Rogue (Dead Man's Ink #2)

by Callie Hart

  “You feel a bit better now?” She sounds like she’s on the brink of tears. There’s a defiant look on her face, but her hands are shaking. I can see the slight tremor as she twists a piece of thread over and over around her fingers. God, she’s so damn beautiful. Why couldn’t a dude have witnessed Ryan’s murder? If she were a dude, I would not be having this problem. But then again, if she were a dude, Dela Vega would have murdered her on the spot after seeing what went down. She would have had absolutely no purpose to him. At least as a woman, he knew Ramirez might want to make some quick cash off her.

  “I’ll be fine tomorrow,” I tell her. I won’t be fine tomorrow. Truth be told, I’m probably going to be out of commission for days, if not weeks, because of this injury. And being out of commission’s something I really can’t afford to be right now.

  I can’t think about that, though. My head is still swimming. Keep my damn eyes open is becoming an almost impossible task, and the bed feels like it’s pitching and rolling like a motherfucking sailboat.

  “I could have run, y’know,” Sophia whispers softly. “I could have just gone, run off into the night and left you here. I’d probably be halfway to the next city by now.”

  “You mean you’d probably be vulture bait,” I say, correcting her. But I know she’s right. She could have just left me to die. If she’d made a different decision when I sent her running out of here, there’s no doubt about it—I would have been fucking long gone. “Thank you, Soph,” I say quietly under my breath. “Thanks for not bailing on me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her expression growing less worried and more irritated. “After what you said to me, I should have. My sister would have probably finished the job if you’d have said that to her. She’d have strangled you to death before you even had chance to bleed out.”

  “Then I’m glad I didn’t say it to her. And I’m sorry I said it to you. I shouldn’t have. I know you wouldn’t screw any of the guys.”

  “Then why say it? And why leave me here, trapped in this cabin for ten days, after I said I would help you in Alabama? It makes no sense. It’s just damn cruel, in fact.” She speaks slowly. I can tell she’s still furious but she keeps her voice down now. No more shouting and screaming. No more trying to pile drive her knee straight through my ribcage. Given her reaction earlier, I feel like making a show of cowering from her, but it’s probably still too early for jokes yet. Besides, I’d probably burst open my stitches if I move, and Cade will not be thrilled if I undo his handiwork. He’ll probably stab me all over again.

  “If my boys knew you were here, why you were here, or that Raphael is on the look out for you, they’ll want to use you somehow,” I explain. “They’ll want to use you as bait or something to lure Ramirez out, and I’m not taking that kind of chance.”

  Soph rests her chin on her knees, staring up at me on the bed. “Yeah. Well, I mean, I don’t want to be anywhere near Dela Vega or Ramirez again if I don’t have to be.” She sounds like even the prospect of running into either of those men is enough to give her nightmares. I’d be surprised if that’s not actually the case.

  “As soon as Raphael lays eyes on you here, Soph, that will be it. I know him. He’s a sick motherfucker. He won’t ever stop until he gets his hands on you.”

  Sophia shivers. Shakes her head, like she’s trying to shake the very memory of him out of her body. “Why would Ramirez follow you here? Why would he actually search you out? I don’t get it.”

  “We’re not playing hide and seek, Soph. Neither side wants to drag this out. The longer we’re at each other’s throats, the longer Ramirez can’t relax or conduct business without watching his back. The longer he can’t smuggle his drugs into the country. The longer he can’t focus on selling his women.”

  “And for you? What’s this war going to distract you from, Rebel?” she looks dubious.

  I smirk, thinking about shrugging my shoulders but then dismissing the idea as entirely not worth the accompanying pain. “The Widow Makers run guns. As an illegal trade, that’s how all the syndicates think we make our money. It’s how the ATF think but can’t prove we make our money. In reality, the Widowers trade in information more than anything else. Information is far more valuable than gold or silver, drugs or guns. It can build or collapse an empire overnight. The only thing more reliable for bringing a dangerous man to his knees is pussy. And, as you’re already aware, we don’t sell that.”

  “No,” she says, giving me a wry glance. “You only buy it.”

