Rebel

by Callie Hart

  “This…this is all fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you. My uncle getting murdered. My entire club moments away from being fucking arrested for a crime they actually didn’t commit. Now that’s fucking irony, right there.” He gets to his feet, carefully standing on the slightly pitched roof, and then he turns to me and holds out his hand.

  “I’m sorry, too, Soph. I should never have put you in this position.” I somehow don’t think he’s referring to the fact that we’re now trapped up on a rooftop and I have no clue how I’m going to get down. I take his hand, allowing him to help me to my feet. “My uncle would wanna kick my fucking ass right now,” he says. “This would not impress him at all.” He points between us, scowling. “Come on. Be careful where you’re putting your feet. I was eighteen the last time I came up here, and I weighed a hell of a lot less.”

  I gingerly follow after him, watching where he steps so I can place my feet exactly where he places his. The roof is pitched on either side as we climb upward, but once we reach the ridge, the apex where the two sides meet, I see that there’s a flattened section to the right, a cutout of the roof panel. About twelve feet long and eight feet deep, the platform has been leveled for no apparent reason that I can tell. No air conditioning unit. No access back in through the roof. It’s just there. Rebel drops down onto the platform, reaching up and turning to face me. By the look on his face, it hits him at the same time as it hits me that what he’s doing—lifting me down beside him, like a lover would—is weird.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears, clearing my throat. “What is this place? What is it for?”

  Rebel places his hands on my shoulders and physically pivots me, pointing me in the direction of the sunset. I feel like I can’t breathe; the sight is the most formidable, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like the sky is on fire. “I’m guessing it’s for this,” he says, removing his hands from my shoulders. He sinks down, sitting Indian style on the platform. I do the same, not daring to take my eyes off the horizon, not wanting to miss a single second of it.

  “But how did people get out here? They can’t have been climbing out of windows. I think we’ve just proven that that’s not safe.”

  Rebel snorts, clearly not over the fact that I didn’t just do as I was told and let him lift me. “There used to be a small doorway.” He jerks his head back, motioning behind him.

  “But not anymore?” The wall behind us is smooth brick and render, no sign of a door in sight.

  “Louis had it bricked up the day I was born. My mother apparently liked to come up here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.”

  We sit in silence for a while, until there’s nothing left of the sun, sunken beyond the distant fields, leaving behind nothing but the tiniest glimmer of light. “You can go. In the morning, I’ll drive you back to town,” Rebel says abruptly.

  “What? You’re just gonna let me go?”

  “Yeah. Why not? Everything else is fucked. Hector and Raphael would somehow find a way out of being arrested, anyway. They’d bribe the fucking judge. Or just kill him, too. Your testimony would be pointless. And after all those people in that grocery store…” Rebel leans back on his elbows, crossing his feet at his ankles. “After all of those random people being killed because of me, I don’t particularly want your family’s blood on my hands, too. You should just catch the Greyhound back to Seattle.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Somehow, it feels like this might be a trick. But then again, Rebel looks absolutely devastated. Why would he bother putting on such a convincing act, if he’s only just going to tell me he was joking in the morning? That doesn’t strike me as his style. Doesn’t strike me as the sort of head game he would play. “Do you mean it?”

  “Sure. At least I’ll have a vaguely clear conscience where you’re concerned, if the five-o do come calling.”

  I hug my knees up to my chin, tears stinging at my eyes. I can’t look at him. If I do, I’m gonna start sobbing and I won’t be able to stop. He’s letting me go. Tomorrow, I get to go home to my family. “Thank you, Jamie.”

  He bristles at that, doesn’t like it, I can tell, but I’m thinking of what he said in the hallway before. Jamie was an honorable man. And him dropping this whole thing, setting me free like he said he would, is an honorable thing to do. Far more Jamie than Rebel.

