Bad Boy Rebels

by Jessica Sorensen

  “Yeah, I know.” Jackson readjusts his pant leg over the holster. “I’m hoping Ridge was able to track us for long enough that they have a guestimate of our location.”

  “They were tracking us?” I ask. Although, after everything I’ve witnessed over the last couple of hours, I’m uncertain why I sound so shocked.

  Wilder nods. “I sent them a message the second we got a flat. All our phones have tracking devices on them, along with the car, so that we can always find each other in an emergency.” He restlessly bounces his knee up and down, as he punches a few buttons on his phone and the screen illuminates. “We also have backup trackers for when we’re out of signal range, but even that’s not working right now.”

  “It hasn’t been working for about ten minutes,” Jackson rolls down the window and gazes at the dirt road that leads to the highway. “I tried to reboot but we must be too far out in the hills.”

  “Yeah, I know. I heard the beeps,” Wilder shakes his head. “Seriously, Jacks, I don’t know what you were thinking when you decided to reboot in the dead quiet. You’re lucky I distracted everyone.” His gaze collides with mine and the corners of his lips tug upward. “And you’re lucky Zhara played along.”

  It clicks what he’s talking about—the kiss. I hadn’t realized it was a distraction at the time and feel silly for not putting two and two together, for actually wondering if Wilder wanted to kiss me.

  Of course he didn’t, Zhara. He could kiss any girl he wanted.

  “Yeah, you’re lucky she didn’t slap you.” Amusement twinkles in Jackson’s eyes. “Technically she’s not on the clock so she probably should’ve. Maybe we should let her when we get out of this mess. We can hold you down and let her get in a few good smacks.”

  “Maybe we should. It’s only fair, right?” Wilder shares Jackson’s amusement. “Although, she doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would want to smack a guy. Then again, I wouldn’t guess she’d be the kind of girl who would like my tongue ring.”

  Warmth rushes to my cheeks. How on earth did he know that?

  “I…” Lie, Zhara. Do what Benton did and just let the lie roll off your tongue. “I didn’t even realize you had a tongue ring.”

  Well, would you look at that? I actually did it.

  “Sure you didn’t.” The look he gives me makes my face flame hotter than a melting candle. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you admit it… yet.” Then he directs his attention to Goatee Guy and Hoodie Guy, who are standing on the shore of the lake, smoking cigarettes. “What do you think they’re up to over there?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jackson leans over me to get a better look, his arm sliding along the seat behind me. “I hope they’re just waiting around for their boss to show up,” he tells Jackson. “If it wasn’t for the dipshit standing right there,” he nods at the front of the vehicle where the driver is standing, staring at us with his arms crossed, “I’d say let’s bail out.”

  “Even if he wasn’t, I don’t think running is going to solve the problem, especially when all three of them are packing,” Wilder rubs his hand over the top of his head, deliberating something. “Besides, I kind of want to see how this plays out. If their boss does show up we could maybe get a connection into the other circle. Could you imagine? Not just taking down one but two drug lords. We’d never have to work the shitty jobs again.”

  “Yeah, good point. Besides, I hate running.” Jackson combs his fingers through my hair, drawing all of my attention to him “But Zhara, if at any time shit hits the fan, you run to the road and keep running until Xavier and Benton show up. Got it?”

  I nod, not bothering to mention that moments ago they weren’t even sure the guys would be able to find us. But stressing them out isn’t going to help the situation.

  A lopsided smile graces his lips and he tangles his fingers through my hair again. “Good girl.”

  Wilder snorts a laugh. “She’s not a dog, dude. You seriously need to work on your game.”

  “You mean by forcing her to kiss me?” Jackson quips, tossing a smirk at Wilder. “Because, just for future reference, usually that ends with your balls getting kicked.”

  “I didn’t force her.” Wilder glowers at Jackson, but his eyes glimmer mischievously. “And trust me, I’m pretty sure she liked it.” He winks at me before looking back at the guys by the lake. “At least the tongue ring anyway.”

