Page 72 of Rebel
I cock my head in her direction, and she laughs at my expression. It’s a nice laugh, something she doesn’t do often.
She has pushed the mask up on top of her head, instead of drawing it down under her chin like most people. She’d hate me for saying it, but she looks adorable. I almost cup my balls to make sure they’re still there.
“A coffee would have been nice.”
“There’s a café,” she leans back a little to point around me, and I take a step closer because she could fall. “Right down the street. They make great coffee.”
“I would have made you coffee,” I grumble.
Kinsley smirks. “Careful, Rebel, you’re gonna have me thinking you’re going soft.”
Her arched brow shows her double entendre. So she woke up playful, huh? My expression stays stern, but inside, where I’ll never show it, I’m glad I had some part in making her happier.
“I’ve got stuff to do,” I say.
“Don’t kill anyone.” She waves and puts her mask back up.
She does not know how literal a warning that is. Or maybe she does, and it hasn’t made her run for the hills, instead, she’s joking around about it.
“I can’t make any promises.”
“So you’re like all the other men I’ve ever met,” she gives me a sassy look.
I’ll give her the last word on this one. I’m not offended. Promising would make me a liar, and I won’t lie to her. Keep things from her, sure, but never outright lie.
She watches me as all of that runs through my head, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s figuring that out for herself.
Kinsley is not like other women I’ve met. Where other women would argue or question me, Kinsley just looks at me like she can read my mind, or she doesn’t care.
That’s much more likely, and I can’t hide the smile.
She gives me one last appraising look, then gets back to painting, and I cross the street.
It’s only when I turn back I can see the mural taking shape. Up close it looks like a lot of different colors being layered in a haphazard way. From a distance I can see it's a garden.
A couple more brothers come out as I head to the warehouse. On a whim, I stop one of them and hand him some money.
“Go to the coffee shop and grab a large caramel latte to go.” He’s a prospect so won’t say no, but he doesn’t hide his confusion. “For her,” I point behind me.
He looks over at Kinsley and his lips part as if he is about to make some kind of fucking joke.
“Mouth shut, do as you’re told, prospect. Get the coffee. And a Danish,” I add, turning away so he can’t see me smiling at how she is going to react when he brings that to her, knowing it came from me.
This back room of the building beside the clubhouse was where we used to bring people we wanted to question and torture when the need arose.
When Stryker bought the pig farm, that became our go to place to handle situations like this. A kill two birds with one stone setup.
Pigs are highly underrated animals. Gross, but intelligent and very efficient in what we need from them.
Stryker doesn’t look up when I open the door and step inside. He has a thing about hanging people so he can use them as a punching bag. Guess it comes from him being a fighter.
He doesn’t have meat hooks here like he does at the farm, so Wallen is hanging from his wrists by a rope looped into a solid metal ring in the ceiling.
It’s painful as fuck being strung up like that, his whole torso stretched, his toes barely touching the floor, even though he is straining to try. Stryker will have done it that way, just enough to make him think he has a chance of touching the ground.
It’s nothing compared to a heavyweight fighter slamming his fists into your body, especially when you’re slight like Wallen.
Fury is leaning against the counter where he keeps his tools locked up. Nero didn’t want us to torture Wallen, which means Fury hasn’t been able to do what he likes to do, but he isn’t incapable of using his fists. So what’s up with Stryker taking the lead?
