Page 1 of Rebel
PROLOGUE
REBEL
Los Angeles doesn’t sleep. It just changes shifts. This little corner does, though. An unmarked cemetery tucked behind a crumbling church no one bothers to lock anymore, far from streetlights and sermons. This is where the noise fades out, and the city stops trying to look holy.
I kill the engine of my sleek black Sportster 1200, letting the rumble fade into the wind. My boots sink into damp earth as I walk between crooked headstones, counting rows until I find the one with no name. Just a slab of rock and an uncarved cross.
I kneel and set the bottle of whiskey beside it.
“Hey, brother.” My voice comes out rougher than I expect, softer than I meant. “Guess it’s just you and me again.”
Dawn spreads low and ugly across the sky, violet and gray through the smog. The kind of morning that feels unfinished.
I pull a ledger from my cut and rest it against the headstone. The leather is worn, and the edges are bent. The pages are warped by sweat, bar spills, and long nights at the clubhouse table. The numbers inside are clean, or they were until a few weeks ago.
“You always smelled of engine oil and cheap soap,” I murmur, dragging my thumb over the cover. “You said the world couldn’t break what was already cracked.”
A tear slips free before I can stop it. I wipe it away quickly, irritated.
“You’d laugh if you saw me now. Treasurer for an all-female MC. We’ve got our own bar, our own fight ring, and a shelter for women who need a place to start over. All legit.” A humorless laugh slips through my teeth. “Mostly. Allura would skin me alive if she knew I was here alone.”
The wind catches my blonde hair, tangling it around my face. I swipe it back, tracing the stone’s cold edge. “Thing is, Alex… someone’s using your name.”
I flip open the ledger, and the pages flutter in the breeze. “Money’s moving through one of our fronts, Slade Logistics. Cute, right? You die a hero, and some asshole turns your name into a laundering route.” My jaw tightens hard enough to ache. If this blows back on the club, it won’t just be your name in the dirt. It’ll be all of ours.
For a moment, the silence presses too tightly, and I hate how easy it is to imagine him leaning against a headstone, arms crossed, smirking at me for being dramatic. Calling me Vic, like he always did when he wanted to get under my skin. No one else ever calls me that. The only one who saw the cracks and didn’t try to fix them.
Ipour two fingers of whiskey into the dirt and let it soak deep.
“I’m going to find out who,” I whisper. “And when I do, I won’t just make them bleed. I’ll make them regret ever learning your name.”
The bottle goes back into my bag. The ledger follows.
I stand, brushing dirt from my knees, and glance toward the horizon. The first real light of morning cuts through the smog like it’s late for something important. The world keeps moving, like it doesn’t care that the best part of me lies buried six feet under. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s the point.
When I swing my leg over my bike, the air feels heavier. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I swear I can feel him watching, waiting. I twist the throttle, and the engine growls back to life.
As I roll toward the narrow drive, a flash of headlights cuts through the trees. My pulse spikes, but I don’t slow. Whoever it is can follow, or they can leave. I’m not hiding.
I spot Bones leaning against his bike, as if he’s got nowhere else to be. A cigarette burns low between his fingers. Smoke curls around his jaw. He always preferred watching and waiting in the shadows, letting others make the first move.
The ember flares as he takes a drag. I read his lips before I hear him. “You shouldn’t have come here, Rebel.”
1
REBEL
Numbers don’t lie. People do. That’s why I trust the books more than I trust faces. Cash always carries a stink of sweat, smoke, sometimes blood, but once it’s in my hands, it tells me everything I need to know. The Royal Harlots’ clubhouse used to smell of bourbon and gunpowder. Now it smells like fresh paint and a second chance.
We rebuilt after the attack that nearly leveled this place. Calypso swore we’d rise from ash and asphalt, and damn if we didn’t. The new building is a blend of brick and chrome, with sharp lines and feminine edges. Graffiti tags mark the doorway of each Royal Harlots chapter, warning every bastard on the coast that this is the Royal Harlots' territory.
From the upstairs office above the strip club, I can see most of the compound through the big bay window. The bar sits closest to the road, with music pulsing even on a Tuesday. Next to it, the tattoo parlor gleams behindsmoked glass. French’s idea of marketing. Let them wonder what kind of art a woman with brass knuckles designs.
Out back, the fight ring glints under floodlights, iron fence still slick from last night’s rain. Beyond a second wall of steel and razor wire lies our shelter. The Haven. The quietest corner of our chaos.
I should be asleep. Instead, I’m staring at spreadsheets bleeding red across my monitor.
The bass from the main stage thumps through the walls, rattling the thin glass of the office window. A muffled cheer rises as one of the girls drops low on the pole, then bills smack the stage floor. Out front, everyone’s laughing, drinking, and forgetting their problems. Back here, I’m not.
