Page 26 of Rebel

“Best seafood on the coast.”I hung my helmet on my handlebars.“If you don’t mind eating with your hands.”

The hint of a smile touched her lips.“Would think less of a place that gave me a fork for crab legs.”

Inside, the shack was bigger than it looked from the road.Mismatched tables were scattered across a plank floor worn smooth by decades of salt water.The walls were covered with fishing gear, buoys, and faded photographs of men holding up their catches.

The place was mostly empty.A couple of fishermen hunched over beers at the bar, their conversation a low, indecipherable murmur.An old man in the corner mended a net, his gnarled fingers working with surprising speed.No one looked up when we entered.

I led the way to a table by the window, where we could watch our bikes and the ocean beyond.Rio took the seat with her back to the wall, eyes scanning the room before settling.Always assessing.Always ready.The stance of someone who’d learned the hard way that relaxation could be costly.

A weathered woman with sun-bleached hair approached our table, dropping two laminated menus in front of us without a word.

“What’s fresh?”I asked her.

She shrugged.“Everything came off the boats this morning.Shrimp’s good.Got some crab.Clams.Oysters if you’re feeling brave.”

“Bring us a mix,” I said.“And two beers.”

She nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.

Rio raised an eyebrow.“You always order for your dates?”

“This a date?”I countered.

She held my gaze for a beat, then looked away, out toward the ocean.“Figure of speech.”

The beers arrived, cold and sweating in their bottles.Rio took a long pull from hers, then set it down carefully.Her fingers remained wrapped around the glass, as if she needed something to hold onto.

“You ride well,” I said.

She shrugged.“Bikes make sense.Clear rules.You fuck up, you pay for it right away.”

“Not like people.”

She glanced at me, something flickering in her blue eyes.“Exactly.Not like people.”

Our food arrived on a large metal tray lined with newspaper.Steam rose from the pile of shellfish, carrying the scent of garlic, butter, and salt.Small dishes of melted butter and cocktail sauce sat on either side.No plates, no utensils.Just food meant to be handled.

Rio considered the spread, then selected a shrimp.She peeled it with practiced movements, not a wasted motion.The meat disappeared between her very white, straight teeth.

“Good,” she admitted.

I grabbed a crab leg and cracked it open, extracting a piece of meat and dipping it in butter.“Told you.”

We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of cracking shells and the distant crash of waves filling the space between us.With each bite, Rio’s shoulders lowered a fraction.Her hands rested on the table between selections, no longer poised for immediate reaction.Small changes, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking.But I was looking.

“How long you been riding?”I asked, keeping my tone casual.

She wiped her fingers on a napkin.“Started when I was fourteen.Uncle had a shop.Taught me everything he knew before…” She trailed off, then redirected.I already knew she didn’t have family.From what Shade had found, first her uncle had died in a freak accident, then her mom had passed a little over a year later.“Been on and off since then.”

“Army didn’t let you ride?”

Her expression shuttered briefly.“Not the issue.Just didn’t have the time.Or a bike.”She cracked open a claw.“You?”

“Grew up on them.Father was a mechanic.”I didn’t elaborate.Some stories I liked to keep close to the heart.

Rio nodded, accepting the boundary.Another point in her favor.

She reached for her beer again, and this time her hand was steady, relaxed.The movement caught the light, highlighting a small tattoo on her inner wrist that I hadn’t noticed before.Simple design -- just a lotus blossom.

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