Page 3 of Rebel
“Maybe,” I say, flipping the ledger shut. “But today isn’t the day.”
French leaves, and I glance once more at the Silver Talon entry, that neat little line hiding in the dark between decimals. Numbers don’t lie, but they sure as hell know how to whisper when someone’s trying to bury the truth.
I collect my things, close the office above the strip club, and hurry into the Clubhouse. I need more proof and more access to my books than I would get there. Once I’m settled, I open the ledgers and skim through everything from top to bottom.
Footsteps echo down the hall, boots, heavy and confident. Allura and Sloane. Midnight conference hour.
The door swings open. Allura steps in first, her sea-green eyes sharp enough to cut glass. VP Sloane follows right behind her like a shadow in leather.
“You still crunching numbers?” Allura asks.
“Someone’s gotta make sure our good deeds don’t bankrupt us,” I joke.
Sloane folds her arms. “You mean the bar didn’t cover the shelter’s new roof?”
“The bar barely covers Calypso’s tequila budget.” That earns Sloane the smallest curve of a smile, an accomplishment worth framing.
Allura leans against the desk, scanning the screen. “Everything running clean?”
“Clean enough.” My lie tastes like copper. I slide the top folder over the printouts, hiding the glaring red flags beneath.
Allura studies me for a beat too long, then pushes off the desk. “Don’t stay up all night, Rebel. You start snarling when you don’t sleep.”
“Snarling’s my charm.” Allura and Sloane leave with matching smirks, and I wait until the echo of their boots fades before exhaling. Pride and fear twist in my gut. Equal parts accountant and outlaw.
When you’re Treasurer of a one-percent club, you don’t get the luxury of mistakes.
I reopen the hidden spreadsheet. Donations meant for The Haven have been rerouted. Twelve grand here, twenty there, small enough to slip past a casual glance yet steady enough to build a trail. The destination: A. Slade Logistics LLC.
My chair squeaks as I lean back. The air leaves my lungs.
A. Slade.
Alex’s name glows cold on my screen.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. It’s as if the air’s been sucked out of the room, replaced by the taste of dirt and gunpowder.
“Son of a…” I whisper, but the words fall apart.
Alex’s been dead for four years. He was shot in an ambush that was never supposed to happen. After theRoyal Bastards cleaned up the Cartel hit that killed Alex, Bones, the guy I was seeing at the time, buried him off-grid.
Bones buried him off the grid, just as he lived. Nobody, and I mean nobody, should have that name in their system.
I scroll deeper. The transactions loop through offshore accounts, bouncing between shell corporations before landing in a trust held by an anonymous signatory. Clean. Professional. The kind of laundering that requires resources. The kind you’d kill to keep quiet.
My hand trembles as I reach for the whiskey bottle in the drawer. I take a swig straight from the neck, letting the burn ground me.
Behind me, the door creaks again.
“Still working?” Divine’s voice is softer than usual. She pads in barefoot, wearing one of her oversized band tees, with a tablet tucked under her arm.
“Just finishing reports.”
She eyes the whiskey. “Uh-huh.” She slides onto the couch and taps her screen. “You know, the firewall’s been pinged three times tonight. Someone’s sniffing around our accounts.”
I freeze. “You think it’s the Vultures?”
“Could be. It could be the Bloody Femmes testing our defenses, or a drunk hacker in his mom’s basement. You know how it is.” She glances up. “You sure you’re good?”
