by Alexa Riley
The man with Owen takes a black canvas bag out of his back pocket and puts it over Ryan’s head.
Owen pulls me into his body. “You ready, princess?”
I smile up at him and nod before he takes my mouth in a deep kiss. I melt into him as one of his hands cups my belly protectively.
This is a way for us to be free so the Regime never comes looking for me. To them, I’ll be dead. I can live without fear of them hunting me down and looking for my child. I can spend my life on our side of the wall. Teaching my classes and giving medical care to those in need for free. I can be with the man I was born to be with. At his side. Him teaching me how to be a little harder while I teach him how to have a softer touch. Together we will lead. We will rip down these walls and everyone will know freedom.
The guy with Owen throws Ryan over his shoulder with a grunt. Owen takes my hand, linking his fingers with mine.
With his other hand I see the remote. I reach for it and he gives it to me easily. “Not until I tell you, sparrow.” I nod as we slide out the side door.
We move through the building and stay hidden as we make our way down into the basement. Once there, Owen slides open a hidden door. His eyes meet mine and then he nods. I lift the remote and nod back.
This is about more than faking my own death. It’s about showing Owen I accept some of the things he has to do as the leader of the Insurgence. That sometimes the only thing you can do to protect your people and the ones you love is violence. There is a time for peace and there will be that in the future, but right now, I cast my rage to the Elites.
I press the button, and instantly the building rocks. There’s a loud rumble above us, but the basement doesn’t take on any damage.
“I’m all yours,” I tell Owen, giving him the remote and then wrapping my arms around him.
“You were always mine,” he says, and kisses me.
Epilogue
Owen
Eight months later…
Minnie is moaning again. She’s horny as hell and I love being the reason she’s making those beautiful sounds. Her pregnant belly is so big she can’t see her toes while she’s standing up, but I’ve never seen a sexier woman in my life.
But right now, even though I’m eating her snatch like it’s the last supper, I can tell she’s distracted.
“What are you thinking about, my love?” I ask, kissing her pussy and licking my way around her clit.
She sighs. “I was just thinking about that carrot cake from our wedding.”
I can’t help the bark of laugh I let out. “I’m doing all this work down here and all you can think about is cake? And for the record, it wasn’t our wedding.”
She moans louder as I run my tongue through her folds and into her pussy, playing with her G-spot. “I ended up with you, didn’t I?” she says, right before she cries out.
Her body tightens and her climax rolls through her as I move up her body. I cuddle beside her, spooning her body and slipping my cock in her pussy from behind. I lick my lips and she’s still got that fruity, exotic scent from being pregnant. I can’t get enough of it.
“I love you, and if you want a wedding, I’ll make sure you have one,” I say, sliding in and out of her tight pussy.
She moans as my cock swells, and it only take a few pumps before I empty into her. Her big, round belly and the sweet taste of her cunt have me constantly ready to cum. I don’t pull out when I’m finished, because she’s going to want to cum again in the next five minutes, so I’ll wait until she tells me what she wants me to do to please her. She’s demanding, and I love nothing more than giving her what she wants.
“I don’t need the wedding,” she says, and I kiss her bare shoulder. “I just want the cake.”
I hum against her as she giggles.
“I’m just glad that no one died at our fake wedding. I was all for the violence in the moment, but afterward I was relieved.”
“That makes one of us,” I say, and she playfully slaps my arm.
I hold her in silence and hum a song to her and the baby as I rub her belly.
“You were always going to end up with me. I’m just sorry it has to be out here in hiding in the middle of nowhere.”
She sighs, but it’s content as she settles back into my embrace.
“I’d hide out with you at the bottom of a garbage pit if it meant we were together.”
“I don’t want our baby to be born in hiding. I want better for both of you,” I say, feeling the need to give my family all that they want. All they deserve.
“We’re not alone, Owen. We have our friends and family here to help us. The entire Insurgency is a part of us now. A part of our baby’s life. We’ll all be fine because we’re stronger together.”
I smile and close my eyes. I couldn’t possibly love her more. “Yes, we will.”
THE END
Secret Rebel
by Alexa Riley
Naomi is known as The Librarian to the Insurgent group. She’s been passing information to the other side for a long time, trying to help when she can. But when a muscled man with dark hair and captivating eyes comes around asking questions, she finds herself all too willing to give up her secrets.
Ryan has been focused on finding his friend and staying under the radar. But the day he goes to question the person who last saw him alive, all of his plans change. Now he’s looking for a way out with her on his arm...and in his bed. There's no way he’s letting her get away.
Warning: Who couldn’t fall in love with a librarian? All that access to books is enough to heat up the pages. Come roll around in our final book of the Rebel Series and see how their story ends.
Chapter One
Naomi
I need a moment alone, and there’s only one place for me to get that here. I step lightly up the marble entrance to the museum and stride quickly in my four-inch red stilettos. I walk past the military-themed oil paintings that line the main hall without looking at them. The gallery of sculptures featuring The Leader on horseback does not even ping on my mental radar, because I’ve seen it hundreds of times.
