Page 44 of Rebel
I climb my way back down through my bedroom window, and this time Soph trusts me. She lowers her legs down and I catch her around the waist, pulling her back in through the window. I can feel her heart slamming against my chest as I hold her a second too long against me. God, I’m a glutton for the worst kind of punishment. She’s not for me. She’s for some fuckhead back in Seattle called Matt, apparently.
I intend on keeping my word; I’ll drive her to the Greyhound stop in the morning, and she and I will go our separate ways. It’ll be for the best. The more I thought about it, the shittier I felt about forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do. I’ve never been that person. Losing Ryan has been seriously fucking shitty, but I can’t darken my soul even more by stooping to these new lows.
It’s gonna be dark enough after I’ve finished with Maria Rosa.
I let Soph sleep in the bed, and I fall asleep in the reading chair beside the window, listening to the cicadas’ song. When I wake up, the day is barely breaking, and my father is standing over me in his dressing gown.
“So,” he says.
“So?”
“You’re not even man enough to sleep in the same bed as the woman you’re fuckin’? All the girls paradin’ around this place in their underwear when you were a teenager, I thought you were at least about to get your dick hard, boy.”
And so it begins.
“Good to see you, too, Sir.”
“Don’t you fuckingSirme.” My father’s always loved his food, but he’s a skinny, slight man. I think it makes him self-conscious—that’s why he’s always eating and eating and eating, never sated. He’d be the fattest man in Alabama if he had his way. Instead, he looks like a half-starved chicken that’s had it neck wrung. His wattle wobbles from side to side as he looms over me, shaking. “You’ve got no respect,” he tells me, as though I may not have already known this fact. “You say Sir the same way other people saydysentery.”
That one makes me laugh. Comparing himself to shit? Nothing could be more appropriate. Louis doesn’t take kindly to my amusement. “Who is she then? Some fucking waitress you picked up? Don’t tell me you’ve got her fucking pregnant, you little shit. If you think bringing her here, showing off your new prize pony will mean I’m gonna give you any money, you are sadly mistaken.”
I rocket to my feet, blowing hard down my nose. “You told me to come here, Louis. And what makes you think I need your money? I haveneverasked you for money.”
“Well, I just assumed that since you’ve clearly been spending your meager wage on whores…” He gestures to Soph. I see that she’s awake now, propped up on one elbow in the bed, eyes wide. “You probably aren’t flush with cash.”
I swing for him. In all the years I’ve been verbally, mentally and physically abused by my father, I’ve taken everything he’s given to me. The dynamic has always been pretty straightforward between us: I killed my mother. My father hates me for it. I deserve anything he throws at me.
But not this time. Not this. Not Sophia.
My fist connects with his jaw. A bright pain lances up my arm, a pain so familiar and welcome that I almost laugh. My father staggers back, clutching his hand to his face. He doesn’t fall down—I haven’t hit him that hard. Just hard enough to teach him some fucking manners.
A cold rage boils behind his eyes when he looks up at me. “Finally,” he says. “Some fucking backbone. After all these years. Good to see the army at least taught you how to hit right.”
“No, Sir. It wasn’t the army that taught me that. It wasyou.” I’m panting, ready to launch at him again, but Sophia sits up in the bed properly now, gathering the sheets around her. Louis casts a very brief glance over her, disgust written all over his face. “It won’t last,” he says. He’s not addressing Soph, though. He’s addressing me. “She’s a leeching opportunist at best. At worst, a whore with no morals. Mark my words. She’ll represent nothing more than an empty bank account and semen-stained sheets by the end of the month. I know a gold-digging cunt when I see one.”
That word sounds so much worse when my father says it—he spits it out like a bullet, aiming to hurt, maim, kill. I let my expression fall completely flat. “You need to leave.Right now.”
“Get your ass down to breakfast. You expect to show up here and not join your family in a civilized manner?” He looks at Sophia again, a sneer of contempt twisting his face. “And if you insist on bringingherdown, make sure she dresses appropriately. This isn’t a fucking cat house.”
He turns, striding out of the bedroom, his dressing gown flaring out behind him like a goddamn cape. A sharp, bitter fury rises up in me. It hits me with the force of a freight train. I lunge forward, ready to go after the fucker, but then Sophia’s in front of me, her hands pressed up against my chest.
“Don’t. Don’t do it. He’s expecting it.”
I let out a small laugh, running both hands back through my hair and pulling. “No, he’s not. He has his precious fucking campaign fundraiser tonight. The last thing he wants is a fucking busted-up face while he’s asking his fucking Ivy League fucking pig friends for a backhander.” I grind out each word, knowing it’s true. My father did not expect me to lash out at him. Never in a million years. I saw the look of shock on his face, right before my fist connected with his jaw. I guess he’s gotten used to my tolerance of his abuse, but his attitude toward Soph? He can give me shit all day long, but he cannotcall her a whore.
“Well, he’s already going to have a split lip and a bruised jaw. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
I grit my teeth together, trying to bring my heart rate down. “No. It’s not.”
“Look at me.” Soph’s hands are on me again, this time on my face. She forces me to look down at her. She’s touching me. She’s trying to calm me down. That in itself is confusing. My father just insulted her and she doesn’t seem fazed. She didn’t protest. She didn’t tell him she had no choice but to come here—that the very last thing she cares about is his goddamn money.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction,” she says softly. “If you lose it, he’ll know he still has power over you.”
I look down at her, adrenalin still firing through my veins, and I do something stupid. It’s not even a case of me making a conscious decision to act; it just happens. I fold my arms around her, and I kiss her. She goes still in my arms, hands still flush against my face, as I press my lips against hers. She tastes sweet, just like sugar. Just like the name I’ve been using to try and irritate her the past few days. I couldn’t have known how appropriate it was until now. She’s holding her breath as I persuade her mouth open, and then dip my tongue inside. Instead of lowering my heart rate, my pulse is now jackhammering, my blood roaring around my body.
I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw her in the fucked-up prom dress outside Julio’s place. I’ve wanted to run my hands over her body, claim her as my own. I can feel her warring in her head—torn between letting me kiss her, kissing me back, or pushing me away. In the end, she does all three.
She remains still a moment more, but then she begins to sink into me, her back curving, bringing her body closer, her chest pressing up against mine. I bury my hands in her hair, my breath and hers combining, quickening, as she responds to me. Her tongue slips into my mouth, tastingmenow. Her hands move from my face, sliding back around my neck, until she’s wrapping her arms around me, pulling me tighter.
