SANGRE: Night Rebels Motorcycle Club (Night Rebels MC Romance Book 6)

by Chiah Wilder

  He laughed. “You’re too funny. I know what it is. I’m a member.”

  She busted out laughing. “That’s right.”

  Neither of them could stop laughing, and the more they tried, the harder it was. This is good. Being with her, laughing about nothing. Just like we used to.

  “You’re the only one I can laugh with like that, can you believe it? I’m going to tell you something.” After a slight pause, she announced, “People think I’m kinda weird.”

  “Are you still telling people about haunted houses, trivial facts, and what strange combination of foods you like to eat?”

  “But you never thought I was weird. Maybe your grownup side does now.”

  “I think your weirdness is what I liked. When I was younger, I never wanted to walk to the same beat everyone else did. I liked that you didn’t either. It totally figures you’re in a rock band, have beautiful blue hair, and hold up a middle finger to your dad and anyone else who doesn’t get you.”

  Her hazel eyes sparkled. “That’s what I liked the most about you—you got me. When I’d write dark songs, you knew where they were coming from.”

  Sangre nodded. “I’m glad you did something with your music. You were in every musical at Jefferson. It’s cool to live your dream.”

  “Are you living yours? I remember you had a badass vibe about you, even when we were kids, but I never heard you mention you wanted to join a biker club.”

  “I was restless as fuck.” She nodded in agreement. “I needed something different, and when I met some dudes who were in the club, I thought I’d check it out. I hung around the club for almost a year before I decided it was the life for me. I prospected and then patched in. I’ve never regretted it. There was no fuckin’ way I was gonna end up like my old man, working for someone else, day in and day out. My brother Jim is at Reland’s, Connor works there, and my sister Nicole’s husband, Joe, works there. They’re all at the same damn place. It wasn’t for me. No. Fucking. Way.”

  “We’re both unconventional. All I heard when I was growing up was that I had to go to college, get an education, and then get a good corporate job. My sisters and brother followed that road, but I ended up dropping out of UCLA my third year when I joined Iris Blue. Fiona and Katherine kept telling me I was crazy, my mom worried I’d never be able to support myself, my dad called me a loser and a lot of other names, and when Jerry and I talk once a year, he always asks me when I’m going to get a real job. They just don’t fucking get it.”

  “I remember you’d told me that you had to be able to express yourself. That you didn’t care about money, just about respecting yourself and being proud of who you are. You did it, babe.” Red stains painted her cheeks and she looked away. What the hell? Did I embarrass her?

  “Are you still friends with Jay?”

  “No.” The mention of his old friend from high school pissed him off. Jay and Isla had dated, and it used to kill him every time he’d see them together, holding hands or kissing. The jealousy he’d felt surprised him, but back then it happened a lot whenever boys would gawk at her or ask her out. Shaking his head, he tried to dispel the memories.

  “Does he still live here?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not the public census.” He popped several olives in his mouth, chomping hard.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Wait … why are you mad because I asked about Jay?”

  “Not mad. I just don’t know anything about him. Does Madison know you’re here?”

  “Of course. She’s the only one who did until just recently. I needed the peace and quiet like I told you last night.”

  “Right. You still wanna get those chili cheese fries?” The way her face lit up tugged at something deep down inside him. Pushing it away, he rose to his feet. “Let’s get going.”

  Crazy shit twisted inside him, and he wanted no part of it. They’d go to Alfonso’s for some killer Mexican food, and he’d stop at one beer only. There was no way he wanted to have too much to drink and do something stupid. He couldn’t go there—didn’t want to. Not at all. He would keep his focus on the conversation, keep his eyes above her neck, and not inhale her intoxicating scent too deeply. That had to be the plan. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

  We’re friends.

  “Ready to go?” she asked as she came back outside. She’d changed her shorts to skinny jeans, and he couldn’t help but look at her butt while she locked her front door.

  “Above the neck. Above the neck,” he muttered the phrase like a mantra.

  “What?” She put on a pair of sunglasses and walked to his bike.