My feet ache from the nearly mile-long trek across the gleaming hard floors, and then I finally come to the special door. It’s the one that doesn’t look special at all. It’s hidden behind the staircase that leads to the second-floor gallery. I’ve never been up there, but I suspect it’s filled with plates of The Leader’s favorite foods, encased under glass and attended by constant surveillance.
No, the door I want is marked Sprinkler System Access and is always locked. I go inside the dark space and work my way past the wall of actual emergency sprinkler controls and keep going. Then on the far wall I see it. The painting of the Tahitian women.
I know from my reading that this work of art was once highly treasured and had traveled the globe. People stood in lines and paid money to see it. Now it’s here collecting dust in the bowels of this stone museum.
The Tahitian women are topless with curved shoulders soaking in the tropical sun. Their dark waves of hair cascade past their shoulders, and their bodies are curvaceous and strong. The clothes they wear are in bright reds and yellows, blending in with nothing in their surroundings. Their faces are pleased with themselves, but they aren’t exactly smiling. It’s clear they have their own things going on and don’t seem to greatly care about the artist’s obsession with them. The faces are not intricate, but the impression they make on me is that these women are masters of the Resting Bitch Face. I love it. They are free to live and breathe and move and be in the sun without any men in sight to disapprove of their nakedness. These women in the paintings do not give a fuck, and how I wish I could feel exactly as they do.
Suddenly, my breasts start to ring.
My handbag was stolen, and in this moment, I forgot that I’d stowed my phone inside my bra. I take it out and say hello, trying to keep my voice low.
“Naomi Parsons? My name is Ryan Sharp, I’m a reporter calling from The Dispatch. I’m working on a sto
ry about the death of Brad Chalmers, and I’ve come across some information that has led me to you. I understand you were the last person to see him on the day he disappeared.”
I’m confused by the statement. He disappeared? Brad Chalmers was murdered. “You mean the day he died?”
“Pardon me, yes. The day he died.” The reporter on the other end isn’t completely lacking in sympathy in his voice. But there’s still something I’m not getting.
Some women have simple bad luck in the dating world. My last date was with Brad and he’d been murdered while chasing some random woman who snatched my purse. If that’s not bad luck, I don’t know what is.
“I’m sorry, but I already told the police everything I know. I didn’t see what happened after my bag was snatched.” I’m caught off guard as I answer, and then a thought hits me. “Wait, are we on record?”
I want nothing to do with being put in the paper. I like staying as hidden as possible. I’m okay with being totally forgettable, too. Most people overlook me anyway, but with the way these creepy elites are, I’d rather be under their radar.
“Of course,” he says, his voice sure and strong.
I remember the name Ryan Sharp from his articles in the paper. I’ve even read a few of them. The newspaper comes to my office every day. I have to make note cards of each article then take microfiche photographs of all of it. I bind each issue and file them in the massive rooms of the library basement. It’s all part of my job, but I like to stop and read what I’m working on when I can, and I recall his writing.
I actually like his articles because they’re personality pieces or human interest. They’re not exactly investigative journalism, so his call is even stranger.
“Okay,” I hedge. “What do you want to know?” I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to, but now my interest is piqued.
“I was wondering if you had any more insight about Brad that day. Had he been acting strange at all?” Ryan’s deep voice makes me want to lean closer to the phone. It’s somehow sexy even though he isn’t trying to be. And he gives me the impression he’s tall, with a rough day-old shave.
I pull my head out of the fantasy clouds and clear my throat. Get it together, Naomi.
“Strange compared to what? I had only just met him that day and it was our first date.”
I’d felt bad about his death, because he’d been trying to help me. Some woman came by and snatched my purse, and he took off to go get it. It didn’t end well, and he was shot and killed. It’s awful, but I didn't know him at all. I’d been forced to go on the date to begin with and wanted it over as fast as it could be. Maybe I should’ve been careful about what I wished for.
“Yes. But did he seem nervous or anxious? Distracted?” Ryan pushes, and for some reason I have this desire to answer him as honestly as possible. To give him anything he asks for.
“I don’t recall anything other than what appeared to be blind date jitters. He was maybe a little clumsy. The server brought him two new salad forks because Brad kept dropping his utensils. So yeah, maybe that was a nervous thing.” For all I know he might have been clumsy all the time. I try to think about any other details that stuck out, but I’m drawing a blank.
“How was he behaving otherwise?”
“He was funny, charming, polite. And chivalrous. He took off the second he realized that girl had taken my bag. But I don’t know what his date behavior has to do with him getting shot by a random criminal. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“I understand your confusion. But I’m led to believe there was more to it, which is why I’m digging.”
I can hear papers shuffle on the other end of the line, and for some reason I’m imagining an adorable crease between his eyebrows as he concentrates. In my mind he’s got dark wavy hair and blue eyes. God, what is wrong with me? I blink away the fantasy and try to focus.
“You don’t think it was random? Gosh, what if he really just wanted to end the date with me?” Maybe he wanted to be there as much as I did. “That’s a depressing thought.”
