Rebel (The Renegades)

by Rebecca Yarros

  “And your mother went back?”

  “She did.” He said it with a tone of finality that let me know the subject was closed. The last miles passed in relative quiet, until we were pulling into the long, winding drive that led to Oak Moss Grove.

  “Nervous?” he asked softly as the compound came into view. It looked more like a resort than an institution…or mental rehabilitation center—whatever they were calling it.

  “It’s a desert out here. Look at that cactus.” I absolutely ignored his question and the nausea rolling through my stomach.

  “Definitely no oaks or moss in sight,” he agreed, pulling into the closest open parking space.

  “Right?” I nodded a little too aggressively. “Seems like false advertising.”

  “Penelope,” he said softly, then waited until I felt strong enough to look at him. His patience—the certainty with which he always waited for me to choose—was one of his most attractive qualities. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

  “Yes, please,” I answered instantly. I hadn’t pictured making this trip with anyone, but now that I was here with him, I couldn’t imagine being here with anyone else.

  I hopped down from his truck and met him at the front.

  “I would have opened your door if you’d waited a second,” he told me.

  “I can get my own door,” I argued as we walked up the wide concrete steps to the front of the reception building.

  “Chivalry isn’t misogyny,” he rebutted.

  “Touché,” I said, and gave him a thankful smile as he held open the door to the facility. His hand rested on the small of my back for the barest of seconds, and I nearly leaned in to it just to see if I could feel it again.

  We waited at the desk until a petite woman who looked to be in her forties appeared. Her brown eyes were kind and her smile warm as she asked what she could do for us.

  “I’m here to visit my sister,” I said, my voice a lot stronger than my stomach.

  “Name?”

  “Brooke Carstairs. I’m Penelope Carstairs.” I produced my ID from my back pocket.

  “Of course. Right this way. I’ll let her know that you’re here.” She shot a look at Cruz. “It’s family only.”

  “He’s my fiancé,” I answered immediately.

  God bless the man, he didn’t so much as flinch. He wrapped his arm around my waist, tucking me into his body with a familiarity that gave my lie a little credence.

  The nurse looked pointedly at my bare left hand.

  “I told her to leave it at home,” Cruz said, his voice soft and soothing. “Brooke doesn’t know yet, and we wanted to make sure she was at the right point in her recovery before we told her.”

  His lie was so smooth that I nearly believed it.

  The nurse visibly melted. “Of course. How considerate. Congratulations to you both. If you’ll follow me?”

  She led us through a door and down a wide, lushly decorated hallway. My parents were paying a fortune for Brooke to be here if the art was any indication. “How did you meet?” she asked as she ushered us into a room marked “Visitation Two.” It was set up like a home-style living room with brown leather couches, bookshelves filled to the brim, and cozy lighting.

  “In a bar in Las Vegas,” I answered absently.

  “I saw her take out a guy for grabbing her, and I simply had to know her,” Cruz added, gazing at me adoringly. “She keeps me on my toes.”

  How badly I wanted to slip into the lie, to believe that we were in a relationship—that I had him in my corner, backing me, sheltering me, lifting me when I couldn’t find a way to stand, and to be able to do the same for him.

  “Well, you’re just adorable,” she said with a scrunch of her nose. “I’ll be back with Brooke.” She shut the door behind her, leaving Cruz and me alone.

  I sank into the couch, leaning over so my head was between my knees.

  “Do you need the trash can?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth to quell the twisting in my belly.

  “Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  I shook my head, lifting it. “No. Yes. No.”

  He took a seat next to me, his warmth radiating through the material of my jeans. “However you’re feeling is okay. You’re allowed to be angry with her, especially after the letters. You’re allowed to hug her, to miss her, to love her. You’re allowed to hate what she did, and you’re allowed to forgive her. There is no wrong feeling here.”

  My gaze fixed on the second hand of the clock on the wall between two large windows. “The last time I saw her, I was on a stretcher. She was blurry—I was in so much pain—and I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t coming in the ambulance with me. I didn’t realize until later that she was the one…”

  He took my hand in his—the gesture completely platonic, and yet exactly what I needed.

  “I don’t even know what I’m going to say to her. I just need to see her. I need to understand.”

  He gave my hand a gentle squeeze but didn’t speak. I didn’t realize until that moment exactly how badly I needed someone to listen without judgment or bias—without knowing the backstory.

  The door opened, and I stood, anticipation shaking my nerves like no stunt ever had.

  A tall, red-haired woman walked in. Her hair was in a perfect French twist and her white lab coat didn’t have a speck of dirt on it. Her smile was kind and her eyes firm as she extended her hand. “Penna? I’m Dr. Kelley, Brooke’s doctor.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I responded automatically, my gaze darting to the closed door. “Is Brooke on her way?”

  “Why don’t we have a seat?”

  She took the couch across from us, and I returned to my seat. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, not entirely,” she answered. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Brooke won’t be visiting with you.”

  In the time it took me to blink, my body numbed. My only physical sensation registered from where Cruz took my hand. “Today?” I asked. “I’m in town only today and tomorrow. Then I won’t be back in the States until May. I can come again tomorrow, if she’s busy.”

