Page 65 of The Rebel's Guide to Pride

The question caught me off guard, and by the looks of it, him too. His face was red, his gaze shifty again. “Because,” he said quietly, “we won that math competition with B-E-D-M-A-S.”

“We…oh.” I’d suggested to use that formula for the problem. Brackets, exponents, division, multiplication, addition, subtraction, and…it’d worked. He and I beat Geometry Derick to the punch. “Guess I didn’t put two and two together.”

“It was our math joke,” he said, a new softness to his voice. “I honestly thought you knew it was me because of my username. I didn’t know that you and Mason were a thing—”

“There’s nothing between me and Mason,” I rushed out. “I mean, I thought there was. But really it was something between you and me.” I blanched, backtracking. “Not that I meant thereissomething between you and me. It was us flirting—”Fuck.I just put a name on what we’d been doing, and I couldn’t take it back.

“It was kinda nice not fighting,” he commented carefully.

There was weight to his words. Their implication only thickened the tension in the bachelorette pad. We’d met so many times here in Sawyer’s basement, but nothing was thesame now. There was no way I could fight with Cohen like before. Because I wasn’t the same either. It was as though all the parts of me—Anthony and Zeke and whoever the hell I was now—were trying to coexist in this new reality.

“I don’t wanna fight anymore,” I said through the rush of thoughts.

“Then let’s do something else instead,” he said quickly, face reddening. “I mean, work together on another speakeasy…”

“I, uh,” I tried to say, blinking away memories of my birthday dinner and the mayor’s rally and raid. “What if, um, we did it and something bad happens again because of me?”

He reached out, and his hand touched my knee. I watched as his fingers squeezed reassuringly while he said, “It’s okay to be afraid, Zeke. I’m afraid too, but knowing that I’m not the only one…That makes me feel like I’m not alone.”

I glanced up to see him peering at me through his lashes. My eyes began to burn from the intensity of his hopeful expression. The same expression I wore when I stared at the newspaper tacked up on my bedroom wall, at the protester who had been caught mid-scream as he marched in the name of Pride. I’d spent so long keeping my head down and keeping to myself and keeping quiet. But that guy was who I’d always wanted to be. If Cohen thought that I was like him, that one last speakeasy was worth it, then I had to get loud too.

Chapter 27

Last night, I slept.

The temptation to ride the streets of Beggs had nearly lured me out of bed. I lay there with heavy eyes, an odd sense of restfulness sinking me into the mattress. The last thing I remember was looking up at the pride flag and then…blinking away early-morning light.

Mom wasn’t in the dinette when I emerged from my room still groggy. At least the coffee pot was warm. I needed it to wake up, and three cups later I was downstairs in the garage and ready for another day of work.

The hum of the air compressor reverberated off the tiled floors, and I paused on the bottom step. Mom was already at work, with her feet sticking out from under the family SUV. A deep breath filled my lungs, then I exhaled slowly as I took in the shop. The usual grease-permeated smell was replaced by disinfectant and lemons from when I’d cleaned yesterday. It made Roaring Mechanics feel brand-new again. Different, atthe very least. Glimpses of dancing, of screams, of stomping footsteps fleeing filled my vision.

I rubbed my eyes, tried to rub away all thoughts of Saturday night, and crossed over to the toolbox. My hands trembled as I opened the drawer. The dread of what could be waiting after the raid had kept me from retrieving my phone, but I shook off the residual nerves. Forced myself to pick it up and turn it on. I held my breath while the screen slowly came to life. For a second, it was as though I hadn’t been offline for more than a day. Then the notifications started loading. Texts, voicemails, Instagram alerts—I checked those first, swiping to the app.

There were a dozen tagged photos of me from right here in the garage. Pictures of the speakeasy and me dancing right before it all went to shit. If I thought hard enough, I could still remember how free I’d felt the moment before hell broke loose. Now that control I’d once had was gone. In its place were Insta Reels. Captured videos of me screaming and opening the garage doors, the rush of bodies shoving their way out, the sound of Buchanan’s twang threatening us.

I tried to shut off those memories, my hands shaking as I held the phone. My thumb swiped back to exit the video feed and check my messages. There were countless alerts of tagged posts. I scrolled past them, down to the unread messages until I saw the screen name I was looking for. Cohen had sent multiple new DMs the night it all went down.

Sat10:13PM

bedmas_22

Just heard the mayor is searching for the speakeasy tonight

bedmas_22

I tried calling you but your phone went to voicemail

bedmas_22

You might want to call it off

bedmas_22

I’m on my way

bedmas_22

If you see this before I get there run

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