  Oh my blushing idiots, are they trying to kill me with embarrassment? And what is with Wilder being such a flirt? I always thought that was more Jackson’s thing. Guess I was wrong. Makes me curious what else I was wrong about.

  Jackson unexpectedly dips his head, putting his lips beside my ear. “You know, I might not have a tongue ring, but I promise you I’m way, way better, and I can’t wait to prove it to you.” Then he leans back and grins at Wilder.

  “Dude, you’re so not as good as you think,” Wilder says with an eye roll.

  A smile spreads across Jackson’s face. “How would you know? You’ve never tried it.”

  Wilder stares at Jackson blankly. “Hardy har fucking har…” He trails off as headlights illuminate through the darkness.

  I turn my head in the direction of the road right as a car pulls up beside the SUV.

  “So you think it’s their boss?” Jackson asks as he slides toward the door. “Or another one of his bitch runners?”

  “I don’t think Goat Guy or the creepy hoodie guy are bitch runners,” Wilder says, putting his phone away. “At least the creepy hoodie guy isn’t—he has too much say over what happens.” He drums his fingers on top of his knee, his gaze fixed on the car. “Who do you think that guy is, anyway? And why keep on the damn hoodie and sunglasses? It’s like he doesn’t want us to know his identity.”

  “Maybe that’s the point.” Jackson’s fingers enclose around the handle of his knife. “Maybe we do know him and he’s trying to keep it a secret. His voice did sound familiar.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Wilder’s brows bunch as he dazes off, nibbling on his bottom lip. “You don’t think it’s someone from our organization, do you?”

  Jackson shakes his head, resting his arm on the windowsill with his gaze trained on the car next to us. “As far as I know, we don’t have anyone working inside the Fairfield circle.”

  Wilder opens his mouth to say something, but zips his lips shut as the passenger side door of the car opens up and a man climbs out. He looks like a shadow against the darkness of the night, but as he approaches the car, the interior lights cast across his face. His brown eyes and facial features carry a hint of familiarity, but I can’t figure out where I’ve seen him before.

  “He looks familiar,” I say. “Who is he?”

  “He helps runs the Fairfield circle,” Wilder says lowly. “He does a lot of business in Honeyton, so you’ve probably seen him around.”

  I nod, but doubt weighs heavily in my mind. I don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that guy before, more than once. I just wish I could remember why.

  The Mysteriously Familiar Stranger

  I have this memory of my mother waking me up in the middle of the night to go for a drive. I was young—too young to fully remember every detail that happened. What I do recall are bits and pieces, clips of images that don’t necessarily make sense. Me being in a car with the top down, the stars above me, the wind in my hair. And my mom in the passenger seat, talking to a man. I can’t see his face, but I can hear his voice as clearly as my mom’s.

  I’d nearly forgotten about the memory until the man walks up to the car, opens the door, and instructs us to, “Get out and get into the other car.”

  His voice is strikingly similar to the guy’s in my memory, but it doesn’t make sense. He works for a drug lord. Why would my mom have ever been with him in a car? And why would she take me somewhere with him? Perhaps he didn’t work for a drug lord back then?

  I assess the man carefully as I scoot across the seat to climb out. He looks around my mom’s age—well, the age she w
ould’ve been if she were still alive—with brown hair speckled with grey and a scruffy jawline. He’s also watching me as closely as I am him.

  “Who’s the girl?” he asks Jackson as he hops out of the car.

  As I step out, Jackson laces his fingers through mine and tugs me against his side. “My girlfriend.”

  Well, I guess that answers my earlier question about who I’m supposed to be to them and how this undercover girlfriend thing is going to happen—I guess it’s Jackson’s turn to be my boyfriend.

  The man scrutinizes me with disdain. If we did cross paths at one time, he doesn’t seem to recognize me. Which I guess makes sense, considering I was so young. But I’ve been told by many people that I look a lot like my mom.