  We sit in silence for a long time, until we start to see stars peeking through the deepening blue of the night sky. “I used to bring all of my dates up here to see the stars,” he eventually says, pointing up at them. “Never brought anyone to see the sunset, though. That was always something I did alone.”

  I can imagine him as a young teenager, scrambling up here, sitting and watching for hours. I can imagine him bringing girls up here, too. Making out with them under the blanket of stars. Doing much worse, no doubt. “I’m sure they were all incredibly beautiful. And incredibly grateful,” I say, allowing a hint of sarcasm to pepper my tone.

  “So grateful,” he answers. “Can’t blame them, really. Being invited up here was like winning a golden ticket to the chocolate factory.” His face is deadpan, though I can tell he’s joking. “As far as them all being beautiful, you’re probably right there. But you, sugar…just so you know, you’d win the title for Most Beautiful Woman Louis James Aubertin Ever Snuck Up Onto The Roof hands down.”

  I can feel two hot patches flaming on my cheeks—embarrassment. I hug my knees tighter to me, not sure if I want to look at him or not. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Flirt with me. Say stuff like that. Proposition me.”

  Rebel laughs, unashamed and, unlike me, unembarrassed. “Because I told you, sugar. I like you. I’d definitely try and fuck you if we’d have met under any other circumstances.”

  “You do that a lot? Try and fuck a lot of girls?”

  “No. Never. Just the ones I think might make pliable bedmates.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’d be pliable?”

  “I think, despite how resilient you are when you need to be, you’d let the right person have control over you if the situation presented itself.”

  “You mean that I’d let someone dominate me?”

  “And you’d fucking love it.”

  “And you assume that you’re the right person?”

  “Oh, sugar. I’m the only person who could dominate you.”

  I want to laugh. I want to laugh right in his face, but the arrogance that’s normally present when he says something sexual isn’t there right now. He’s being totally and utterly serious.

  “I don’t understand you,” I whisper.

  “Are you supposed to?” he whispers back.

  “It’s how my brain works. I’m studying psychology so I can understand everyone I ever meet. I like knowing how people work. What makes them tick. But you…”

  Rebel smiles. It’s a kick-you-in-the-guts kind of smile that I can imagine a boy from Alabama wearing. Slowly, he reaches over and pulls at the lace on my shoe. “Don’t bother trying to get inside my head, sugar. It’s a dark and fucking scary place. Even I don’t want to be here most of the time. You change your mind about the sex, though, and we can talk.”

  REBEL

  I climb my way back down through my bedroom window, and this time Soph trusts me. She lowers her legs down and I catch her around the waist, pulling her back in through the window. I can feel her heart slamming against my chest as I hold her a second too long against me. God, I’m a glutton for the worst kind of punishment. She’s not for me. She’s for some fuckhead back in Seattle called Matt, apparently.

  I intend on keeping my word; I’ll drive her to the Greyhound stop in the morning, and she and I will go our separate ways. It’ll be for the best. The more I thought about it, the shittier I felt about forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do. I’ve never been that person. Losing Ryan has been seriously f
ucking shitty, but I can’t darken my soul even more by stooping to these new lows.

  It’s gonna be dark enough after I’ve finished with Maria Rosa.

  I let Soph sleep in the bed, and I fall asleep in the reading chair beside the window, listening to the cicadas’ song. When I wake up, the day is barely breaking, and my father is standing over me in his dressing gown.

  “So,” he says.

  “So?”

  “You’re not even man enough to sleep in the same bed as the woman you’re fuckin’? All the girls paradin’ around this place in their underwear when you were a teenager, I thought you were at least about to get your dick hard, boy.”

  And so it begins.

  “Good to see you, too, Sir.”

  “Don’t you fucking Sir me.” My father’s always loved his food, but he’s a skinny, slight man. I think it makes him self-conscious—that’s why he’s always eating and eating and eating, never sated. He’d be the fattest man in Alabama if he had his way. Instead, he looks like a half-starved chicken that’s had it neck wrung. His wattle wobbles from side to side as he looms over me, shaking. “You’ve got no respect,” he tells me, as though I may not have already known this fact. “You say Sir the same way other people say dysentery.”

