Page 22 of Rebel
“This a side thing?”
“Teaching someone they don’t get to touch things they don’t own.”
“Well, shit,” he laughs. “Gotta get your kicks somewhere, I guess. You hanging around?”
“Too wired to sleep.”
“I was about to walk about, check shit out.”
I glance at his book, he’s almost at the end. “Don’t get up.”
“Why, thank you,” he turns the page and goes back to reading.
With the bar closed and most of the brothers gone to their own homes for the night, everywhere is quiet. My mind goes back to seeing Kinsley for the first time, and the concern I felt about the potential for an attack on the clubhouse.
How wrong I’d been that night. It’s a wonder she even gives me the time of day after what I did. And here I am going after a guy who put his hands on her.
That guy needed a lesson about hurting all women. I will not feel bad, not after what he was watching and his arrests.
The church still has exterior lights on, highlighting the spire. I heard the priest say it’s a beacon for anyone who needs to find their way, showing they’re always welcome in the church.
Makes me wonder about something. I don't see anyone when I cross the street, checking the surroundings, and take the few steps up to the large double doors. When I try the handle, the door doesn’t budge.
Does that say something about the church and its bullshit message, or is it a sign of the times that not even a church is safe from criminals?
Knowing what I do, the latter is more likely. That church is full of expensive shit that can be stripped and sold. I’m not a religious person. Why believe in a god who can let people hurt each other the way they do? It doesn’t mean I look down on those who have faith.
Stryker is one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met, the damage he has done to so many people is untold. Both in the ring and for the club. He spends time in the church. I’ve never asked why.
He’s private, and we all respect that. It’s hard to believe he could be asking for forgiveness for his sins, of which we all have many.
Look at me on the steps of a church, getting all philosophical.
To the side of the steps is the path that leads to the building where Kinsley is staying. There are security lights, but to me, that tells people there might be something down there worth investigating.
There is a wall separating it from the street, the one she is planning to do her artwork on. Unless you’re standing here, on the church steps, you wouldn’t know about it.
The Blackhawk Disciples have always protected the church. In the old days, it was about monitoring people coming and going close to the clubhouse. Now it’s about building a sense of community.
Yes, Nero wants to make sure everyone is happy and safe and not touched by what we do, but if he felt that strongly, he’d move us away from this neighborhood.
I’ve been friends with Nero since we were River and Noah, two middle school kids who used to run around getting into all kinds of trouble. We’ve fought plenty during our decades-long friendship, but we always have and always will have each other’s back, even if we’re not always aligned.
I spare one last glance down the alleyway and let my mind wander to what she might be doing, then come to my senses, remember who the fuck I am, and go back to the clubhouse.
A few hours later, I wake up on the couch when Zephyr plonks his ass down and drops his artificial leg on the coffee table, making a loud bang. He could get an upgrade, he has more money than most of us, but he keeps the heavy, fake skin looking monstrosity.
It’s a health hazard and makes him limp even more than a one-legged man should. When shit goes down, it makes a great weapon. You’ve never seen weird, till you watch an old man with a ponytail and a bandana beating the shit out of someone with his false leg.
He gives me a sideways stare and lifts his chin as he turns on the TV. One of these days we’re gonna find the old coot dead on this couch.
“Fuck,” I grunt, turning my head to get the crick out of my neck.
Getting up and stretching out my back doesn’t help. A prospect gives me his cigarettes and lighter when I ask if anyone has any. I don’t smoke often enough to carry them with me, but want one now.
Outside, the bright light makes me wince. I feel like I’ve got a hangover from hell when I barely touched any alcohol last night.
After lighting the cigarette, I sit down on a low concrete fence post between the entrances to the bar and clubhouse.
