Chapter 2
REBEL
Morning hits the compound like a fist wrapped in velvet, soft-looking but hard underneath.
The hillside still hums from last night’s work and whiskey.
Ten acres of neon and steel stretch below.
The strip club is shut down for the night.
The tattoo parlor behind the old oak glows through smoked glass, ink guns whining a lullaby only sinners and artists understand.
The shelter is tucked the farthest back, behind its fence.
Raven stalks the perimeter like a ghost in matte black, counting cameras, exits, and heartbeats.
Every inch smells of smoke, sweat, and second chances.
By the time the sun burns through the marine layer, the bar’s bay doors are rolled up, letting out the smell of coffee, fryer oil, and last night’s whiskey. The neon sign still hum in the daylight, like it doesn’t know how to shut the hell up even when the party’s over.
French has commandeered the main table in the clubhouse, receipts and glittery pens spread everywhere like she’s summoning financial demons.
Divine’s at the bar with two laptops open, fingers flying.
Iris comes back inside after checking tire pressure and chain slack for the afternoon ride, then leans against the counter, her long dark braid swinging as she flips through the fight night roster.
I walk in holding a coffee so strong it could patch drywall.
“Morning, hellcats,” I announce.
French doesn’t look up. “You mean noon, Treasurer. Time is a social construct, but your deadlines aren’t.”
“Bite me.”
“Only if you bring donuts next time,” French says, scribbling figures.
“Cute,” I say, handing her one of the coffees. “But you’re not getting the donut.”
Divine glances over her screen. “You look like you slept with one eye open and a calculator under your pillow.”
“Tax season,” I say dryly. She was to close on that assessment.
Calypso saunters in from the tattoo shop, carrying Annabelle on her hip and a smirk on her lips.
Our niece is a spitting image of Calypso, even at six months old, with her dark hair and piercing green eyes.
“No, that’s her tax-evading stare,” Calypso says, tickling Annabelle on the belly, making the baby laugh.
“You know, when she’s mentally hiding bodies and receipts. ”
“I’m just allergic to incompetence.” I sip my coffee. “Unfortunately, it’s airborne.”
“Then you’re in the wrong business,” Iris mutters, smirking.
Laughter bounces off the walls. Even Iris cracks a grin. The sound fills the space like the hum of engines, loud, alive, and unapologetic.
For a second, it almost drowns out the noise in my own head. I take the empty chair beside French and steal one of her pens just to annoy her. “Everything set for fight night?”
“Mostly.” Iris looks up from her clipboard. “Ringside lighting’s fixed, and the security detail’s doubled. We got a new girl, calls herself Ashes, says she can handle herself. I told her if she bleeds out, she cleans it up.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Divine snorts. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“Allura knew that when she gave me a calculator and called it trust.” That word lands heavier than it should. Trust isn’t light around here. It’s earned in bruises and blood.
When I push the heavy double doors of the Church open, carrying two cups of coffee, I know that if I show up with caffeine, no one will ask why I look like hell warmed over. The sound outside dims to nothing.
The Royal Harlots’ Church isn’t a dim biker bunker like most MCs.
It’s a sanctum. Part war room, part temple, part confession booth.
The room is soundproofed, its walls reinforced, and layered with tech.
The air hums faintly from Divine’s security system.
If anyone even tries to eavesdrop, the network dies, and the doors lock.
Lighting is low, warm, and deliberate. Edison bulbs hang from a matte-black chandelier crafted from motorcycle chains, gears, and bullet casings, welded into an intricate crown. When lit, spokes of light spin across the ceiling like a halo forged in steel.
The walls are deep plum and charcoal, lined with framed black-and-white photos of the women who came before us. Founders, fallen sisters. Survivors who refused to stay buried. Their road names are etched beneath each frame like vows carved in bone.
The floor is polished concrete with a faint metallic sheen. Practical and beautiful, it reflects the massive oval table like an altar.
The table is carved from reclaimed steel and black walnut, wide enough to seat eight officers and six patched sisters.