  That one makes me laugh. Comparing himself to shit? Nothing could be more appropriate. Louis doesn’t take kindly to my amusement. “Who is she then? Some fucking waitress you picked up? Don’t tell me you’ve got her fucking pregnant, you little shit. If you think bringing her here, showing off your new prize pony will mean I’m gonna give you any money, you are sadly mistaken.”

  I rocket to my feet, blowing hard down my nose. “You told me to come here, Louis. And what makes you think I need your money? I have never asked you for money.”

  “Well, I just assumed that since you’ve clearly been spending your meager wage on whores…” He gestures to Soph. I see that she’s awake now, propped up on one elbow in the bed, eyes wide. “You probably aren’t flush with cash.”

  I swing for him. In all the years I’ve been verbally, mentally and physically abused by my father, I’ve taken everything he’s given to me. The dynamic has always been pretty straightforward between us: I killed my mother. My father hates me for it. I deserve anything he throws at me.

  But not this time. Not this. Not Sophia.

  My fist connects with his jaw. A bright pain lances up my arm, a pain so familiar and welcome that I almost laugh. My father staggers back, clutching his hand to his face. He doesn’t fall down—I haven’t hit him that hard. Just hard enough to teach him some fucking manners.

  A cold rage boils behind his eyes when he looks up at me. “Finally,” he says. “Some fucking backbone. After all these years. Good to see the army at least taught you how to hit right.”

  “No, Sir. It wasn’t the army that taught me that. It was you.” I’m panting, ready to launch at him again, but Sophia sits up in the bed properly now, gathering the sheets around her. Louis casts a very brief glance over her, disgust written all over his face. “It won’t last,” he says. He’s not addressing Soph, though. He’s addressing me. “She’s a leeching opportunist at best. At worst, a whore with no morals. Mark my words. She’ll represent nothing more than an empty bank account and semen-stained sheets by the end of the month. I know a gold-digging cunt when I see one.”

  That word sounds so much worse when my father says it—he spits it out like a bullet, aiming to hurt, maim, kill. I let my expression fall completely flat. “You need to leave. Right now.”

  “Get your ass down to breakfast. You expect to show up here and not join your family in a civilized manner?” He looks at Sophia again, a sneer of contempt twisting his face. “And if you insist on bringing her down, make sure she dresses appropriately. This isn’t a fucking cat house.”

  He turns, striding out of the bedroom, his dressing gown flaring out behind him like a goddamn cape. A sharp, bitter fury rises up in me. It hits me with the force of a freight train. I lunge forward, ready to go after the fucker, but then Sophia’s in front of me, her hands pressed up against my chest.

  “Don’t. Don’t do it. He’s expecting it.”

  I let out a small laugh, running both hands back through my hair and pulling. “No, he’s not. He has his precious fucking campaign fundraiser tonight. The last thing he wants is a fucking busted-up face while he’s asking his fucking Ivy League fucking pig friends for a backhander.” I grind out each word, knowing it’s true. My father did not expect me to lash out at him. Never in a million years. I saw the look of shock on his face, right before my fist connected with his jaw. I guess he’s gotten used to my tolerance of his abuse, but his attitude toward Soph? He can give me shit all day long, but he cannot call her a whore.

  “Well, he’s already going to have a split lip and a bruised jaw. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

  I grit my teeth together, trying to bring my heart rate down. “No. It’s not.”

  “Look at me.” Soph’s hands are on me again, this time on my face. She forces me to look down at her. She’s touching me. She’s trying to calm me down. That in itself is confusing. My father just insulted her and she doesn’t seem fazed. She didn’t protest. She didn’t tell him she had no choice but to come here—that the very last thing she cares about is his goddamn money.

  “Don’t give him the satisfaction,” she says softly. “If you lose it, he’ll know he still has power over you.”

