Page 20 of Rebel
“And this Bishop guy?” Calypso asks. “You trust him?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“Want to?”
“Also no.”
French grins. “Liar.”
I throw a coaster at her. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” French props her chin on her hand. “You’ve got that look, babe, like a cat that found something dangerous and can’t stop poking it.”
Divine scrolls through data on her tablet. “I ran a quick trace after you texted me. Carter Bishop’s records are clean. Too clean. Somebody scrubbed him years ago. Ex-Marine, private contractor, off-grid since 2021. And get this, his last known contact before going dark?” She looks up. “Alex Slade.”
The sound of my brother’s name hits like a hammer.
Allura’s eyes narrow. “Your brother’s ghost keeps getting louder.”
I nod, throat tight. “That’s why I went to the docks. The name wasn’t a coincidence.”
“And now you’re bringing cartel crossfire back to our doorstep,” Sloane says, voice cold but not cruel. “You realize what that means for the club?”
“Yeah.” I stand straighter. “It means I fix it before it hits home.”
Allura slides off the table, her gaze heavy but not accusing. “Then you’d better move carefully. If Bishop’s involved, he stays out of Church. Sacred is sacred. And don’t let some man with a gun and a sad story throw you off balance.”
“Who says he threw me off balance?”
French snorts. “Your face, your tone, your sudden urge to deep-clean your spreadsheets. Pick one.”
Calypso leans against the wall, grin slow and knowing. “What’s he like?”
“Annoying.”
“Hot?”
I roll my eyes. “He’s… aggravatingly competent.”
“Translation,” French says, “you’d climb him like a tree.”
I choke on my coffee. “Jesus, French.”
Allura’s lips twitch. “Ladies.”
“Sorry, Prez,” French says with mock solemnity. “I’ll be good. Eventually.”
The laughter that follows is the kind that rebuilds, warm, irreverent, and necessary. For a second, the weight lifts, and I remember why this place matters.
When the meeting breaks, Divine catches my wrist.Her voice is low. “Whoever scrubbed Bishop’s past has deep access. If you’re going to keep digging, I want in.”
“Not yet,” I tell her. “If I’m wrong…”
“Then I’ll delete the evidence,” she interrupts. “If you’re right, you’ll need backup.”
I nod, because she’s right, and because sayingthank youfeels too small.
The others drift back to their routines. French to the bar, Sloane to the security board, Calypso to her next client. I step onto the clubhouse porch. The morning smells of rain and motor oil.
