Page 30 of Rebel
“Maria Rosa,” I say. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I assume you know how much I like waiting, uh?” She sounds bored, but she must be fuming. She’s about to get even madder. “What have you decided, my love? What are you offering in return for my help?”
I take a deep breath. “Nothing.”
The line goes utterly silent. I hold my tongue, waiting for her to say something. To acknowledge that she’s even still there, let alone that she heard what I said.
Eventually, I hear a sharp scraping sound on the other end of the line—sounds like fingernails down a chalkboard. “So you expect me to help you for free? Is that what you mean to say?”
“No, Mother. I’m saying we can’t afford to start fucking around with a federal agency. And we won’t hand over the Widowers for your personal use, either. That’s what you want from us, and it’s not possible. So we’ll go without your help if we have to.”
“You’re an arrogant motherfucker, Rebel. You think I couldn’t smash your little club into the dirt if I wanted to? You’re pathetic.”
This is not going well. “Oh, Mother. Of course you could, but I’m hoping you won’t. If you do that, we won’t be friends anymore. I’d have to retaliate, and you’d do the same. It would be the start of a vicious cycle. And let me tell you, you may think my club is small, but it can bereallyfucking vicious.”
“Pssshh. You’re threatening me?”
“No. I’m just politely retracting my request for assistance.”
“You couldn’t be polite if your life depended on it, motherfucker.” The tone of her voice changes, then, softening. “But I understand. You don’t need my help, anymore? Fine. I’ll let you handle Hector on your own. But I’m a business woman, my love. When you’re up to your balls in hot water and you can’t fucking see a way out—that’s when you’ll call me again. And my prices will be a hell of a lot higher than they are now, I swear that to you.”
I smile, even though I have absolutely no reason to. “I won’t call, Mother. I never do. It’s kind of my thing.” I don’t know if she hangs up first or I do. All I know is my phone is in my hands and I’m staring down at the blank screen, wondering what just happened. Maria Rosa is a complete psycho. She could either take severe offence at what’s just gone down or she could have forgotten about it by next week. A person can never tell with her. This whole situation is one gigantic motherfucking head fuck.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind me has me reaching for my damn gun again. Sophia backs into the closed door when she sees the look on my face. “I’m sorry. You said you’d be waiting, so I came out.”
I stand, cracking my knuckles one at a time. I’ve been doing that since I was a teenager—a coping mechanism, a ritual I complete when I’m on the verge of flying off the handle. Saved me from kicking Dad’s ass about twenty or thirty times, that’s for sure. “Come on, let’s go.” I snatch up the bag and heft it onto my shoulder, setting off to the right, toward the flat, graveled area where we park cars and motorcycles that won’t fit into the compound. I don’t check to see if she’s following. She better fucking had be, though. I’ve just given Maria Rosa the flick, so now Sophia’s our only option. I will pick her up and toss her the fuck over my shoulder if I have to. My boots skid down the loose shale slope that drops away in front of the cabin. I’m almost at the bottom when I hear the cautious, sliding steps of someone coming down after me.
Good. She’s doing as she’s told. I wait for her, no more than ten seconds, and then I’m walking again, around the buttress of a tessellated rock formation that shields the parking area from view. The Humvee’s right where Cade left it when he got back from our little road trip. Alongside the gleaming black beast, a not-so-shit-hot Dodge Charger—blue, rusting wheel arches, a total bomb—has been up on blocks for the past eight weeks. Carnie keeps saying he’s going to fix her up, but so far all he’s done is sit in the driver’s seat and smoke pot for hours on end. If the fucking thing isn’t either souped-up and ready to roll or completely gone by the time we get back, I’m towing it out into the desert and firebombing the fucking thing. I throw the bag into the back of the Hummer, growling under my breath.
“Am I allowed to sit back there?” Sophia asks. Her arms are folded across her body, but she’s not defensive. She’s unsure. I don’t have time to be arguing over stupid shit with her right now, so I just shrug.
“Whatever you need, Miss Daisy.” She goes to sit on the driver’s side in the back and I grab her by the shoulders and forcibly redirect her to the passenger’s side. “I know you’re a pretty smart girl, so stop planning stupid shit.” She’s seen too many action movies. I’m willing to put good money on the fact that she thinks she can try and subdue me from behind while we’re driving or something, and that isn’t gonna happen. Not without one or both of us dying horribly when I flip the damn car. Her look of irritation only proves my suspicions.
I bundle her in the car and hop into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. She stares out of the car window, the muscles in her throat working overtime as she clearly tries to come up with another scheme to get herself out of this situation. I hit the lock button, and all four doors to the vehicle respond instantly, thunking closed. They won’t open until I hit that button again. Sophia gives me a tired roll of her eyes—I see it in the rearview as I speed away from the compound and the rest of the Widow Makers. We’re silent for a long time. Surprisingly, she breaks the silence first.
“How long does it take to get to Alabama?”
“’Bout nineteen hours.” I look in the rearview again and catch the stricken look on her face.
“I am so sick of being trapped in cars. Why do you insist on driving everywhere? It’d probably take a couple of hours on a plane, max.”
She’d fucking love that—me trying to herd her through TSA. Her screaming about my holding her captive. Me getting my ass thrown into jail. I reach behind me, shifting so I can grab my gun from my waistband. “I don’t know of any airlines that will let me takethisas carry on,” I tell her, holding up the Glock I stole from my father when I was twenty-four. The night Laura went missing.
Sophia tries not to react, but I see her eyes go wide in the mirror. I’m used to being around guns now. Something feels off if I don’t feel the weight of the Glock at the base of my spine at all times. For Sophia, a weapon like that is something to be afraid of. For me, it’s a necessary accessory that enables me to get through my day without ending up dead.
“You should be careful with that,” Sophia tells me, angling her body so her back’s half turned to me. Looks uncomfortable. I laugh, returning the Glock to my waistband.
“You think I don’t know how to handle a gun?”
“My dad’s an anesthesiologist. He’s sat in on so many surgeries where guys have been shot in the feet. In the thighs.In the junk.” She seems especially pleased with that one. “All because the assholes tuck their piece into their pants like a G. So fucking stupid.”
I’ve heard her curse before, but this time it actually registers—the Widowers have plenty of groupies, women who aren’t exactly what you’d call ladies. The language on some of them could rival any of the club members. It’s not that I think chicks shouldn’t swear, but there’s something about Sophia. It’s just seriously entertaining when she does it.
“What the hell are you grinning about up there?” she snaps. I forget that since I can see her, she can see me in the mirror, too.
“Absolutely nothing. Just enjoying the scenery.” Ironic, since we’re staring at scrub and dirt and not much else for miles.
“You’re just like them, y’know? The men my dad used to come home talking about. Reckless. Selfish. People like you don’t give a shit about anybody else.”