Beneath the resin, the Royal Harlots MC patch gleams like defiance stitched in ink and bone.
At its heart is a striking woman’s face, painted in ornate Día de los Muertos makeup.
Half beautiful, half spectral. A golden crown rests on her dark hair, jeweled roses curling around its base like thorns turned to bloom.
On either side of her, two silver skulls stare outward, silent sentinels of loyalty and death.
Below, a pair of crossed motorcycle pistons glints beneath the roses, a symbol of the engine that binds every sister to the road.
The top rocker arcs proudly with ROYAL HARLOTS MC, and the bottom declares our home turf, LOS ANGELES, CA.
It’s a banner of rebellion and sisterhood, beauty, power, and mortality, welded into one unforgettable emblem.
Along the rim of the table, our road names are etched in copper: Allura, Sloane, Rebel, French, Divine, Iris, Raven, Calypso.
There’s no “head” of the table. Allura’s chair faces the door in respect, not dominance.
Opposite her, the ridge of steel bears the engraving: From Ash and Asphalt, We Rise.
Each chair is forged for the woman who sits in it.
Allura’s chair bears a crown and teal waves, faintly scented with sea salt and sandalwood.
Sloane’s is a silver anchor crossed with a dagger, with rope coiled tight for discipline and duty.
My chair has ledger lines burned into leather, an infinity-shaped dollar sign, and copper studs.
The chair creaks when I lean back, a reminder that balance always costs.
French’s chair is made of diamond-heel etched in leather, one cracked, one pristine.
Divine’s chair features a circuit-board engraving with a serpent, and faint LED pulses under her touch.
Iris’s chair, like the flower she’s named after, has violet flowers stitched over a coastal map, with a route pouch in the arm.
Raven’s has matte-black feathers and a silver bullet embossed at the crown. Calypso’s has a tattoo gun crossed with a badge star, crimson thread, and scars in the leather she refuses to replace.
To the left of the room, Divine's glowing security station hums quietly. To the right is the glass Remembrance Niche, with eight spent shells from the night we were attacked. In the back of the room, a small shrine features infinity candles burning around a chrome chalice engraved with:
For those who bled so others could rise.
Phones die in here. Wi-Fi cuts out. When the heavy doors seal, it’s only us, and whatever truth we’re brave enough to speak.
As if summoned by her own name, Allura walks in. She’s calm authority and quiet steel, the kind of woman who could negotiate peace or start a war, depending on her eyeliner. Sloane follows, arms folded, eyes sharp enough to make sinners confess.
Allura leans forward, her sea-green eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. “All right, ladies. Fight night’s coming, and I don’t want a repeat of the last time someone set the speakers on fire.”
Divine raises a hand. “That was a controlled burn.”
French grins. “Yeah, controlled by chaos.”
Sloane cuts through the laughter with that Navy-command calm. “Let’s stay focused. Rebel, financials?”
Here it comes.
I flash my most practiced grin, the one that’s saved me from more interrogations than I care to count. “Everything’s running smoothly. Donations are solid, the bar’s up, the tattoo shop’s booked through next week. The shelter’s stable.”
Sloane raises an eyebrow. “Stable’s a nice word. Usually means barely holding.”
“Relax, Commander,” I say sweetly. “We’re solvent. I even reconciled French’s bar receipts with her glitter ink again. That should qualify as a miracle.”
French throws a coaster at me. “You loved every decimal.” French winks. “Don’t knock the sparkle.”
The laughter rolls easily, the guilt doesn’t.
Allura’s gaze lingers on me a moment too long. She knows when I’m hiding something, but she also knows better than to call me out in front of the others.
Finally, she nods. “Keep it that way. We’re not running a charity, we’re building an empire. Don’t overextend our legit fronts trying to save the world.”
“Copy that, Prez.”
If she knew what name was buried in those transactions, that word, empire, would sound a lot more fragile.
