Page 68 of Rebel
“Divine pulled footage from the gala. He’s alive, but gone dark again,” Allura explains. “We don’t know where he’s operating from, or if he’s working angles for or against us. But if he’s keeping the Vultures off our backs, we let him. For now.”
“Until he isn’t,” Sloane finishes, voice like flint.
“Exactly.”
I inhale slowly, the weight of that unspokenhe saved uscoiling under my ribs. Carter hasn’t said it out loud, but we both know Bones covered our exit.
Allura rises, palms flat on the table. “Meeting adjourned. Get some food in you before you fall over, Rebel. You look like hell warmed up.”
“Appreciate the honesty,” I reply dryly.
French claps me on the back. “Come on, sugar. Let’s see if Iris cooked or if we’re all dying by microwave.”
Annabelle grabs my hand and tugs. “Come play, Aunt Rebel!”
I can’t say no to that voice. “Alright, Menace. Five minutes.”
She beams. “Ten!”
“Five,” I counter. “And no motorcycles.” Her giggle rings down the hall as Farris scoops her up again. The sound fills the spaces that grief used to live in.
For two weeks, Fight Night posters hang on every light pole from Venice Beach to East L.A. The warehouse lot transforms into our own coliseum. Neon floods the air, the scent of smoke and whiskey tangled with grilled meat and oil. Music pounds. Banners flap in the coastal wind.
The shelter kids work the snack tables, and volunteers in patched vests hand out shirts that readFists for Futures. The whole place feels alive, dangerous, and holy, exactly how we like it.
Carter’s shoulder has healed into a rough pink scar, the kind that doesn’t fade, just learns to stay quiet. Mine still burns invisible, anger, fear, wanting. None of those ever leaves clean.
The lot glows under floodlights and red-striped canopies. The Harlots run the show, but the real show of force rides in just after dusk.
The Royal Bastards MC.
Capone’s crew arrives like thunder. His bike leads, pipes rumbling low. Behind him are Torch and Daisy, Derange and Jezebelle, Aftermath and Kensi, Jax and Rose, Seth and Daisy’s twin Knight. Their cuts catch every camera flash.
Capone climbs off his Harley, grin wicked. “Figured you could use backup that doesn’t wear lipstick.”
“Don’t knock the lipstick,” I fire back. “It hides the blood.”
He laughs, clapping my shoulder. “Security’s tight. My brothers are covering the perimeter and roof. Anyone who tries to crash your fundraiser will leave in pieces.”
“Appreciate it, Prez.”
“Family’s family.”
French yells through her megaphone, “Big thanks to the Royal Bastards MC for standing with the Harlots tonight!” The crowd explodes. Engines roar in salute.
Carter leans on his bike at the edge of the lot, denim jacket loose over a black tee, scar glowing pale under the floodlights. He catches me watching and smiles, the kind of smile that remembers every sin.
Capone follows my gaze, then snorts. “That your Marine?”
“Mine enough.”
“He looks like he could chew rebar.”
“Only if you start it,” I say, and Capone grins, satisfied.
He turns and scans the crowd until he seeks out his Ol’ Lady, Danyella. The look they trade could idle an engine. You can feel the love across the parking lot between those two.
French sidles up, handing me a beer. “You look like a woman about to commit a crime.”