  “Tomorrow won’t work, either. She’s simply not ready for a visit.” Her tone was soft, placating, and yet came out like nails on a chalkboard to me.

  “But she sees my parents,” I said, trying desperately to understand.

  “She does.”

  The truth slammed into me, bringing with it a shock of pain that would have laid me out if I hadn’t already been sitting. “You think she’s not ready to see me…because of what happened.”

  Never mind that we’d been sisters since infancy—that every good memory I had included her in some way. The years she’d been my best friend, my only confidant in a world where everyone wanted my secrets didn’t matter to this woman. A lifetime of moments had been erased in her eyes the second that stadium light came crashing down in Dubai. To her, my relationship with my sister would always be defined by the worst day in both our lives.

  She saw me as a deterrent to Brooke’s recovery.

  “While it’s true that she’s still very fragile, and we have a long road ahead of us to really untangle her issues, this was not because of anything I advised.”

  Wait. What?

  If Dr. Kelley wasn’t the reason…

  “But…but I’m the reason Pax didn’t press charges. I asked Brandon to work with the authorities in Dubai. I made sure she wouldn’t go to jail for what she did so that she could get help. So she could come to you.”

  “I know.”

  My mind raced, trying to outrun the emotional tsunami headed toward me. Every logical explanation immediately refuted itself before I could voice it, leaving only the one I couldn’t bear to hear. “I’ve been trying to contact her since it happened. She’s refused my calls and returned my letters, and I don’t know what else to do. Dr. Kelley, I just want to see my sister.” My voice cracked on the last
word.

  “But she doesn’t want to see you.”

  The tidal wave hit, drowning me before I even had a chance to take a breath.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cruz

  Los Angeles

  I buckled Penelope’s seat belt as she stared blankly ahead, taking control of her safety since she wouldn’t. She’d barely said three words since Dr. Kelley had dropped that bomb and blown Penna to bits.

  Her eyes had gone dead as she’d retreated inside herself. God, I wanted to battle my way through that recovery center calling out Brooke’s name until she showed her damned face. Penelope deserved so much better than the shit hand she’d just been dealt.

  I shut her door, walked around to my side of the truck, and climbed up, turning the key in the ignition and clicking my seat belt. “Ready?”

  “I guess,” she answered, her voice as flat as her eyes.

  How could I take her home like this? Leave her alone when her friends had zero idea what she’d just been through?

  “Where do you want me to take you?”

  Her eyes darted back and forth, a look of panic growing with each second that she couldn’t make up her mind. Finally, her eyes slid shut in an obvious bid to keep from crying. “I just don’t care.”

  “Okay,” I said softly, clasping her hand in mine. It was crossing the line—any physical contact between us was, really. But hell, it wasn’t like I hadn’t just played her fake fiancé. I couldn’t see her in such obvious pain and do nothing.

  I grabbed my phone and hit the first number on my speed dial.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I said, switching to Spanish and praying Penelope didn’t know what I was saying. “I might have to miss dinner tonight.”

  “You will do no such thing, Cruz. Absolutely not,” she lectured in rapid-fire Spanish instead of ordering me to switch to English.

  I smiled, picturing her in our kitchen, surrounded by the apples we’d hand-painted my junior year in high school. “I’m not sure it can be helped.”

  “I haven’t seen you since you rushed off weeks ago, and we never got to properly celebrate your graduation. You bring your butt home. Now.”

  My gaze wavered to Penelope as she stared out the window, a world full of pain in her eyes. “Okay, but I might have to bring someone with me.”

  “I have more than enough food.”

  “Of course you do. Her name is Penelope.”

  “Her? You’re bringing a girl home? How long until you can get here?” Her voice amped up in excitement. Shit, I’d never brought a girl home to her. Truthfully, she’d been the only consistent girl in my life since I was ten.

  “About an hour,” I estimated.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Nothing is going on between us,” I said firmly, hoping she’d take the hint.

  “Of course, of course. Just bring her home.”

  I said good-bye to my grandmother and put the truck in drive, taking an extra moment at the stop sign to really examine Penelope.

  Her eyes were vague, her shoulders hunched in like she couldn’t possibly take another blow. She wasn’t entirely broken—but she wasn’t whole, either.

  “You don’t speak Spanish, do you?” I asked her.

  “French,” she answered.

  “Good. I’m going to take you somewhere, okay?”

  “Yeah,” she answered, still not meeting my eyes.

  “Penelope,” I said softly and waited for her to look at me. She finally did, those gorgeous blue eyes swimming with more than a few unshed tears. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but this will be okay. You will be okay.”

  “You’re right,” she answered, but my relief was short-lived. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  …

  “Where are we?” she asked an hour later as we pulled up in front of my grandmother’s house near Echo Park. The neighborhood had lost much of its Cuban flair over the years, but it was better than nothing, she’d always told me.

  “My grandmother’s house,” I answered before getting out of the truck and coming around to her side. Once I’d opened her door, she slid to the ground. As if I could see inside her head, I watched her compartmentalize, tossing everything that had just happened into a small box and blinking it away for a moment.

