Page 89 of Rebel
The club. The brothers I left behind. The ones I owe everything to and who have every right to hate me.
I ride into the dark, helmet tucked close, the ocean chasing my shadow.
A ghost among sinners. And maybe, if the road’s long enough, I’ll find forgiveness waiting at the end.
26
REBEL
The road hums beneath the tires, a steady rhythm that sounds almost like breathing again. Rain beats on the windshield, the wipers swiping in slow arcs. The ocean is a gray smear to my right, endless and quiet. Carter drives one-handed, the other resting on the console where his fingers brush mine every so often, with small, grounding touches that feel like a heartbeat we share.
Neither of us talks. We don’t need to. The words we said at Alex’s grave still hang between us, soft, heavy, final. The kind of truth you don’t repeat because it’s already written into the skin.
The smell of salt and motor oil fills the SUV. I roll the window down an inch, let the sea air sting my face. Behind us, the horizon still glows faintly with the fires we lit, but the smoke’s fading fast. Ahead, the coast unwinds into light and possibility.
I press my palm to the glass, watching the water blur by. Alex’s dog tags rest against my chest, warm from body heat. Every time the chain shifts, it catches on the edge of my cut like a reminder—he’s still here, just not in the way I used to need him to be.
Carter glances at me. “You okay?”
“Ask me tomorrow.”
He half-smiles, eyes flicking back to the road. “Fair enough.”
Silence settles again, easy this time. The kind that feels earned.
By the time we hit the city limits, the rain has thinned to mist. Neon bleeds through the fog of clubs, diners, and half-awake neighborhoods, shaking off the night. When we pass the turnoff to the Royal Bastards’ compound, I catch sight of Bones’ bike parked near the ridge road, half-buried in fog. The sight hits me like déjà vu and a warning all at once.
Carter notices. “You think he’ll come back?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “He’s got ghosts to settle. Same as the rest of us.”
He nods but doesn’t press. That’s what I love about him. He knows when to leave the silence alone.
We pull into the Harlots’ lot just before dawn. It feels like home again. Burned edges and all.
Carter kills the engine and turns to me. “You sure you’re ready for what’s next?”
I look at the clubhouse doors, at the faint glow of light behind them. My sisters are inside. My family. The fight we survived.
“No,” Iadmit. “But since when has that ever stopped us?”
He grins, leans in, and kisses me, slow, solid, real. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “Then let’s build something worth bleeding for.”
“Together,” I whisper.
The clubhouse still hums with recovery. Bikes lined up like soldiers after battle, the scent of gun oil and victory clinging to the air. When we step inside, our home smells like ink, whiskey, and warm coffee. Divine snores face down on her keyboard, Allura’s boots are kicked up on the table, and someone left half a bottle of whiskey beside the Church gavel.
The storm outside fades to drizzle as the sun rises through the blinds. It’s strange how peace doesn’t roar the way chaos does. It hums low, quiet enough that you almost don’t trust it. But this, this stillness, is what we fought for.
Divine stirs awake, blinking at her screens. I slide into a chair next to her, pull up the digital ledgers, and exhale for what feels like the first time in months.
The numbers finally balance. No red lines. No missing funds. Every cent the Vultures stole now sits where it belongs.
“Transferring the last of it,” I tell Divine. My fingers fly over the keyboard, entering the account string we rebuilt from ashes. The Royal Harlots Women’s Shelter Foundation flashes across the screen. One click, and the funds flood theaccount.
Money that once bought bullets now buys beds. Blood money turned into sanctuary.
“Done,” Divine says softly, watching the numbers update. “You did it, Vic.”
