Page 34 of Rebel
“Anyway, we’ll let you get back to work,” Dana gives me a bright smile. “I have to be at the clinic by three to meet Taylor after her shift. Nero keeps taking her to this fortress in the sky, as she calls it,” she rolls her eyes. “She says he is doing it to protect her.”
“I wish one of them would protect me,” Katrina sighs.
Dana looks just as wistful. But all I’m wondering about is,protect her from what?
These women think about the men of this MC with stars in their eyes and flutters in their panties. I’m a realist. If Nero is taking his woman away from her day to day, he has a reason for it.
We say our goodbyes, and the two women leave. After a few minutes, the rush of people dropping off kids ends, and I’m left leaning against a section of the wall that hasn’t been painted yet, watching the men coming and going across the street.
Rebel carries a gun. I’m pretty sure Stryker had something, though if what I’ve heard about him is true, his fists are lethal weapons. I hope Colton is right, that whatever is going on over on that side of the street never affects this side.
Over the next couple of days, I finish the wall prep. When the rain starts on the third day, the wall is dry, so I don’t worry about water damage.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen rain like this and forgot how bad it got here. I’ve spent too long in LA where rain is scarce, so the deluge has me sitting inside for most of the day.
I haven’t seen Rebel since he walked out the other night. Then again, I’ve avoided the clubhouse and bar as much as I can.
I haven’t stopped watching the club. There are men patrolling outside at night, not so many of the brothers have gone into Raven’s bar as there had been when I first got here.
Something is going on. The only thing that makes any of it my business is making sure my cousin isn’t dragged in.
The room I’ve turned into an art studio smells like paint cleaner and charcoal. It’s a smell I’ve gotten used to over the years.
The tips of my fingers and beneath my nails still have black stains even after washing them. That’s the annoying thing about working with charcoal, but I let it slide because the effects I can create with the medium are some of the best work I produce.
Like the portrait of a man with no face, which is sitting on my biggest easel. I’ve been holding off on adding his facial features to convince myself this isn’t Rebel. At least he’s clothed. I’ve yet to have the pleasure of seeing him in his naked glory.
“Not happening,” I scold myself.
I turn away, as if the act of picking up the charcoal and carrying on somehow makes me closer to him. Wanting him will not go away.
I’ve played that night on a loop. How it could have been different if I wasn’t in the manic state, or didn’t tell him it meant nothing and I don’t like him.
I’m not sure he would have been any softer with me. I’m not sure I would want him to be. There are layers to Rebel he doesn’t want anyone to see.
And if anyone heard me thinking like this, they’d tell me I’m an idiot. How can I know anything about that man?
It was all in his eyes, in his actions and reactions. He ran from me just as fast as I pushed him away. We’re wrong for each other, and I’m done with people who are wrong for me.
I’ve been cooped up all day because of the rain and am feeling claustrophobic. A little rain never hurt anyone, so I get wet-weather ready, tugging up the hood on a waterproof jacket and jamming my feet into heavy boots.
Dusk is just beginning to fall, and the rain has turned the sky steel gray with a slight yellow tinge that warns of a storm.
Pocketing my phone and keys, I step outside and tip my head back, defeating the purpose of the hood as the rain soaks my face and the front of my hairline.
I lift my hands and put them palm up to catch some of it, maybe the fresh water will shift the charcoal stains.
It’s quiet because of the rain, but there is a man sitting on a wall by the church. It’s hard to see him in the shadows of the building.
I can tell he is watching the clubhouse. I’ve seen the men out patrolling, but not trying to hide themselves like this guy is.
Rebel’s words never left my brain, and a ripple of unease skitters down my spine. He thought I was someone else when he jumped me that first night.
Something about this man sitting here, out of sight of the clubhouse, isoff.
He shifts when he sees me coming, but after staring and assessing I’m not a threat, he drops the cigarette and gets up. When he turns and walks away, I note his cut. And the insignia on the back.
It’s not the Blackhawk Disciples patch.