  “If I don’t, someone else will. Difference being is that I find secure, honest, healthy work for the women we pay for. They leave this compound untouched. If Julio had bought you for himself, guaranteed you’d have already been accosted more times than you could count, and by more men than you could count, too. Would you have preferred that?”

  Sophia remains silent. She glares at me like she hates me, but maybe, just maybe, like she’s also considering that I may have done her a favor. Doesn’t look like she’ll be admitting that any time soon, though. I pull in a deep breath, testing out how deeply I can fill my lungs without experiencing any sharp, crippling pain.

  “Ramirez is here because he’s making his first move. He’s being reckless. Perhaps I need to be, too.”

  “I think it’s a little late for that, right?” Soph eyes my blood-covered torso with what looks like regret. “I’m really sorry. I had no idea you were hurt. You know that, right? I would never have—”

  “Stop. I deserved it. We’re all good.”

  “Still. Launching myself at you like that—

  “Is part of the reason why I like you, Sophia. That fiery temper of yours is insanely hot. You looked like some wild Amazon, ready to skin me alive. I was halfway to a boner before you nearly killed me.”

  Sophia ducks her head, eyes skating over the floorboards, not looking at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was embarrassed. “Maybe you should use me as bait,” she says abruptly. “At least that way, if my presence is somehow a catalyst for drawing Ramirez and Raphael out, then this can all be over. We could all go back to living our lives.”

  Laughter itches at the back of my throat. Scathing, ironic laughter. I swallow it back down. See, the thing Sophia doesn’t quite realize yet is that this is my life. When this is all over, if I’m not dead, there will always be someone else to contend with someone else to put down. Someone else who will want to take what is ours.

  I can’t tell her that, though. She’ll run for the hills, and despite my previous pathetic attempt at doing the right thing, I know now that it’s just not possible. I have plans for the girl sitting crossed legged on the floor by my bed. Big, awesome, scary plans. I’m going to keep my mouth shut about those, too, though. Right now, there’s only one thing I need to tell her.

  “I’m not endangering you with those men again, Sophia. No way. Not happening. There are a lot of things I’ll risk to end this. I’ll risk my own life, and the lives of my club members, if they’re stupid enough to volunteer them. I’ll risk my freedom and every last cent I own. I’ll risk the sun and the moon, and the wind on my face. But not you, Soph. I’ll never risk you.”

  FOUR

  SOPHIA

  I don't know what to make of this crazy, infuriating, ridiculously hot man. He drives me absolutely insane. One minute he's inside me in a corridor at his father's house, the next I'm being shoved back into his cabin and I'm shut away for 10 days. The man doesn't even speak to me. I don't see his face. I receive no word from him whatsoever. And now, it seems as though he's back in my life again, albeit bloody, bleeding and broken, and I don't know what to make of it.

  The sun is pouring through the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the room, highlighting the dust motes swirling through the air overhead as I sleep on the bed beside Rebel. I didn't want to climb into bed with him, but the only other option was the couch and I've been uncomfortable and miserable for long enough now. Why the hell should I have to crash out o
n the couch? Besides, he's hardly in a position to do anything untoward at this point. The guy was practically dead last night.

  It can only be about six in the morning. Already though, I can hear motorcycles arriving and leaving the compound, the brisk snarl of engines startling the birds from the trees surrounding the cabin. I'm surprised it doesn't wake Rebel up. Mind you, he appears to be sleeping the sleep of the dead. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to accomplish the same feat.

  I had unwelcome dreams last night. I know it's messed up, but I haven't thought about Matt since the moment I decided to give myself over to Rebel back in Alabama. I spent the last year dating a guy and I haven't thought about him once. How crazy must I be? Matt was never as thrilling or exciting as Rebel, but he was nice-looking guy, made me laugh. He was safe. I feel like I'm doing him a disservice by completely forgetting about him like this. I mean, who does that?

