A Heart for Rebel

by Natal, Mia

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  AMAZON EDITION

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  © 2014 by Mia Natal

  Edited by April Wood

  http://www.facebook.com/authoraprilwood

  Cover design provided by Ritzendollar Design

  http://www.ritzendollardesign.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  *Warning*

  This book is intended for mature audience over the age of 18. It contains explicit language, sexual situations, and minor violence which may be upsetting to some.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  DRIP...DRIP...DRIP.

  Every single night.

  Drip...Drip...Drip.

  I pull the covers off, and drag my sleepy behind to the kitchen to shut off the faucet. I turn the lights on, and look around in disgust as the cockroaches run for cover. Damn, I hate this apartment. It is what my mother could afford. It is dirt cheap, at a whopping four hundred twenty-five dollars a month. I'm almost afraid to look under the cabinet that holds the sink. I would always find some kind of vermin down there. I pull it open, and jump back. Phew, nothing there. I shut the water valve off and straighten up. I look at the time, and go check on my mother. I can guarantee I will find her passed out on the couch. Sure enough, there she is sprawled out like a dirty used rag. My mother lives a hard life. Pregnant at sixteen by some loser...My father. She dropped out of school. My father dumped her sorry ass because; he did not want to take responsibilities for his actions. He flat out denied he was the father. In my book, he is the epitome of a dead beat dad. I have no idea if what my mother told me about my conception is the absolute truth, but I believe it. I have no other story to compare it and form my own truth. Do I sound bitter? In reality, I’m not. It is what it is. I know there has to be something more out there for me. I have aspirations and dreams of becoming me. First I have to figure out whom, becoming me will be.

  I stare down at my mother. I do not know if I love, or hate her. I think I tolerate her. I'm grateful to her. She gave up everything to have me, to keep me. My father wanted her to have an abortion. Her parents gave her an ultimatum. Her choices from her “supposedly loving” parental unit were, abort, or live on the streets. Thankfully, her choice was me. I cannot imagine how horrific it must have been for her, shuffling from shelter to shelter. Always on guard that no one steal her measly possessions, or trying to fend off any sexual advances from perverts. She finally caught a break, and got housing through the local department of children and family. This is the reason why the rent is so cheap. We are piss poor, but we make the most of it. My mother is thirty-eight years old, but chooses to act like a sixteen year old. I've had to become mother to my half-sister, Bailey. She is eight years old, and I love her to death. She has blonde ringlets and blue eyes. She has the cutest deep dimples when she smiles. When she grows up she will be breathtaking.

  Bailey's father is another loser, but he pays his child-support like clockwork. Everyone loves Bailey. She is sweet tempered, and a ray of sunshine in a dreary, bleak existence. I wish I was half as beautiful as my little sister. I'm pretty sure when they were handing out looks; I got the short end of the stick. I'm not ugly. I'm okay, cute even. I have jet-black hair and eyes the color of amethyst. I work full time in a coffee shop to help pay bills. I take courses at night at a community college to enrich my life so that I can eventually be successful. The blaring of police sirens jars me from my thoughts. Have I mentioned how much I hate living here? We live in a five story walk up in the South Bronx. Hunts Pointe, otherwise known as the Pointe, by those that live here.

  I seriously need to get my mother to her bed before the Chihuahua size rodents gnaw on her.

  "Ma, wake up," I say while shaking her shoulder.

  "Reby, is that you?" she asks.

  "Yeah Ma. You fell asleep on the couch again. Let’s get you to bed," I say.

  "You're a good daughter, Reby. I love you," she mumbles.

  "I love you too, Ma. Lemme help you up," I reply offering my hand to lift her up. I put my arm around her waist and dragged her to bed. I pull off her clothes as best I could and left her in just her underwear. I cover her up and head back to bed.

  I could use another hour of sleep before I need to get up and get Bailey ready for school. I just laid my head down when my alarm clock went off. I head to take a shower. The walls are covered by soap scum and mold. I need to spray Clorox before I leave. I dress for work in an ugly waitress dress. It's a drab yellow ensemble with my name stitched on the right side. I head to Bailey's room.

  "Good morning munchkin, time to get up. I'll go get breakfast ready while you brush your teeth," I said.

  "I don't want to get up Reby. I'm sleepy," she said.

  "I know, but you don't want to be late. You have a spelling test today," I said.

  “Reby, five more minutes please," she whined.

  "Come on sleepy head. Times a wasting," I said while tickling her.

  She giggled and sighed, "I'm up, I'm up."

  "I got your outfit ready. It's on the ironing board," I said before heading towards the kitchen to get her breakfast ready.

  Bailey walked into the kitchen dressed and ready for school. "What's for breakfast, Reby?" she asked.

  I knew that would be the first thing she asked. She does it every morning even though she knows the answer. "Pancakes munchkin, it's always pancakes," I reply.