  “I need to check and see if she’s allowed to come,” the man says, tearing his eyes off me. “You shouldn’t have brought her.”

  “We had no choice.” Jackson holds me against his side and I more than willingly cling to him. “She was in the car when your idiot bitch runners blew out our tire. Besides, we were told to bring her.”

  “Do you always listen to bitch runners?” The man questions with a crook of his brow. “Because, from what I understand, you’re higher up than that. But maybe I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Jackson’s voice is firm, his eyes cold. “Like I said, we didn’t really have a choice. Your morons over there blew out our tire.”

  “What’s the problem now?” Wilder asks, winding around the car to join us. He moves up beside me, standing close enough that our arms touch. “Because, seriously, I’m getting tired of this shit. You guys blow out our tire, force us to come out in the middle of fucking nowhere without an explanation, and now you’re giving us shit for what? Because we’re not going to leave our girlfriend behind with three fucking perverts?”

  “I don’t know who this girl is,” the man says and if he’s lying, he doesn’t show it. “For all I know she could be an undercover cop.”

  Jackson rolls his eyes. “If you’re implying that she’s an undercover cop then you’re implying that our boss is stupid enough to let an undercover cop work for him. And even though you’re enemies, I think you know he isn’t stupid enough to let a cop into his circle. He does more background checks than anyone.”

  The man mulls over what Jackson said, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Jackson and me. “Fine, the girl can go. But I’m going to have to pat her down. In fact, I need to pat down all of you.”

  Jackson nods, shooting me a quick apologetic look. “Just make sure your hands don’t wander.”

  The man’s eyes narrow. “Despite my colleagues, I don’t disrespect women.”

  Out of all the stuff I’ve heard tonight, that comment just might surprise me the most. But I restrain my shock, keeping a neutral face.

  The man motions for me to step forward and I reluctantly obey. Then he instructs me to span my arms out to my sides and spread my legs. I do what I’m told, even though I don’t want to, and let him pat down my body.

  He keeps his word and doesn’t cop a feel.

  When he’s finished patting down the three of us, he steps back, hikes over to the car, and opens the back door. “The girl can go, but she’s not to speak to my boss unless he directly speaks to her. Got it?”

  Jackson nods his head then walks forward, pulling me along with him. Wilder follows, keeping close. When we reach the car, Jackson releases my hand to duck inside. I tentatively follow, noting that the man gives me a strange look. Not a look of sudden remembrance, but a look of concern.

  My mind is racing with ideas of what the look could mean, but I soon get distracted as I get inside the car. The first thing I note is that the vehicle is a lot larger than it appears from outside with two bench seats facing each other. It kind of reminds me of a limo, only not quite as big and a window doesn’t divide the back from the front. Then my attention lands on the man dressed in a black suit, sitting in the far back seat of the car right across from Jackson. He’s older, probably in his late fifties with grey and black hair and a beard to match. He has a cane propped against his leg and a cigar in his hand. And he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me, unlike the man outside.

  “Please, dear, have a seat,” he instructs, gesturing at the spot beside him.

  Ummm…

  I glance at Jackson for help, but he silently pleads with me to comply. So, sucking in a discreet breath, I lower my butt onto the seat and sit down beside the drug lord.

  A Message

  As I situate in the seat, I take in my surroundings. A large, beast of a man sits in the driver’s seat, and his could-be doppelganger takes up the passenger seat. The windows are tinted, making it nearly impossible to see outside, and the floor has a dark brown stain on it that reminds me of dried blood, but that could just be my imagination getting the best of me. Still, my muscles lock up and adrenaline pours through my veins. I’m not necessarily afraid though, which is weird. No, I feel more nervous, edgy, and too distracted by everything going on around me.

  The drug lord takes a puff from the cigar and releases the smoke from his lips. The smell is anything but pleasant but since my father occasionally smoked, I’m sort of used to it.

  “Do you smoke?” the drug lord asks me, lifting his cigarette.

  I shake my head. “No. Not cigars anyway.” Which is kind of true.