  "You look like you’re plotting out the world’s end." I nearly jump out of my skin when I realize that Rebel is awake, and he's actually looking at me, frown lines marking his forehead. Sleep still hangs over him, his gaze slightly fuzzy

  “Not exactly,” I say. “Just wondering where we go from here?” That seems like the most practical thing to be thinking. It’s no longer the sense of limbo that I find frustrating. It’s the feeling of complete and utter uselessness. Ever since I saw his uncle Ryan being murdered, I’ve felt vulnerable and unsafe. I haven’t had purpose or place in the world I’ve found myself in. I’ve been drifting, cut free from all tasks and activities that might give me some sort of mental stimulus. I’ve just been afraid and powerless, and that, perhaps, has been the worst part. With nothing to occupy my mind with other than my present situation, I’ve been driving myself crazy. At least if I know what Rebel’s plan of action is, I can maybe help. Maybe I can be a part of the process. I’m kind of stunned by the intensity of his refusal to let me be a part of any plan his club members might come up with. The look on his face last night when he was speaking was so determined; it made my heart swell in my chest in the strangest, scariest way. In that moment he looked like he meant every word, with a depth of passion I couldn’t quite fathom. But if he means it, if he really won’t allow me to be put in danger again, then maybe there’s another way.

  Rebel just shakes his head at me. “Don’t get any ideas, Sophia. I know this shit is fucked up. I know I should have just let you go when Julio handed you over, but I was too angry to see straight then. I’ve been even angrier since we left my father’s place.” He laughs shakily, pressing a hand into his side. “Funny how losing an obscene amount of blood can make a guy cool his heels and start thinking properly again. I’m not normally the guy who runs into a situation guns blazing. I’m the guy who figures out how to disarm everyone without them even realizing.” A shadow passes over his face, the light in his eyes dimming. “That tactic’s not going to work out this time. This time there will be blood and people will die, and I don’t want you anywhere near it. This can’t last longer than a couple more days, okay? Once it’s all over, I’ll personally make sure you’re delivered back to Seattle safe and sound without a hair on your head harmed. If that’s what you want…”

  “If that’s what I want?” I almost can’t breathe around the words. They just seem so ludicrous. “Why wouldn’t it be what I wanted?”

  Rebel just lies there, still covered in blood like something out of a horror show, looking at me. His inhales slowly, then lifts his hand and holds it out to me. “I’m done with the bullshit. If you want me, it won’t be pretty. I know I sure as fuck don’t deserve you, but I think you’re a smart girl. You can feel what’s right around the corner for us, right? You can sense how consuming and desperate and explosive it will be if we both just take one step forward. I’m not saying it’s not ridiculously dangerous to be with me. To be the partner of someone who lives the kind of life I lead. But you…if there’s anyone in this world with enough backbone and stubbornness to survive it, it’s you. And you’d more than survive here, Sophia. You’d flourish.”

  There’s a huge, painful lump in my throat by the time he’s finished. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Every encounter I’ve had with a guy before has been awkward and shy in the beginning. So much beating around the bush. Reading in between the lines. ‘Dating,’ where no one has a clue where they stand. With the man lying in front of me in this bed, there is no hidden meaning. He’s afraid of nothing. He knows what he wants and he speaks plainly. It’s terrifying.

  “I—”

  “You need to think about it. And that’s okay. But know this. If you want to be with me, everything will change for you. No more college. No more middle class existence. I’ll make you feel like you were sleeping before, like you have no idea how you lived such a placid, quiet existence without me.” His voice deepens, sending thrills through me. “I’ll fuck you raw, Soph. I’ll make you forget what it was like to be with any other man. I’ll ride you so hard, you won’t remember your own name. I’ll be the only thing tethering you to this earth. My sheets will be soaked with your come every single damn night for the rest of your sublime existence. This I promise you.”

  I feel like I’m seconds away from passing out. Holy. Fucking. Shit. No one… no one has ever spoken to me like that before in my entire life. And the crazy thing is that I know it’s true. I know he means every single word, and more importantly he can deliver. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to say in return to that. Rebel’s still holding his hand out to me, waiting for me to do something.

  He did the same thing in the hallway at his father’s place, asking me to accept him, but I was saved from making any sort of decision by the blood-curdling scream that came from Louis James Aubertin II’s kitchen at the time.

  There’s no one screaming now, though. I take a deep breath, trying to think of something appropriate to say while at the same time assessing what I even want anymore. I draw a total blank. “You realize that’s impossible, right?” I whisper. “That a girl can’t soak sheets with her come.”