  I know it's not the most nutritious meal, but Bailey only wants pancakes in the morning. I would do anything just to see her smile. Bailey ate her pancakes and drank a glass of strawberry milk. I grabbed her book bag and ushered her out the door. I took her two doors down from our apartment to Mrs. Sullivan, who is kind enough to drop my little sister off at school.

  Mrs. Sullivan is a lunch monitor at the school. I knock and wait for her to unlock the door.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan," I greeted.

  "Good morning, Rebel. Bailey, honey come inside. I should be ready soon," she said.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan," I said while kissing Bailey on her head.

  "Rebel, I've told you a billion times there is no need to thank me. I love the company of our precious Bailey here,” she said.

  "I
know but…," I said.

  She shooed me out the door, "No buts, now get out of here before your late for work. “Good luck today on your test munchkin. I guess I'll see you Sunday night," I said.

  "I'm gonna miss you, Reby," Bailey said.

  "You'll only be gone two days. I want you to have fun with your dad," I said.

  "I will, but it’s not the same without you," she pouted. God, I love my little munchkin.

  "Do well on your test and when you get back, I'll take you out for ice cream," I said.

  "You promise?" she asked.

  "I promise," I replied. I left Bailey and headed to work. I have a full schedule today. I work from eight till six then I have school tonight. I get paid today and half of it will go towards paying bills. The other half I've been saving for something special. I try to budget my funds and only spend when it's absolutely necessary. It's not like I make a lot.

  I hop on the train that will take me into Manhattan. When the train stops on forty-second street a mass of people get on. I look to my right and my gaze lands on the profile of a guy. I wasn't able to get a good look at him, but what I was able to see intrigued me. His profile was sorta, kinda cute. I get off at Chambers street and walk the two long...long blocks to my job. I work at a quaint kitchenette that serves great food. The plus side of working here is that it's within walking distance to school.

  I get to work with fifteen minutes to spare. I walk in and greet my best friend, "Hi Marissa."

  "Hey Reby," she squeaked.

  "What time do you get off today?” I ask.

  “I get off at one today. I have a class at two today. What about you?” she asks.

  “I get off at four. My only class starts at five-thirty,” I reply.

  “So you finish at around six-fifteen?” she asks.

  “Technically class is supposed to end at that time, but my professor usually lets us go at around five-thirty,” I reply.

  “Cool. You can come with me to get my belly pierced and possibly another tat,” she says.

  “Okay, sounds good. I don’t have to watch Bailey this weekend. She’s spending the weekend with her dad.”

  “Speaking of Bailey how is the little munchkin?”

  “She’s a sweetheart as always, but growing so fast,” I reply. I cut our conversation short and got to work. I have customers sitting at my tables. I hustle to and fro getting their orders in and on their tables as quickly as I can.

  My usual customers are waiting for me at table five. The rowdy construction workers who come in here every day for breakfast and to playfully harass me. I make my way towards there table with pencil and order pad in hand.

  “Good morning boys. What can I get for you today?” I asked.

  “Rebel, my love you can go out with me for starters,” Tony, the cute Hispanics said.

  “Sure, right after you ask your wife’s permission,” I said with a smile.

  “You are a cruel, cruel woman, Rebel,” he said jovially. I ruffle his hair and laughed at his shenanigans. I took down their order and shortly after I placed their plates on the table. I refilled their coffee cups a few times. Once they had their fill of food, Tony raised is hand indicating he wanted the bill. I placed their bill face down on the table and told them to take their time. The rest of my shift is brutal. My feet, back and hands hurt from waitressing, but it pays the bills.

  I HAD BREAKFAST this morning with Grams. She lives on Central Park west. She's the only family member I have left. She raised me when my parents were killed in a car accident. I was six when they died. We were on our way to Sunday brunch. A fire truck with no emergency siren on ran smacked in the middle of my dad’s car, dragging us two blocks before pushing us into incoming traffic. I was lucky to have survived. I remember my mother pushing me down and shielding me with her body. She died on top of me. I shake the thought of my parents away. There is nothing I could have done to change what happened. My focus right now is getting my clientele to grow. Being the owner of The Madd Tatter and piercing shop is my only priority. I've been the proud owner for a year. My clientele has been growing by word of mouth. We do good work and our prices are competitive, but not too expensive. I had to take the shuttle train from the west side to get to the east side. I get on the train on forty-second street. I briefly look to my left and noticed a rather cute girl. The train was so crowded it was hard to tell. I look away and reach into my pocket for my iPod. I put on my ear plugs and crank up the music. Cute girl forgotten.

