Chapter 6
REBEL
My hands are shaking, but I blame the adrenaline. The port burns behind us, with orange flames licking the fog, while Carter’s silver bike roars ahead of mine. The night tastes like salt and smoke.
We don’t speak as the road between Long Beach and Los Angeles is black and endless, a scar cutting through the dark. The engines thunder side by side, the sound a war cry and a warning.
By the time the city lights bleed into the horizon, my ribs ache from tension. I veer off the highway, rolling into a rest stop wedged between a gas station and a half-dead diner. Carter follows, killing his engine beside me. We sit for a beat, helmets off, breathing hard.
Then he breaks the silence. “You always meet new people in ambushes, or was tonight special?”
“Depends,” I snap. “Do you always babysit women who don’t need saving?”
He gives a dry laugh, the sound rough and low. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Didn’t ask for it.”
“No,” he says, stepping off his bike, “but you’d be a lot more ventilated if I hadn’t stepped in.”
The wind catches my hair, whipping it across my face. I shove it back and glare at him. “You think I don’t know how to handle myself?”
“I think you’re bleeding.”
I look down, and sure enough, there’s a dark streak soaking through my jeans, high on my thigh. The graze must’ve happened during the scramble. The denim sticks to my skin, warm and damp, and the pain finally hits me.
“Son of a…”
He smirks. “Don’t worry. You gave better than you got.”
“You’re not exactly spotless either.” I nod toward the slash across his bicep, a deep cut just beginning to clot.
He follows my gaze, shrugs as if pain’s an old friend. “We can argue, or we can not bleed out on the asphalt. Your call.” I hate that he’s right.
We ride the last stretch back to the compound in tense silence, the sky trading bruises with dawn.
Pale light cuts through the fog, gilding the fence line in steel and throwing exhaustion across everything it touches.
The closer we get, the more the world shifts.
Streetlights give way to chrome fences and the faint glow of the Royal Harlots' crest, shining like defiance carved in metal.
Carter slows at the gate, taking it all in.
Razor wire, motion sensors, the hum of Divine’s surveillance grid.
The bar and tattoo shop sit near the front, open to the public, but behind them, the clubhouse towers in new brick and steel.
The shelter glows faintly in the distance, tucked behind reinforced walls.
He whistles low. “You run a fortress or a kingdom?”
“Both,” I mutter, swinging off my bike. “Follow me.”
“Didn’t realize you took strays.”
“Only the wounded ones.”
That earns me a small, genuine, dangerous half-smile.
Inside, the clubhouse hums with the after-hours rhythm of our world. French’s music filters in from the bar. Calypso’s laugh carries from the tattoo shop, followed by Farris’ deep, throaty voice. The scent of whiskey and leather fills the hall.
I lead Carter past the main room into one of the back offices. It’s quiet, sterile, and mostly used for first aid and paperwork.
He leans against the counter as I dig through the med kit. “You’re sure about this? I’ve had worse.”
“Good. Then you’ll sit still.” His eyes follow me, tracking every movement, cataloging my weaknesses. Or maybe something else. “Off,” I say, nodding toward his jacket.
He arches a brow. “Usually takes more than one drink to get me to strip.”
“Try me, Bishop.”
He grins but obeys, peeling the leather from his shoulders. The cut on his arm is ugly, deep enough to sting, shallow enough to heal. I pour disinfectant over it. He doesn’t flinch.
“Tough guy act’s cute,” I mutter, wrapping the bandage tight.
“Wasn’t an act.”
“Sure.”
When I finish, he catches my wrist before I can pull away. “Your turn.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” His voice drops, quieter but sharper. “Sit down.”
It’s the command in his tone that gets to me. It’s not anger or arrogance, just the sound of a man used to giving orders when everything’s falling apart.
I sit, muttering curses under my breath, while he kneels in front of me. His calloused fingers stay steady as he brushes lightly over my thigh, lifting the torn denim.
The graze is shallow, but the heat from his skin makes it feel deeper. I look away, pretending not to notice how close he is.
He cleans the wound, gentle yet efficient, binding it with the same care I’d give a ledger that won’t balance.
“Why’d you really come to Long Beach?” I ask.
“Same reason you did,” he replies. “Chasing ghosts that don’t stay buried.”
“Don’t feed me riddles, Bishop.”
He ties off the bandage and leans back on his heels. “You want the truth? Fine. I was there when Alex died.”
The words hit harder than the gunfire. My pulse stops, then surges back, too fast. I stare at him. “You… what?”