We break into smaller tasks. Divine sets up the fight-night livestream code, Iris checks the sound systems, and Calypso sketches the night’s promo art. For a few hours, the clubhouse feels like controlled chaos.
French hums a pop song wildly off-key, Sloane shouts for someone to fix the gate sensor, and I let the noise distract me. But distraction never lasts. Not when ghosts live in your spreadsheets.
Night wraps the compound in silver fog. The ring out back glows under the floodlights, empty and waiting. The bar’s closed early for setup, and the tattoo shop’s lights are off for once. The hum of computers replaces the roar of motorcycles.
I’m back in the office with a whiskey bottle for company, eyes locked on the screen. The ledger glows on my screen, that cursed line item taunting me:
Slade Logistics LLC.
A second entry sits just beneath it: Silver Talon Janitorial LLC. New vendor, same routing number. Too clean to be a coincidence.
I trace the numbers like they might confess. If I follow the money, I’ll find whoever thinks they can use my brother’s name without consequence. And I’ll make them wish they’d never learned to spell it.
I open the firewall controls and reroute access through a backdoor Divine built years ago, when she was still teaching hackers how to cry. The code flickers from green to amber.
“Not bad,” a voice says from behind me.
I jump so hard I nearly knock over the bottle of whiskey.
Divine leans in the doorway, barefoot, wearing an oversized tee that reads I void warranties. Her eyes are half amusement, half concern. “You know you could just ask for my help,” she says, strolling in.
“And miss all the adrenaline? Never.”
She slides onto the couch and opens her tablet. The monitor’s glow paints both of us in blue light. “You’re digging deep, Reb. Want to tell me why?”
I keep my tone casual. “Just tightening security. A couple of donation glitches. Nothing serious.”
“Mmhmm.” She types quickly. Her code scrolls beside mine, clean and precise. “If it’s nothing serious, why are you using the backdoor I built for emergencies?”
“Because it’s faster?”
She smirks. “You’re a terrible liar.”
She’s not wrong. Every lie I tell leaves fingerprints. I almost tell her. About Alex. About the message on my phone. About how someone is moving money in his name. But the words stick in my throat.
Divine doesn’t push. She never does. Instead, she mirrors me, shoulder to shoulder, typing, tracing, scanning for anomalies. The room hums with electricity and unsaid things.
Then her screen blips red. Once. Twice.
Both of us freeze.
“What is that?” I whisper.
Her fingers fly. Code cascades across the monitor. “Firewall breach. Real-time. Someone’s already inside the system.”
My heart slams. “How deep?”
“Deep enough to know we’re watching them.” She swears under her breath. “They’re slick. Whoever it is, they’re not testing. They’re tracing.”
A red alert flashes, then vanishes as Divine isolates the signal. Her jaw tightens. “I can block the route, but we’ll lose the trail.”
“Leave it,” I say. “I want to see where it goes.”
She glances at me, then back at the screen. “You’re playing with fire.”
I almost laugh. Fire is the only thing that’s ever felt honest. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
For a moment, our reflections hover side by side in the glass. Two women who helped rebuild a kingdom from ruin now watch digital smoke rise from the walls.
Finally, the screen steadies. The alert dies. Whoever was inside is gone.
Divine exhales slowly. “Well, that was fun. Next time you want excitement, we could just steal a yacht.”
“Tempting,” I say, forcing a smile.
She closes her laptop, stands, and pats my shoulder. “You find whatever you’re looking for, Rebel. Just don’t get lost in it.”
When she’s gone, the silence feels like a verdict.
I stare at the monitor, at the blinking cursor that won’t stop mocking me. Somewhere out there, someone’s pulling strings tied to my brother’s name, and now they know I’m tugging back.
The cursor blinks once more, then the screen flickers. For a split second, a message flashes across the top line before vanishing.
You shouldn’t have looked.
The cursor blinks once, then stops.
I lean back, my heartbeat drumming in my ears. Outside, the fog thickens around the fence, swallowing the ring lights until only the faint hum of the city remains.
And for the first time since Alex died, I start wondering if ghosts can code.