  I hop off on Chambers street, but not before stealing a last glance at the pretty girl. Disappointment hits me when pretty girl is no longer there. I guess it's for the best. I don't need any distractions in my life right now. I have to stay focused. I need to stay disciplined, and not give in to my carnal needs every time a hot piece of ass presents itself in my path. I unlock the door to the shop and get to work right away. The first thing I do every morning is open everything up. Ink being what it is, the place always requires a good scrubbing. I don’t buy the needles ready-made. So each morning I have to set them up for the day. That involves soldering different types of needles together in different configurations. Then soldering them onto needle bars and run them through the ultrasonic which cleans them. After all that is done I have to put them into the autoclave oven along with all our tubes and our tips so everything's sterilized for the day's work. I clean and sterilize all the chairs even though it was done the night before. I make sure all the stations have the necessary equipment. Two tattoo machines; a liner and a shader. My staff will need tubes and grips, needles, and ink caps. They will each need a power supply, clip cord, lap clothes, A&D ointment, green-soap, alcohol, razors, and paper towels. Tattooing is not just something you can jump into either. I make sure every station has the very best equipment. I only hire the very best tattoo and piercing artists. It’s what sets me apart from all the other tattoo shops.

  I’m in this industry to make money and a name.

  To do a tattoo properly you've only got to break the surface of the skin. It doesn't actually go in that deep and all you're doing is moving the needle to a little pot of ink and then putting it on the skin. You do a line one to two inches long, wipe it down with some antiseptic or just a wet cloth and put more ink in the machine and carry on. It's not like drawing, that's the difference.

  People will say "I want to do this. I'm a good drawer". It's a completely different form of drawing. You have to work in stages of an inch or so at a time. Working usually backwards from where you'd rather. If I was to draw a face on a piece of paper I would start perhaps around by the eyes, whereas if I was to tattoo a portrait of a face on your arm, I'd probably start around the bottom of the neck working up towards the chin. The process is completely different. As I'm doing people I build up stuff in the ultrasonic jet. Throughout the day and then halfway through the day, or at the end of the day, depending how busy you've been. I put it into the autoclave which runs for about thirty minutes and that goes up to something like two hundred and sixty degrees centigrade and there's no virus that can survive that.

  People think it's a dark, seedy world and it's not. We are just normal people.

  Just doing a job, you know, it's just a job, it's what I do.

  It's nice as the years go on and I get more into it and get a little bit more philosophical about it. I mean, you are touching people's lives, you're doing something that's with them forever and it's only the last few years that it's really occurred to me that these forty-odd thousand people that I've tattooed, there's a bit of me in them forever.

  I take it very, very seriously. There are not enough people in this business that do. I do my absolute best, whether it's a little devil on someone's bum or a poetic saying. I'm tired of doing devils. I've done about ten thousand of them, but I try and do my absolute best every single time and that's what it's about.

  A client walks in requesting a tattoo of a dragon. I draw up the sketch and show it to him for his approval.

  “That’s wicked, man.
It’s exactly what I wanted,” he said.

  “Great. I’m glad you like it. Where do you want it done?” I asked.

  “On my skull,” he said.

  I’m in the middle of doing a dragoon tattoo on the guy’s skull when Ty walks in about two hours after I opened shop. Ty is never one to keep silent so it didn’t surprise me when he immediately hit me for details on my date or should I say my one nighter.

  “Yo, bro. Did you hit that Saturday?” he asked.

  I choked down a laugh because Ty is always thinking and talking with his dick in mind. I knew exactly who he was talking about. Saturday night, Ty and I decide to hit up a club downtown. We went inside and my vision zeroed in on a tall blonde with a set of forty-four double D’s. They were perfect. I was salivating at the mouth dying to get a taste and feel for them. Apparently the girl felt the same way because she eyed me up and sauntered my way. I can’t remember her name for the life of me, but I do know she was one hell of a good fuck.

  “Bro, I don’t kiss and tell,” I said.

  “Ah, come on dude. She had the biggest rack I’d ever seen. She had the kind of rack that I’d gladly stick my dick in between and fuck,” he said.

  “Ty, I’m with a customer, please refrain from regaling us with your lewd conversation, comments or what not’s,” I said.

  “Dude, you totally hit that,” Ty said. My customer laughed at our playful banter. Ty doesn’t get a chance to say anymore because the bell above my shop's door jingled. I heard feminine giggling. I was almost done adding the finishing touches on the tattoo I was working on. I was about to excuse myself to the guy I was working on to greet the potential clients when Ty said, "I'll take care of them."

  I completely lost track of time and hadn’t realized I’ve been working on his tattoo for over four hours. It was almost time for the shop to close up.

  "Thanks Ty," I yelled out. I half listened to their conversation.

  "Good evening, ladies. I'm Ty, one of the tattoo artists here. What can I do for you?"

  "Hi I'm Marissa, and this is Rebel. I want to get my belly pierced and a small tattoo behind my ear," the girl Marissa said.