He nods once, grim. “We were working a retrieval op together. Alex thought he was pulling data from a cartel courier. It turned out it was bait. The Vultures ambushed us.”
“The Vultures?” My voice cracks. “You’re telling me they killed him?”
“They set the trap,” he says quietly. “I was supposed to pull him out, but I didn’t make it in time.”
The room suddenly feels smaller, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
The sharp smell of antiseptic turns metallic in my nose, and for a moment, his voice sounds distant, like it’s traveling through water instead of air.
The story I’ve lived with for four years begins to fracture.
I thought the cartel killed my twin. Now he’s telling me it was the Vultures.
Does Capone know? Did they try to bury the truth? Does Bones know?
All I hear is my own breathing and the steady rhythm of his confession, as if he’s been holding it in his chest for years.
“So this whole thing…” I stop, swallow hard. Carter doesn’t need to know club business, so I pivot. “You’ve been chasing their money trail ever since?”
“Yeah.” His gaze drops to the floor, then lifts. “The accounts, the shell companies, the A. Slade Logistics ghost, the Silver Talon wash, all of it ties back to them. And someone’s resurrecting the pipeline.”
“And you think it’s me?”
“I thought you might be a pawn. Now I think you’re a target.”
“Careful,” I warn as I stand. "You’re standing inside my walls now.”
He rises as well, closing the distance between us until the air crackles. “Then make me believe you.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“No,” he murmurs. “But you want answers. And I’ve got them.”
The silence between us hums with adrenaline and something darker neither of us names. My pulse skips as his gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then he steps back.
“Here’s my offer,” he says. “You give me access to your ledgers, the donation accounts, and the shelter’s fronts. I don’t need your servers, just the paper and the portals. Soldier and accountant. I follow numbers, they give up names. I can track where the money’s going faster than your techs.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“Insurance,” he says simply. “You’ve got enemies with deep pockets. I’ve got skills they’d pay to erase.”
“So, what? We’re partners now?”
His lips twist. “Allies. Temporarily.”
“That sounds a lot like you think you’re in charge.”
He meets my gaze, unwavering. “I’m not in charge. I’m trying to keep your club off a kill list.”
My laugh is short and brittle. “You don’t even know me.”
He studies me for a moment longer. “Maybe not, but I knew Alex. And you’ve got the same eyes.”
Something inside me twists. I turn away because I don’t trust what’ll happen if I don’t.
“Fine,” I say finally. “You get the ledgers, but Church is off-limits. Out of my systems. Out of my way.”
He nods, slow and deliberate. “Deal.”
I stand, and Carter follows me out of the infirmary.
I turn right, go up the stairs, and stop at the first door.
I open it and let him pass. Carter’s body brushes mine as he passes, heat through denim and leather, solid and unmistakably male.
For a split second, we’re chest to chest, and I feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against my ribs.
His breath ghosts over my mouth, warm and faintly coppered with dried blood and whiskey.
The scent of gunpowder clings to him, sharp and smoky, layered over clean sweat and salt air.
I could close the inch between us without even thinking about it.
I lick my lips before I can stop myself, and his gaze drops there, slow and deliberate.
I back away before things get out of hand. “Get some sleep before you bleed through that bandage.”
He smirks, stepping farther into the room. “You offering to tuck me in?”
“Keep talking, and I’ll staple your mouth shut.” His low, rough laugh follows me to the door.
As I step into the hallway, the clubhouse’s distant hum wraps around me again. My sisters’ laughter filters through the walls. For a heartbeat, I almost feel safe.
But when I glance back, Carter’s still watching me with dark, steady, unreadable eyes. And just like that, the burn in my thigh isn’t the only thing I can’t ignore.
I sleep in snatches. When the sun finally drags across the blinds, I’m up before it, counting the hours in coffee and code.
The next day, I go for a ride to clear my head. When I get back, the silver bike is gone, but Carter Bishop is still in my head. His voice. His precision. His hands. The way he didn’t hesitate to pull me down when bullets started flying.
Those eyes are as hard as concrete. Honest in a way that unsettles me.
I kick the stand down, yank off my helmet, and curse under my breath. “Stupid.”
The compound’s alive in fragments. Iris’s bike revs near the back fence.
Divine’s office light flickers like a warning beacon.
Calypso’s music thunders faintly through the tattoo shop’s walls, old, sultry, defiant.
The bar doors swing open, and French steps out, holding two mugs of coffee and a smirk.