls.

  “I didn’t cheat. I did what you told me to.”

  “But you’ve already done it before, haven’t you? And you had me thinking you were completely ignorant to the workings of a gun.”

  “I did no such thing. You just never asked.”

  “Hmmm.” He stabs me with his index finger one more time, making me squirm. “Come on, then. Show me. Show me what you’re made of.”

  He must trust me implicitly. Without a backward glance, he sets off toward the fence line, collecting beer cans from the ground as he goes. The loaded gun in my hand could easily be used to put an end to him, but he knows me. He knows how I feel about him, irrespective of whether I’m ready to admit to it or not.

  I watch as he stoops and collects two more cans. I’m not prepared for the wall of emotion that hits me sometimes, for absolutely no reason. He can be doing the most inane thing—scratching at the stubble on his chin. Talking to Cade. Spinning a pen absently in his hand. Picking up beer cans for me to shoot—and I’ll be hit with this sensation that just feels so damn…huge. Like it’s taking me over, ferocious and unstoppable. Like it would be impossible to run from, no matter how hard I tried or how badly my lungs burned, or how painfully my legs ached.

  When he straightens, Rebel finally glances over his shoulder at me and he smirks. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m totally fine. Why? Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  More smirking. “Because you’ve got that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “The look you get when I’ve just made you come really hard and your ears are still ringing.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. Man, this guy. He has some nerve. “I don’t get a look when you make me come.”

  “Sure you do. It’s like this.” He tips his head back slightly, mouth open just a fraction, his hair falling back out of his face, his chest heaving. He looks incredible. And he does look like he’s just had the best sex of his life. I’m struggling to keep myself in check. A very large, turned on part of me wants to command him to remove his clothes at gunpoint. Slowly.

  Rebel’s grinning when he lowers his head to look at me. “Sweetheart, you think I’d ever quit fucking you unless I knew you were satisfied? That face is how I know I’ve done my job properly. It’s the most beautiful, sexual thing in the world. I’ve memorized that lust-filled, sex-doped expression in great detail, which is why I recognized it two seconds ago when I caught you staring at my ass.”

  “Oh my god, I was not staring at your ass!”

  He just laughs, turning his back on me again so he can carefully start balancing the beer cans on the tops of the fence posts again. “Why not? I have a great ass.”

  I can’t deny that—he most definitely does have a great ass. It’s just frustrating that he knows it is all. “Just get the cans up there, jerk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you hit all of these without missing, I’ll treat you to something very special. Would you like that?”

  “An Audi R8?”

  He shoots a raised eyebrow over his shoulder at me. “You really don’t know the meaning of inconspicuous, do you? A car like that would draw some serious attention around here. Either way, no. No Audi R8 for you. You’d get a far better ride out of what I’m offering, anyway.” He looks positively evil as he says this. There’s no doubting what he’s referring to. I’d have to be stupid to miss the innuendo. He oozes sex when he’s like this—intense, fixated and just a little wild. He’s much calmer than he was earlier. His nervous tension pours off him just as strongly as his lust, though. He’s not in a good place. Flirting with me might be a great way to distract himself, but I get the feeling he wouldn’t follow through on any of his promises. He’s just trying to rile me.

  I decide to put the theory to the test. Purely out of curiosity, of course. Not because holding a gun in my hands always makes me feel heady with power, and his rather obvious comments have me tingling all over my body. “Okay,” I say. “If I hit all…five, six, seven cans, you’ll give me the ride of my life, huh?”

  Rebel places the final, seventh can on top of one of the fence posts, straightening up. From the way he sets his shoulders, pushing them back, the cheeky glint in his eye turning very, very serious, it’s clear he didn’t expect me to take up his challenge. “Yes, ma’am. You can’t miss a shot, though.”

  “What happens if I miss? No crazy sex for me?”

  “Oh, no.” He stalks toward me, something dark and dangerous now playing in his eyes. “There’ll be sex for you alright. The tables will be turned, though. It’ll be your job to please me. Your job to blow my mind. You’ll have to do absolutely anything I tell you to, without question. That’s a big responsibility.” He pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not so sure you can handle it.”