  “Nothing. Just thinking aloud. You okay with going on the Harley?”

  “Yeah. I loved the ride yesterday.”

  As they rode to the restaurant, she rested her cheek against his shoulder, her scent swirling around him. He saw Army and Goldie talking in front of the club’s tattoo shop. Both of them lifted their chins at him as he passed. He saw the smirk on Army’s face, but he didn’t give a shit. Having Isla pressed against him on his bike felt damn good. A lightness danced through him. After thirteen years, it was good to have her back in his life. She was the only person he could tell everything to.

  He’d missed their friendship.

  He’d missed her.

  Chapter Seven

  “Do you remember Sharla Davidson?” Madison asked as she buttered a roll.

  It’d been two days since she’d had dinner with Sangre, and Isla couldn’t get him out of her mind. She looked up from the menu. “Vaguely. Refresh my memory.”

  “She was in our class at Jefferson. She’s the one who got most of the leads in the plays.”

  Isla tilted her head back then snapped it forward. “I remember her now. I haven’t thought about her since I moved to California. What about her?”

  “She was murdered this past Sunday. She was the lead in the local play, and they had a dress rehearsal that night. The janitor found her sprawled on the floor.” Madison took a bite of her roll and chewed while she darted her eyes all around before leaning over the table. “Her throat had been slit. Isn’t that horrible?” she whispered.

  Isla’s hand clutched the top of her blouse. “How terrible. Do the police have any suspects yet?”

  Shaking her head, she took another bite. “Nope. She’s the third one to be killed like this.” She shuddered. “It’s too creepy and awful. A few months ago, Lizbeth Kelly was killed in the same way. She was coming back from choir practice and someone grabbed her. At least that’s what the theory is. Then about eight months ago, Taylor Prentice was found in her apartment—throat slashed. It’s all too horrible.”

  “Are the police saying it’s the same person?”

  “Not officially, but unofficially they think the same person did it. Do you want to know what’s even freakier?” Madison paused for dramatic effect. “They all went to Jefferson and were in our class.”

  A shiver climbed up Isla’s spine. “Are you sure?” The fan letters flashed in her mind. A sense of foreboding evil wrapped around her, squeezing her tightly as if to suffocate her. “Oh!” she cried out. A few patrons turned to look at her, and she grabbed her glass of white wine and took a big gulp.

  “What’s wrong?” Madison said, buttering her second roll.

  “Nothing. I’m just a little freaked by what you said. How do you know all this?”

  “My sister works in the sheriff’s office. She’d kill me if she knew I told you. Don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t. I thought small towns were supposed to be safe.”

  “That’s the irony of it. Most people think that, so they become laissez-faire about locking their doors, windows, and cars. In a big city, no one would think of leaving their door open, but it happens all the time here, especially during the day.” She paused to look down at the menu. “What are you having?”

  “I think I’ll just have a Cobb salad. I’m not that hungry.” Casually, Isla glanced over her shoulder and breathe
d out a sigh of relief when she spotted Mark. It made her feel so much safer knowing she had someone looking out for her.

  “Now I’m going to feel like a pig if I have the pasta Alfredo. Do you want to split an appetizer with me? The potato skins are to die for.”

  “That’s fine.” Looking around the small eatery decorated in pastel colors and bright ceramic accents, Isla reclined in the white wrought iron chair. “It’s so cheerful and cute in here. It’s packed too. I’m glad we came earlier so we didn’t have to wait in that long line.”

  Madison looked behind her. “It is a long line. That’s why I said we had to come early. I don’t know why they don’t take reservations. I love it here. Vesta Grill opened about a year ago. They make killer cocktails. Are you sure you don’t want one? I’m going to try an apple martini.”

  “I’m good with my wine. So how’s it working out with Miguel?”

  “Good. We should double date now that you’re out of hiding. Maybe you could ask Steve.”

  Isla frowned. “You mean Sangre? I’m not sure he’d want to go, especially if it’s labeled a ‘date.’” She shook her head, “Anyway, we’re just friends, and I’m going out with Benz.”

