Page 17 of Rebel
Inside, the clubhouse hums with the after-hours rhythm of our world. French’s music filters in from the bar. Calypso’s laugh carries from the tattoo shop, followed by Farris’ deep, throaty voice. The scent of whiskey and leather fills the hall.
I lead Carter past the main room into one of the back offices. It’s quiet, sterile, and mostly used for first aid and paperwork.
He leans against the counter as I dig through the med kit. “You’re sure about this? I’ve had worse.”
“Good. Then you’ll sit still.” His eyes follow me, tracking every movement, cataloging my weaknesses. Or maybe something else. “Off,” I say, nodding toward his jacket.
He arches a brow. “Usually takes more than one drink to get me to strip.”
“Try me, Bishop.”
He grins but obeys, peeling the leather from his shoulders. The cut on his arm is ugly, deep enough to sting,shallow enough to heal. I pour disinfectant over it. He doesn’t flinch.
“Tough guy act’s cute,” I mutter, wrapping the bandage tight.
“Wasn’t an act.”
“Sure.”
When I finish, he catches my wrist before I can pull away. “Your turn.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” His voice drops, quieter but sharper. “Sit down.”
It’s the command in his tone that gets to me. It’s not anger or arrogance, just the sound of a man used to giving orders when everything’s falling apart.
I sit, muttering curses under my breath, while he kneels in front of me. His calloused fingers stay steady as he brushes lightly over my thigh, lifting the torn denim.
The graze is shallow, but the heat from his skin makes it feel deeper. I look away, pretending not to notice how close he is.
He cleans the wound, gentle yet efficient, binding it with the same care I’d give a ledger that won’t balance.
“Why’d you really come to Long Beach?” I ask.
“Same reason you did,” he replies. “Chasing ghosts that don’t stay buried.”
“Don’t feed me riddles, Bishop.”
He ties off the bandage and leans back on his heels. “You want the truth? Fine. I was there when Alex died.”
The words hit harder than the gunfire. My pulse stops, then surges back, too fast. I stare at him. “You… what?”
He nods once, grim. “We were working a retrieval op together. Alex thought he was pulling data from a cartel courier. It turned out it was bait. The Vultures ambushed us.”
“The Vultures?” My voice cracks. “You’re telling me they killed him?”
“They set the trap,” he says quietly. “I was supposed to pull him out, but I didn’t make it in time.”
The room suddenly feels smaller, like the walls are leaning in to listen. The sharp smell of antiseptic turns metallic in my nose, and for a moment, his voice sounds distant, like it’s traveling through water instead of air. The story I’ve lived with for four years begins to fracture. I thought the cartel killed my twin. Now he’s telling me it was the Vultures.
Does Capone know? Did they try to bury the truth? Does Bones know?
All I hear is my own breathing and the steady rhythm of his confession, as if he’s been holding it in his chest for years.
“So this whole thing…” I stop, swallow hard. Carter doesn’t need to know club business, so I pivot. “You’ve been chasing their money trail ever since?”
“Yeah.” His gaze drops to the floor, then lifts. “The accounts, the shell companies, the A. Slade Logistics ghost, the Silver Talon wash, all of it ties back to them. And someone’s resurrecting the pipeline.”