Ryan laughs. “I’m sure you’re not that terrible.”
“This is funny to you?” I tease as I fight a smile. I shouldn't be smiling at all, but here I am, finding humor in all of this.
“No, I’m sorry. That was unprofessional. Your comment just caught me off guard.” Now it’s his turn to clear his throat. “And no, I don’t believe his death was random, but it didn’t have anything to do with you. It just seems unlike Brad Chalmers.”
Why would a reporter from a state-run outfit look into a death that the Regime’s coroner had declared murder? That is stepping into very hot water. Boiling, in fact.
“How would you know it’s unlike him?”
“I’m the one asking the questions,” Ryan says, but there’s teasing still in his voice and I can hear his smile. I could be wrong, but I think he’s flirting with me.
I should not be getting gooey eyed over a reporter, so I try to make my voice stern and act like I know what I’m doing. I hear my phone beep and I see that someone else is on the other line.
“Mr. Sharp, that was a very traumatic day for me. And it was just yesterday. I’m still raw and I’m trying to keep it together. You can put that in your article. I have another call, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course,” he says, and for a second I hear disappointment in his voice. Is that because I want to go or that I’m not giving him what he wants? “Good day to you, Ms. Parsons.”
I’m crestfallen that he doesn't try and keep me on the line, but I try to push it away and hang up so I don’t say anything else. When I click over to the other line it’s the detective investigating Brad’s murder. He’s calling to let me know that the investigation is closed and they’re returning my bag if I want it back.
“Don’t you need it for evidence?” I ask. That seems a little too fast for protocol. I didn't know Brad well, but what happened to him should be taken seriously.
“We’re closing the investigation. The perpetrator has been found and dealt with.”
“She has? Already?” I’m surprised it happened so fast, and I’m a little taken aback by how quickly this is all moving.
“The Regime works swiftly, ma’am,” the detective says with confidence.
“Wait, you found her, or your higher-ups told you they found her?” I push, wanting to know more. Ryan’s call has gotten my mind wandering and now I’m becoming suspicious.
“And what exactly are you insinuating? The Leader doesn’t lie. Would you like your bag or not?” he clips out, clearly tired of my questions.
I think it over for a moment. It’s a very expensive, much-loved bag. I had been on a waiting list for a whole year, and then I was finally able to place my order. Handmade leather bags simply are not made in this region, and the Regime imposes heavy restrictions on such goods. I’d been through a lot for that bag.
Is it shallow of me to want it back? Does it mean I’m careless of Brad’s death? No, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean that to me. And besides, what will happen to it if I don’t get it back? It will likely be destroyed, like so many other works of art. And it is, in my mind, a work of fine art.
“Yes, I want it,” I answer. Then I give the detective instructions on how to return it to me at the front desk of where I work.
Once I hang up the phone I let my mind go back to Ryan just for a second and wonder what he’s doing. Then I push the thought away and get myself together before I sneak out of the museum and back to work. Time to go archive.
Chapter Two
Ryan
I end the call and run my hands through my hair in frustration. I reach over and open my top side drawer and pull out the bottle of bourbon I have hidden in the back. I pour myself a drink, not caring what time it is, and think about the voice echoing in my ears.
Naomi Parsons.
The two blurry photos I have of her don’t do the sound of her soft sighs and gentle laugh justice. She sounds like she’s innocent and s
weet, which I’ve never met before. How can the sound of someone I’ve never met drive me this crazy? It could be the case, but I wasn’t nearly this worked up before speaking to her. Now all I want to do is think of a reason to call her back. She made it clear she was done talking to me, but she can’t shake me that easily.
Just then, an intern steps into my office.
“Holy shit, Ryan, it’s nine a.m. Also, where did you get that? And also, can I have some?” He bombards me with questions, and I shake my head. He’s already a little reporter, and he’s already getting on my nerves, too.
“I know what time it is. Never mind how I got it. And no, you may not.” I answer all his questions hoping there won’t be another.
“Aw come on, bro.”
“You win a prize and maybe one day you’ll get your own desk. Then you can generate income for the publisher and you can have a bottle of whiskey for breakfast while your boss looks the other way,” I tell him with a hard look.
I’m being cranky and I know it. But that call with Naomi has twisted me in a knot. I toss back a shot of bourbon. Then I screw the lid back on and shove it in my desk. I need to stay sharp, but that was enough to take the edge off.
“I was just stopping by to give you this fax that came through,” he says, handing over a piece of paper.
The only source that sends faxes is law enforcement. When I glance down the page, I see that sure enough it’s from the detective who’s investigating Brad’s death. It’s a press release informing me that the police have located the female and she has been “handled.” It does not say she was arrested, tried or imprisoned. Nor does it say whether she was shot on sight or killed after the fact.
I read it over one more time and I’m not buying it. Unless they produce a mugshot or a body, I won’t believe they have the girl, or anyone else, in custody. I toss the paper aside and pick up my phone again, speed-dialing the detective directly.