  I look down at her, adrenalin still firing through my veins, and I do something stupid. It’s not even a case of me making a conscious decision to act; it just happens. I fold my arms around her, and I kiss her. She goes still in my arms, hands still flush against my face, as I press my lips against hers. She tastes sweet, just like sugar. Just like the name I’ve been using to try and irritate her the past few days. I couldn’t have known how appropriate it was until now. She’s holding her breath as I persuade her mouth open, and then dip my tongue inside. Instead of lowering my heart rate, my pulse is now jackhammering, my blood roaring around my body.

  I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw her in the fucked-up prom dress outside Julio’s place. I’ve wanted to run my hands over her body, claim her as my own. I can feel her warring in her head—torn between letting me kiss her, kissing me back, or pushing me away. In the end, she does all three.

  She remains still a moment more, but then she begins to sink into me, her back curving, bringing her body closer, her chest pressing up against mine. I bury my hands in her hair, my breath and hers combining, quickening, as she responds to me. Her tongue slips into my mouth, tasting me now. Her hands move from my face, sliding back around my neck, until she’s wrapping her arms around me, pulling me tighter.

  A fire seems to spark within her. She’s doesn’t even pretend to hold back. She’s panting, every inch of her pressed up against me as she kisses me back, like her life depends on it. I was hard the second my lips hit hers, but my cock is straining in my pants now, throbbing painfully, demanding I go further. There’s no way she doesn’t know how badly I want her; my rock hard erection’s pressing up against her, between her legs, making demands all on its own.

  I run my hands down her body, until I reach the warm, smooth, bare flesh of her thighs. She shivers against me, making a small, strangled sound at the back of her throat. She wants this. She wants me. I slowly move my right hand upward, skimming the material of the large, plain T-shirt she wore to bed, until I reach the curve of her breast. I pause there, waiting for her to move away. To tell me to stop. But she doesn’t. I palm her in my hand, groaning when I feel the weight and fullness of her. I can feel her nipple through the thin material of the shirt, stiffening, responding to me.

  I want to lick at that nipple. I want to bite and tease and suck at it. I’m lifting the shirt when Sophia finally reacts. She tears her mouth away from mine, a wild look in her eye. Her hand whips out and slaps me across the face. A loud buzzing sound rings in my ear, deafeningly loud for a second
before fading away. I touch my fingers to my jaw, stretching it out.

  Sophia just stands there, her nipples still peaked and showing through the T-shirt, her lips pouting and bruised from our kiss. “Don’t you…don’t you fucking dare do that again,” she whispers. Her whole body is shaking.

  “Why? Because you’re so in love with Matthew?” I ask. I can still feel my pulse in every part of my body—some places more painfully than others. Her gaze flickers down to my very obvious hard-on, her eyes shining a little too brightly. I don’t even try and hide it.

  “You have no right to…I’m not your possession, Rebel.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why the hell did you just treat me like I was? Something that belonged to you that you could just take?”

  I lean back against the wall, my breathing slowly returning to normal. I don’t respond right away. I let it sink in—what just happened. I let her replay it a couple of times in her head, so she can see how ridiculous she’s being. “I didn’t take anything from you, sugar. I offered it to you. And you picked up what I was putting down.”

  “I did not!”

  I laugh, undoing the top button of the shirt I’m still wearing from yesterday. “Don’t they teach you anything about body language in your psychology class, sugar? I know quite a bit about body language.” I push off from the wall, standing directly in front of her. Touching my fingers to the delicate, beautifully soft skin around her eyes, I say, “For instance, when someone’s attracted to you, their pupils dilate.” I can barely see her iris for the deep well of black in her eyes right now. I trace my fingers up the side of her ribcage, fighting back a wicked smile. “Their breathing becomes erratic. Plus, women’s nipples tend to tighten. That’s an obvious one, given I can see your perfect nipples through the shirt you’re wearing.”