  Rebel lowers his hand. His eyes shine, some sort of mischevious mirth hidden there, just behind the sharpness of his gaze. “You think the female ejaculation is a myth?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He starts laughing, deep in the back of his throat. It’s a wicked, dangerous sound. “Oh, boy. Sounds to me like you’ve never come properly before, Soph. And that’s a crying shame.” The laughter dies on his lips, transforming his expression into one of deadly seriousness. “If you let me, I’ll be more than happy to rectify the situation.”

  He fixes me with those ice-blue eyes of his, so disturbingly beautiful, and I feel like I’m about to squirm out of my own damn skin. I could barely look into them when we first met, and that hasn’t really changed. And now, with him talking about female ejaculation, I’m finding it hard to think straight. “You shouldn’t be making bold threats like that, you jerk,” I inform him. “You could not deliver on that.”

  He grins. “How little you know me.”

  Rebel sleeps some more. I find myself watching him, panic coursing through my veins. Three weeks. I can’t believe I’ve only been gone for three weeks. I feel my throat tightening shut when I realize I’ve missed my mom’s birthday. It just slipped me by without notice. Usually Sloane and I will take her out for a girls’ day, usually coffee and breakfast in the morning, followed by a spa session, mani-pedis and massages all round. It’s been our staple celebrating for the past five years.

  The ridiculous thing is that neither my sister or my mother are the kinds of people to enjoy spa days. Sloane was always too focused on her studies and then on her internship, and my mom still thinks every last cent that comes into the house should be squirreled away, banked, invested or donated to the church.

  Mom’s birthdays are usually awkward affairs.

  And this year, instead of getting my toenails trimmed like a prize Pomeranian, I was fucking Rebel in a hallway. Literally. My mom was probably crying h
ysterically from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to sleep.

  “Hey. Hey, what’s up?” Rebel reaches up slowly and trails blood-stained fingertips across the line of my jaw. His touch sends violent shivers chasing through my body. I don’t even want to mention where the sensation settles, growing and growing with an increasing sense of urgency. I take his hand and place it back on his chest.

  “I’m fine. Just still…y’know. Dealing.”

  “Yeah. Dealing’s pretty shitty.” He looks down at himself—he’s such a mess—and I want to laugh at how insufficient the statement is. I don’t think my body remembers how to laugh anymore, though. Screaming or total, terror-filled silence seem to be the only two functions my vocal chords are capable of.

  “Your guys all saw me last night,” I say, trying to keep my eyes off Rebel’s bare chest. I’m morbidly fascinated by the angry red stitches that trail across his stomach and disappear over his side, toward his back. His blood has dried and cracked, turned so dark it’s almost black; it creates bizarre patterns all over the tightly packed muscle of his chest and stomach. “I say guys,” I continue, “but there were two women there, too. An older, really tall woman, and a younger one with pink hair.”

  Rebel nods. “Yeah. Fee. Josephine. She’s the tall one. She was one of the first club members. And the one with the pink hair…” He shakes his head ruefully. “That one is the bane of my fucking life. The rest of the crew are guys, though. Did any of them look like they were going to lynch you?” he asks.

  “They looked stunned actually. Seems like you did a really good job of keeping me a secret.”

  Rebel purses his lips—god, I want to bite them. I can still remember how amazing they felt all over my body—and then he blinks up at the ceiling, like he’s weighing up what he wants to tell me. Eventually, he says, “They’re good guys. The Widow Makers isn’t like any other club, though, Soph. Everyone has a story here. There isn’t a single person here who joined because they think breaking the law is fun. We have a lot of vets here. Like me. Like Cade. After the corps chews you up and spits you out, you kinda feel like…like you’ve lost your family. Unless they’re ex-military too, your blood and bone relatives will never understand what you’ve been through. The bond you build with the other guys in your unit…they’re never just guys by the end. Even the guys you hate, the ones who drive you insane, the ones you wanna kill half the time—they’re your brothers too.” He laughs. “I mean, most brothers want to strangle each other half the time anyway, right? But if someone fucks with them…” Shaking his head, Rebel sighs. “Someone tries to fuck with them and it’s game on. Brothers will defend each other ‘til the death.