Page 8 of Rebel
Kinsley is watching me, she’s too far away to read her expression. A stupid and childish reaction takes over, and as I stand to my full height and grab my helmet. I raise my middle finger at her.
She doesn’t react, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me either. I've got inside her head. And I will be it long after I ride away too.
The real problem is, she's in mine.
Chapter Three
Kinsley
Marisol didn’t notice the rude as fuck biker flipping me off, which is a good thing. She might have forgiven my slip-ups in church, but I doubt she’d appreciate a leather-clad heathen making a rude gesture at a woman.
My lip twitches as he rides away. Bet he thinks he’s getting to me with that little gesture, what it did was show me I got tohim. Men are so dumb sometimes.
When I turn to ask Marisol which way to go, she gives me a narrow-eyed stare.
“What?”
“Father Eastwood is tolerant of the men from that club because they do a lot of work with the church and keep the neighborhood safe, but no good ever came of falling for one of them.”
“Falling for one,” I splutter. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“Hmm. I guess it doesn’t cause any harm to look,” she grins, like she does it too.
“Marisol,” I nudge her with my elbow.
“Young, pretty woman like you, they’ll like you. All I’ll say is, be careful.”
“Careful how?”
“Not like that,” she shakes her head, the teasing tone gone. “Lord knows the things they get up to inside those walls and whatever other business they’re involved in. They won’t hurt you. But they will make it known if they find you attractive.”
“Sometimes that is just as bad,” I mutter.
“You tell them straight, they’ll back off. I’ve seen it happen. Of course,” she takes my elbow and leads me down the sidewalk. “Most of the women who come around here are looking for a good time. And between you and me,” she leans in, linking our arms together. “If I were twenty years younger, there are one or two of those men I wouldn’t mind sharing a strawberry daiquiri with.”
“Okay,” I grin at the visual of a biker with a pink cocktail. “I see how it is. Does my cousin know you have the hots for the bikers across the street?”
“Heavens no. He wouldn’t let me organize the food drives with them if he thought I was having impure thoughts.”
We laugh as we head to a small coffee shop on the next block. The motorcycle clubhouse and bar beside it are visible from the seat we take by the window. I might pop in for a drink later and catch up with Raven.
It has nothing to do with her brother.
“How long have you worked at the church?” I ask Marisol.
She’s slim and a lot shorter than me, I’d guess around mid-fifties, but she has a spring in her step and a beautiful, kind smile that makes her appear younger. She’s pretty cool, I like her.
“Eighteen years. I’ve seen four priests come and go at this parish, every single one of them more different than the last. I’m hoping I end my working years with Father Eastwood. He’s a good man, we all see how much he cares.”
While I sip my coffee, I think about that. It’s odd as hell hearing people call him Father Eastwood. It’s going to take some getting used to.
We chat about her family, a husband, two sons, and three cats. She tells me she met the love of her life later than planned, which is why her kids are still in high school.
“What about you, any boyfriend back in LA?”
“Only exes,” I laugh. “The kind that are bad for me.”
“Sometimes they’re the best kind.”