  “Maybe he’d want to go. I’d love to meet him up close, but, I thought you were going to break up with him.”

  “Me too. I caved in and am giving him another chance. It’s so strange with some guys. Benz pursued me for four years, and I kept pushing him away because I thought it would fuck things up if we crossed that line in the band. Then I started to see a side of him he kept hidden from the other members. After a bottle of vodka and too much coke, we ended up screwing the crap out of each other. The next day, we were a couple. It went fine for a while, but then he started flirting with all the girls who’d hang in the front of the stage at our shows. I swore I’d never forgive him when he cheated on me, but after spending two months at the crazy house, his constant calling after I’d gotten here, and all the flowers and poems he’d sent me, I relented.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  Inhaling deeply, she blew out slowly. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

  “If you don’t know—then you’re not, and love isn’t complicated, it’s wonderful.”

  “Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.

  After they placed their order, Isla leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table. “I’ve never really been in love”—except with Sangre, but that was one-sided—“so I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like between two people. I mean Benz is an okay guy, but he wants too much from me. He’s always pushing me, and I feel pressured. It pisses him off, and he used that as an excuse for straying with a groupie. Men …” She rolled her eyes.

  “Not all guys are cheats.” Madison put a potato skin on a small plate and handed it to her. “Are you glad you reconnected with Steve?”

  A huge smile spread over her face. “That I didn’t plan. I mean, I toyed with the idea of contacting him or his family when I first got here, but my head was in a different place, and I didn’t want to deal with it.” He never tried to reach me after I left so I couldn’t face him, but he seems cool … like nothing weird or anything ever happened between us. “His name is Sangre now. The strange part is that he looks like Sangre and not like Steve anymore.” She took a sip of her wine.

  “I see him sometimes around town on his Harley. He looks mean and scary. Once I found out he joined the Night Rebels, I kept my distance any time I saw him. He looks so different from high school, but I can’t say I’m shocked he hooked up with that biker gang. Remember how he used to get in so many fights? He came off as being angry a lot. I wonder why?”

  “He’s a rebel like me. We don’t like to live in the world society dictates.” She took a bite of the appetizer. “You’re right about these potato skins. They are fabulous.”

  “I always thought you guys would’ve hooked up. You both seemed into each other back in high school. I used to tease you about it.”

  “We were only friends. Enough about me. Tell me more about Miguel.”

  Madison grinned, took a drink of her martini, leaned forward, and began to talk. Isla let the words fall around her, absorb into her brain, welcoming the respite from thinking and fantasizing about Sangre. He was dangerous territory, and she couldn’t let her heart be broken by him again, but she also didn’t want to lose his friendship. I’m just going to have to focus on the band and not on him. Easier said than done.

  * * *

  After engaging the alarm, Isla kicked off her stilettos, sighing blissfully when her feet sank into the rug, and picked up the mail from the foyer table. For the past couple of days, she’d let the mail pile up without even glancing at it. Her psychiatrist in LA told her that she should take mental health days, times when she didn’t deal with the everyday tasks that made her anxious, such as reading through volumes of emails, opening up mail, or listening obsessively to the news. Since she’d implemented his advice, life had been calmer, and her nerves were less frayed. Before settling in on the couch, she went upstairs to change and wash off her makeup.

  Encased in a soft cotton night shirt and fuzzy socks, she poured a glass of wine, turned on “Caribbean Blue” by Enya, and stretched out on the couch. Enya was her go-to for grounding her, taking her out of the busyness of her head and letting peace flow through her.

  Picking up the mail, she quickly perused it, her body freezing when she saw the now all too familiar handwriting on the envelope. With shaky fingers, she ripped it open, and a single notebook sheet of paper fell out. The printed words mocked her as the room spun around. Closing her eyes, she focused on taking steady, deep breaths while exhaling even more slowly. A friend of hers in LA had taught her that calming technique, and for the most part, it seemed to work on relaxing the whirlwind of anxiety that constantly threatened to overtake her. Opening her eyes again, she read the letter:

  My sweet girl,

  I fuckin’ love you. My body is yours as yours is mine.

