Chapter 3
REBEL
By morning, the fog has burned off again, leaving the compound slick and shining like someone polished the whole world in gasoline.
The tattoo shop hums low, with machine needles buzzing and the scent of ink mixing with disinfectant and metal.
Calypso’s in her zone, sleeves rolled up, tattoo gun in hand, a cigarette burning forgotten in the ashtray beside her.
French sits on the counter, swinging her legs, scrolling through her phone, and heckling customers like it’s an Olympic sport.
“Rebel!” Calypso calls over the machine’s drone. “You handling the walk-ins today, or still flirting with spreadsheets?”
“Numbers never talk back,” I say, tugging my cut straight. “Unlike you.”
“Baby, I talk back because you need it.”
French snickers. “That’s her love language.”
I grin and toss a crumpled napkin at her. It bounces off her knee and lands perfectly in the trash can. “Skill,” I say.
French raises her coffee. “And sin.”
The front door chimes. The smell of motor oil, whiskey, and bad decisions hits me like a sucker punch, and I freeze.
Calypso’s head lifts, eyes narrowing. “No.”
My pulse spikes before I even turn. I already know that scent, that silhouette filling the doorway.
Bones.
He looks the same and nothing like he did. He’s leaner, harder. His smile cut from knives. His cut hangs open, road dust still clinging to it. The tattoos on his forearms shift like secrets as he flexes his hands.
“Miss me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low drawl that slides under my skin and presses on old bruises I pretended were healed.
I plant my boots and cross my arms. “You lost, Bones? The Royal Bastards Clubhouse is a few exits north.”
Bones grins without warmth. “Heard you opened a fancy ink shop for felons and feminists. Thought I’d see how the other half lives.”
“Leave.” Calypso’s tone is ice. “Before I use your ribs to practice linework.”
I never told her about our history, but knowing Calypso, I suspect she has already guessed.
Bones barely glances her way. “Relax, Vega. I’m not here to bleed on your floors.”
His dark gaze slides to me, dragging heat and history with it. “Just came to check if Rebel here’s still moving dirty money under her brother’s name.”
The air grows razor-thin. I feel Calypso’s stare drilling into the side of my head. French’s smirk vanishes. The tattoo gun stills.
My voice comes out low. “You want to run that back?”
He steps closer, slow and smug, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “You heard me. You were always good at math, Rebel. Too bad your moral compass had a decimal problem.”
“You don’t know shit about my morals.”
“I know you were knee-deep in numbers you couldn’t control when your brother died. Now I hear A. Slade Logistics is back from the grave. You wouldn’t happen to be cooking those books again, would you?”
My blood turns to ice. Not surprise. Not confusion. Ice. The kind that spreads slowly and deliberately, freezing everything it touches.
“I even saw a transfer from Silver Talon Janitorial float through your routes,” he continues. “Cute name. Cleaner than it should be.”
I shove him hard enough that his chest hits the edge of the counter before I think, because if I didn’t, I might put a bullet through him. “Watch your mouth.”
His smirk deepens. “Still got fire. Good. You’ll need it.”
“Get out,” Calypso warns again, her voice sharp. Annabelle’s stroller squeaks from the back room, a small sound that shouldn’t belong in a moment like this.
Farris, Law Dog, Dalton, a member of the Royal Bastards, and Calypso’s Ol’ Man stand in the doorway. He looks like he’s one breath away from snapping the prospect in half.
Bones ignores it. His gaze pins me. “Someone’s playing banker with ghosts, and I don’t believe in coincidences. Maybe you don’t either.”
“Say what you came to say, Bones.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re digging in the wrong grave, Rebel.”
His words creep under my skin, cold and crawling, because I’ve already been digging, and I don’t like that he knows it. I shove him again. “And you’re about one insult away from me burying you in one.”
His laugh is quiet, dangerous. “There she is, the girl who thought she could balance the books of the dead.”
Something inside me snaps. My palm meets his jaw before my brain catches up. The crack echoes through the shop.
French whistles low. “Oh, it’s that kind of morning.”
Bones’s head jerks sideways, but he doesn’t step back. He plants a hand on the counter beside me, close enough that his knuckles brush my hip. “Still hit like you mean it.”
“Still talk like you don’t.” For a second, everything hums. The machine, the tension, the years we never talked about.
Then he straightens, rubbing his jaw. The smirk returns, sharper than before. “You want the truth, doll?” His voice drops to a soft, lethal whisper. “You’ll choke on it.” He turns toward the door and tosses a name over his shoulder like a grenade. “Carter Bishop.”
It means nothing, but the way he says it makes it feel like a loaded weapon set on the table between us. “Who the hell is that?”
He stops in the doorway, light slicing his profile in half. “You’ll find out. You always do.” The door closes behind him, the chime ringing like a taunt.
For a long moment, no one speaks. The tattoo gun hums back to life as if it’s pretending nothing happened.
“You good?” French asks quietly.
I grab a rag, wipe the counter like it’s going to erase him. “Peachy.”
“Bullshit.”
Calypso finally sets her tattoo gun down, her green eyes sharp. “If Bones is sniffing around again, he’s not alone. We’ll handle it.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say automatically.
Calypso stands, all slow threat and sisterhood. “You don’t have to handle everything alone, Rebel.”
I meet her gaze. “Yeah, I do.” If I don’t, and this blows back on the club, it won’t just be my brother’s name in the dirt. It’ll be all of ours.
Outside, a bike engine roars to life. Deep, throaty, familiar. The sound fades down the street, leaving the scent of smoke and motor oil in the air.
Under it, something else lingers. Rumors, danger, the faint metallic name Divine mentioned last night when the firewall lit red. Iron Vultures. Maybe Bones wasn’t talking about ghosts after all.
I flex my sore hand and whisper under my breath, “Carter Bishop… what the hell did you have to do with Alex?”
The machines continue to buzz, steady and relentless.
I realize Bones didn’t come here to warn me. He came to see how much I already know, and now he knows I’m close.
He came to provoke me.