  I pull a face, shaking my head, trying to laugh off the highly sexual tone in his voice, but I can’t. His words, the thought of obeying him, doing as he tells me, working to please him and sacrificing my own pride in order to do so…it’s weirdly appealing. I want him to use me. In some perverse way, I want to lose this challenge so I can find out exactly what he would have me do. It would be the most eye-opening experience. I’d sure as hell know an awful lot more about his desires and kinks if I submitted to him like that. And if there’s one thing I’ve ever been sure of in my life, it’s that Louis James Aubertin the third has many, many desires and kinks he hasn’t introduced me to yet.

  “I can handle it,” I say softly. “I can handle anything you throw at me. You should know that by now.”

  A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “Kidnapping, maybe. Having a gun pointed at your head, sure. But this? Me, uncut and uninhibited? Not holding back? I don’t think so, sweetheart. I think you’d be terrified.”

  He neglected to mention Raphael. After Raphael, nothing will ever scare me again. Certainly not Rebel. He told me himself that he would die to protect me. Common sense dictates that he would then be the last person to hurt me. Intentionally, at least. I smile, pouting a little. “I guess we’ll see then, won’t we?”

  Rebel stands at my side like a statue carved out of marble as I line up my first shot. He doesn’t look at the tin can waiting to be knocked off it’s post; he stares at me instead. The heat of his gaze is palpable. Swallowing, I take aim, adopting the stance he had me shoot in before. Both my hands are on the gun, even though I can probably make it with just my right hand for support.

  “Don’t miss, sweetheart,” Rebel says. “I promise you, I’m holding you to this deal. Whatever the outcome, you’ll have to deal with the consequences. Do you agree?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “All right, then. Better get to it.” He holds out his hand, palm up, an invitation to get my ass in gear and get firing.

  I try to be too cocky as I let off the first round. The can makes a high-pitched, metallic tinging noise and leaps into the air. Dad would have given that a ten. The second shot is only an eight. The bullet hits the can slightly off center, but the impact sends it flying all the same. Rebel clears his throat. “Nerves getting to you?”

  “Nope. You’re just standing way too close, soldier boy. Why don’t you back up a little?”

  Rebel laughs. “Afraid you might hit me?”

  “Perhaps. I mean, I doubt you could take any more injuries at the moment. A gunshot wound to the leg would likely finish you off.” I make a show of aim the gun at h
is right leg, but the bastard doesn’t seem concerned. He paces toward me instead of moving out of the way, until he’s standing right in front of me. For some reason, following him with the gun seems like a smart thing to do. The muzzle ends up pressing into his chest, and he’s not blinking, breathing, moving. He’s staring at me and it feels like the whole world has stopped.

  “If you’re planning on shooting me, you should probably do it now, Sophia.”

  “Why now?” My hand shakes. It feels as though I have a jackhammer pushing blood around my body and not a fragile human heart.

  “Because today…today has been one of the worst days of my life. If you wanted to put me out of my misery right now, I wouldn’t stop you. On the other hand, tomorrow I might wake up full of piss and vinegar and want to go hunt down Hector Ramirez. I might decide to go round two waterboarding the woman we’re hiding under the barn. And I might just feel like asking you to marry me. A good night’s sleep can really change a man.”

  “You waterboarded Maria Rosa?”

  Rebel lets out a bark of laughter. He looks away, scanning the horizon. A dimly burning sliver of copper, rapidly disappearing below the rocky ridgeline in the distance, is all that remains of the sunset. He squints at it, frowning. “I just implied that I’ve been considering asking you to marry me, and you object to the fact that I dumped a bucket of water over a woman who threatened to kill you not only seven hours ago.”

  “Yes, but you were joking about the proposal part. I know you were, asshole.” He has to be joking. Has to be. There’s just no way he’s being serious.

  He steps forward just a little so that the gun digs deeper into his chest. There’s a weighty look in his eyes. I don’t know what to make of it, of his body language, of anything that’s happening right now, but I know I’m beginning to feel a little freaked out. He’s so close, I can smell him—entirely natural, and yet addicting at the same time. I can’t get enough. “Why am I not being serious?” he asks. There’s no doubt that he’s looking and acting very serious, but my brain just won’t comprehend the prospect that he’s not fucking around.