  It was the same bullshit transformation she went through when the cameras came near.

  “This is where you grew up?” she asked, taking in the small house that I was sure probably fit in just her living room. It resembled a cottage, with a cobblestone path and bright green bushes that bloomed in the spring.

  “Yep. We moved in when I was nine and nothing much has changed.”

  Her eyes skimmed over the flowers planted near the porch and the bright red shutters that stood out against the gray exterior. “I like it,” she said softly, a tiny spark of life flaring in her eyes. “It looks like a real home.”

  That line told me more about her upbringing than Penna could have herself.

  “Let’s introduce you,” I said, guiding her by the small of her back as we walked up the path. “A little warning, though. Grandma…she can be a little invasive. She’ll probably want to know everything about you, including your credit score.”

  Penelope laughed, and the sound was fucking magical.

  “Don’t worry about me. If I can handle Christmas parties with the governor of California, I can handle your grandmother.”

  “You might be surprised,” I said slowly.

  “You don’t call her Abuela,” she stated.

  “Was that a question?” God, I loved poking at her.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “I just thought…”

  “Penelope Carstairs, are you making cultural judgments about me?”

  She blushed a gorgeous shade of pink, but she held my gaze, not backing down. “There is no right answer to that.”

  I stared her down until I couldn’t help but laugh and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow. “When we moved here, Grandma banned all Spanish from the house. She told me we were in America, and we would speak English. I wasn’t allowed to speak Spanish again until I was fluent in English. By then, she just liked being called Grandma. I think it made her feel like we’d done it—moved here, transformed ourselves.” Hidden.

  We walked up the stairs, and Grandma had the door open before we made it across the small porch.

  “Cruz!” she exclaimed, her arms wide open.

  I stepped forward, grabbing my grandmother in a tight hug and lifting her tiny five-foot-nothing, slightly rounded frame off the ground. “I missed you,” I told her, closing my eyes as I took in her familiar perfume.

  “Put me down!” She laughed, the lines around her eyes a little deeper than they had been last year.

  “Have you grown?” I asked as I put her down. “I swear you feel taller.”

  “English!” She backhand swatted my chest and then pointed at me like I was ten again, learning to live in America.

  “Sorry,” I told Penna, who watched us with a soft smile. “I didn’t even realize I’d switched over.”

  “No problem,” she answered, waving me off.

  “Grandma, this is Penelope. Penelope, this is my grandmother. She’s the one who raised me, so any complaints should be filed in her direction.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” she warned with a grin.

  “Let’s get you inside. You look like you need a good meal,” Grandma said, ushering Penelope in the door.

  The house smelled like heaven, and my eyes closed as I let out a sigh. “That smells delicious.”

  “Ropa vieja,” Grandma told me with a wink as she led Penna to the living room. “I figured you’d missed it.”

  “Yes, that’s a yes. Need any help?”

  “Don’t even think about going into my kitchen,” she warned with a wag of her finger. “Now, Penelope, why don’t we sit and get acquainted.”

  They took the couch, and I settled into the recliner, hoping my feelings would do the same and calm th
e hell down, or at least pick a direction.

  “Your home is lovely,” Penelope told her, and the admiration in her eyes as they swept over the mismatched picture frames above the fireplace told me that she meant it.

  “Thank you. I’m constantly told that the house is worth a small fortune if I would be willing to sell it, but I think I finally have it just the way I want it. Besides, I raised Cruz here.”

  “I can understand that,” she said with a subtle nod, and something told me she did. She might be a little rich girl, but I was beginning to think that money was the only way she’d been spoiled. We hadn’t always had a ton, but I’d been lavished with attention. There were so many different ways to be poor.

  “So what do you do for a living, young lady?” Grandma’s brown eyes narrowed slightly, and I knew the inquisition had begun.

  “Grandma—”

  “It’s fine,” Penna promised me. “I’m actually a senior at UCLA. I’ll graduate in June after we dock in Miami.”

  I didn’t miss the non-subtle side-eye Grandma tossed at me. “So you’re on the ship with Cruz.”

  “I am,” she agreed.

  “You’re a student.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I also have a full-time job.”

  Grandma’s eyebrows rose. “Good. Women need to be able to stand on their own. What do you do?”

  “Well, I’m a professional athlete.”

  Grandma’s head tilted as she openly appraised Penna’s body. I almost said something, but Penna shot me a look that told me she could handle herself.

  “Swimming? Track? One of those NFL girls on the sidelines with too much showing?”

  Penna’s eyes danced, and I wanted to kiss Grandma for bringing that out in her. “I’m actually a freestyle motocross rider. Well, mostly.”

  “Motocross? Motorcycles?” Grandma leaned in. God, I could have watched these two all day.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So you’re a biker.”

  Penelope’s eyes widened. “Not exactly. I mean, I’m not in a gang or anything.”

  “Well, you are a Renegade,” I teased.

  “That’s not a gang,” Penna snapped.

  “Ignore him,” Grandma ordered. “He just wants to see how far he can push you before you push back.”