  You seem to have a lot of men hanging around you. Are you trying to make me jealous? It’s working. You know you belong only to me. I will love you for infinity. I’ll never lose you, sweet, sweet girl.

  You will always have my heart and my soul. Our day to come together is nearing. Soon it’ll just be us and no one else.

  I’m watching you, so you better fuckin’ behave. Don’t make me mad. I don’t want to hurt you. Only love you. I can’t wait to be inside you, fuckin’ you the way you deserve. You know what I mean.

  I’m coming for you.

  ♥♥♥Your Best Fan♥♥♥

  A rush of blood filled her head as icy fear gripped her nerves, squeezing hard and strangling her. The letter dropped from her hands, and instinctively, she looked around the room, scared to death she’d see him lurking in the shadows. What the hell am I going to do? He’s watching me. I’m like a sitting duck waiting for the hunter to kill me. This is insane!

  Leaping up from the couch, she knocked into the table, spilling her glass of wine. “Shit!” she yelled out loud, rushing to the kitchen and grabbing a handful of paper towels. The lilting sounds of Enya’s voice coupled with the swaying tune of her music that had relaxed her minutes before, now grated on her nerves. She cleaned the table then turned off the music. Her mind was racing a mile a minute. She ran around her house checking doors and windows, making sure the alarm system was engaged. Looking out on the quiet dark street, she saw Mark’s vehicle and the outline of him in the driver’s seat. But wait … what if it isn’t Mark? What if this fuckin’ loon killed him and is pretending to be him. Oh my God. He’s here. He’s going to kill me.

  Without thinking, she grabbed her phone and tapped in Sangre’s number.

  “Hey, I’m glad you called,” he said, voice low and deep.

  “I think the psycho killed Mark and is pretending to be him in the SUV. He’s going to kill me. I know it. I got a letter from him, and he said he’s coming for me. He’s here. He
hurt—”

  “Slow the fuck down. Mark’s cool. I just talked to him. I’m coming over, so just calm down. I swear you’re safe.” She tried to muffle her sobs. “Damn, Isla. Please don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it.” Sobs escaped from her throat, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop the shaking, the tears, or the unraveling of her nerves.

  “I’ll call Mark and tell him to come inside until I get there. I’m walking out of the clubhouse right now.”

  “No! Don’t tell him to come in. I know it’s not him. Just please hurry.”

  “I just started my bike. Hang on, babe. Don’t melt down on me. It’s all okay.”

  “Just hurry,” she whispered. She looked out the window again and the figure in Mark’s car appeared to be watching her. She gasped and moved away, flattening her body against the wall. A line of coke right now would really do the trick. I can’t relapse. I just can’t. Sangre’s on the way. He said everything’s okay.

  She stayed glued to the wall for what seemed like a lifetime until she heard the heavy footsteps on her porch, followed by a tentative knock then the doorbell. The chimes shot through her like jolts of electricity during a shock treatment.

  “Isla? It’s me. Sangre. Open up.”

  What if it’s him?

  “Look, I’ll call you on the phone now.”

  Her phone buzzed and she stared at the screen, Sangre’s name flashing over it. “Hello?”

  “It’s me outside your door. Open up. I checked on Mark and he’s good. Said it’s been super quiet.”

  “It’s really you outside my door?”

  “Yeah. Look out the peephole. You’ll see my fuckin’ good looks.”

  She laughed. It is Sangre! She turned off the alarm and swung open the door. Sangre stood on the porch, the red in his strawberry blond hair vibrant under the porch light. He walked in and she collapsed in his arms, relief coursing through her. I’m safe.

  He held her tight, rubbing her back in circles as he told her she was okay. But she wasn’t. She’d freaked out and imagined all sorts of crazy shit. I thought I was getting better. If this made me almost go over the edge, how can I tour again?