  Once in middle school when Alexis found a pack of cigarettes, she talked me into trying one with her. I took a drag and puked all over my favorite pair of shoes. I was so mad at her for talking me into it, but even more angrier with myself for being curious enough to try them.

  “That’s perfectly all right.” He ashes the cigar in an ashtray. “A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be putting such toxins into her body anyway.” He winks at me.

  I force a smile, but the way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl.

  Jackson catches my gaze, as if he’s trying to send me a message, but I can’t figure out what. Then Wilder ducks into the car with us and Jackson clears his throat. Wilder pauses as he notes the seating arrangement but quickly recovers from his shock and drops down into the seat beside Jackson.

  The doors close and the car begins to drive forward.

  “So, what’d I miss?” Wilder asks, propping his foot up onto his knee.

  “I was just telling your lovely lady here that she’s too beautiful to be smoking.” The drug lord reaches to the side of him.

  Jackson tenses, his fingers inching toward the pocket where his knife is hidden. But he stops when the drug lord produces a wooden box filled with cigars.

  “However, you gentlemen aren’t nearly as lovely.” the drug lord urges the box at them. “So please, have a smoke with me and lets chat.”

  I flinch at the mention of chat, but luckily no one seems to notice.

  Jackson and Wilder each collect a cigar, light up, and take a puff. They exhale the smoke smoothly, clearly having done this before. But with the three of them now smoking, I’m having a difficult time not hacking. I smash my lips together, stifling a cough and wishing the maddening silence would go away.

  “So gentlemen, I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you all the way out here?” the drug lord finally says, reclining back in the seat.

  “Honestly, a little,” Jackson replies, removing the cigar from between his lips. “As flattering as it’s been to have the famous Axel Marelli track us down in such a creative way, we really would like to know what the end point is to this whole charade.”

  The drug lord—Axel—smiles. “My end point. What if there isn’t one?”

  “Then I’d say you went through a lot of trouble just to mess with our heads,” Jackson replies, lifting the cigar toward his mouth. “And although I don’t know you personally, I’ve heard enough stories about you to comfortably state that that doesn’t really seem like your style.

  “No, it doesn’t.” Axel’s expression and appearance is collected except for the restless way he taps his pink
ie against his knee.

  My dad taught me how to play poker once and said almost everyone has a tell, a thing that gives away what they’re thinking. I wonder if that’s Axel’s tell, if underneath his cool demeanor, lies an uneasiness.

  “It’s my circle’s crest.” Axel moves his hand over toward me, showing me the gold ring on his pinkie, completely misreading why I was staring at his hand.

  “It’s pretty,” I somehow manage to lie flawlessly and give myself a mental high-five.

  Truthfully, the ring is hideous and tacky, thick and gold and engraved with the same mark I saw tattooed on Goatee Guy. Again, I’m struck with the sense of familiarity by the mark, but still can’t figure out why.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Axel studies the ring momentarily before slipping it off his pinkie. “You know what. Keep it. It’ll look better on you anyway.” Before I can even work up a good protest, he takes my hand and slides the ring onto the finger beside my pinkie—you know, the finger where my engagement ring would go, should I ever get engaged. Then he holds up my hand to observe. “It looks much better on your delicate hands than it does on mine.” He holds up his hand in front of me. “These hands have seen many years of work and they may be old and ugly, but I’m proud of the things they’ve accomplished. Every decision I’ve ever had to make, both hard and easy, these hands have been with me. They’ve helped me carry out every task I’ve ever needed to accomplish.”

  I force a stiff smile, giving a quick sidelong glance at Jackson and Wilder, who are tensely watching the scene unfold.

  Axel gives my hand a squeeze, drawing my attention back to him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to go to them soon. But right now, I need you to do something for me.” Then he leans in toward me. My breath catches in my throat, fear coursing through my veins, as he puts his lips beside my ear and whispers, “Tell me, what is your name?”

  “Zhara,” I say, hoping he doesn’t ask me my last name.”