Page 5 of Rebel
“Morning, hellcats,” I announce.
French doesn’t look up. “You mean noon, Treasurer. Time is a social construct, but your deadlines aren’t.”
“Bite me.”
“Only if you bring donuts next time,” French says, scribbling figures.
“Cute,” I say, handing her one of the coffees. “But you’re not getting the donut.”
Divine glances over her screen. “You look like you slept with one eye open and a calculator under your pillow.”
“Tax season,” I say dryly. She was to close on that assessment.
Calypso saunters in from the tattoo shop, carrying Annabelle on her hip and a smirk on her lips. Our niece is a spitting image of Calypso, even at six months old, with her dark hair and piercing green eyes. “No, that’s her tax-evading stare,” Calypso says, tickling Annabelle on the belly, making the baby laugh. “You know, when she’s mentally hiding bodies and receipts.”
“I’m just allergic to incompetence.” I sip my coffee. “Unfortunately, it’s airborne.”
“Then you’re in the wrong business,” Iris mutters, smirking.
Laughter bounces off the walls. Even Iris cracks a grin. The sound fills the space like the hum of engines, loud, alive, and unapologetic.
For a second, it almost drowns out the noise in my own head. I take the empty chair beside French and steal one of her pens just to annoy her. “Everything set for fight night?”
“Mostly.” Iris looks up from her clipboard. “Ringside lighting’s fixed, and the security detail’s doubled. We got a new girl, calls herself Ashes, says she can handle herself. I told her if she bleeds out, she cleans it up.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Divine snorts. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“Allura knew that when she gave me a calculator and called it trust.” That word lands heavier than it should. Trust isn’t light around here. It’s earned in bruises and blood.
When I push the heavy double doors of the Church open, carrying two cups of coffee, I know that if I show up with caffeine, no one will ask why I look like hell warmed over. The sound outside dims to nothing.
The Royal Harlots’ Church isn’t a dim biker bunker like most MCs. It’s a sanctum. Part war room, part temple, part confession booth. The room is soundproofed, its walls reinforced, and layered with tech. The air hums faintly from Divine’s security system. If anyone even tries to eavesdrop, the network dies, and the doors lock.
Lighting is low, warm, and deliberate. Edison bulbshang from a matte-black chandelier crafted from motorcycle chains, gears, and bullet casings, welded into an intricate crown. When lit, spokes of light spin across the ceiling like a halo forged in steel.
The walls are deep plum and charcoal, lined with framed black-and-white photos of the women who came before us. Founders, fallen sisters. Survivors who refused to stay buried. Their road names are etched beneath each frame like vows carved in bone.
The floor is polished concrete with a faint metallic sheen. Practical and beautiful, it reflects the massive oval table like an altar.
The table is carved from reclaimed steel and black walnut, wide enough to seat eight officers and six patched sisters. Beneath the resin, the Royal Harlots MC patch gleams like defiance stitched in ink and bone. At its heart is a striking woman’s face, painted in ornate Día de los Muertos makeup. Half beautiful, half spectral. A golden crown rests on her dark hair, jeweled roses curling around its base like thorns turned to bloom. On either side of her, two silver skulls stare outward, silent sentinels of loyalty and death. Below, a pair of crossed motorcycle pistons glints beneath the roses, a symbol of the engine that binds every sister to the road. The top rocker arcs proudly with ROYAL HARLOTS MC, and the bottom declares our home turf, LOS ANGELES, CA.
It’s a banner of rebellion and sisterhood, beauty, power, and mortality, welded into one unforgettable emblem.
Along the rim of the table, our road names are etchedin copper: Allura, Sloane, Rebel, French, Divine, Iris, Raven, Calypso.
There’s no “head” of the table. Allura’s chair faces the door in respect, not dominance.
Opposite her, the ridge of steel bears the engraving: From Ash and Asphalt, We Rise.
Each chair is forged for the woman who sits in it. Allura’s chair bears a crown and teal waves, faintly scented with sea salt and sandalwood. Sloane’s is a silver anchor crossed with a dagger, with rope coiled tight for discipline and duty. My chair has ledger lines burned into leather, an infinity-shaped dollar sign, and copper studs. The chair creaks when I lean back, a reminder that balance always costs.
French’s chair is made of diamond-heel etched in leather, one cracked, one pristine. Divine’s chair features a circuit-board engraving with a serpent, and faint LED pulses under her touch. Iris’s chair, like the flower she’s named after, has violet flowers stitched over a coastal map, with a route pouch in the arm.
Raven’s has matte-black feathers and a silver bullet embossed at the crown. Calypso’s has a tattoo gun crossed with a badge star, crimson thread, and scars in the leather she refuses to replace.
To the left of the room, Divine's glowing security station hums quietly. To the right is the glass Remembrance Niche, with eight spent shells from the night we were attacked. In the back of the room, a small shrine features infinity candles burning around a chrome chalice engravedwith:
