Chapter 6 #2
“Morning, sinner,” she drawls. “You look like the apocalypse tried to flirt with you.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Oh, you’re definitely in the mood,” she teases. “Just not for coffee.”
I groan. “Please stop.”
She hands me a mug anyway, and we walk inside. “You’re welcome.”
The clubhouse smells of espresso, motor oil, and survival. Sloane’s pacing by the security board, barking into a headset. Allura’s perched on the table, arms folded, calm, unamused, radiating power in jeans and eyeliner that could kill a man.
“Someone want to tell me why I’m getting calls about gunfire in Long Beach?” Allura asks, her voice smooth as a blade, but her eyes narrow on me.
I take a long swallow of coffee to buy time. “Rumor mill’s fast.”
Sloane cuts in, eyes like polished steel. “Rebel.”
“Relax,” I start, “I wasn’t alone,” I add, and I hate the way my voice softens when I think about Carter.
“Worse,” French interrupts, dragging a chair out backward and flopping into it. “She met a man.”
So much for a best friend. I glare at her. “Not helping.”
“Oh, I’m helping,” French insists, grinning like a wolf. “Because if you don’t tell them, I will.”
Calypso strolls in from the tattoo shop, wiping ink off her hands. “Tell them what?”
“That our dear Treasurer here was shot at,” French singsongs, “and her savior is tall, dark, and an ex-Marine.”
The room stills.
Allura lifts a brow. “You want to run that by me again?”
I sigh. “It wasn’t what it sounds like.”
Sloane’s jaw tightens. “You were in a firefight, and it’s not what it sounds like?”
“Technically, it was an ambush.”
“That’s worse!”
“I didn’t start it!”
Divine appears from the hallway as if summoned by chaos, tablet tucked under her arm, eyes sharp behind her glasses. “What kind of ambush?”
“The kind with bullets,” I mutter. “And very poor aim.”
French snorts into her mug. “You’re deflecting again.”
“I’m staying alive again,” I shoot back. “Big difference.”
Allura’s gaze holds mine, steady and quiet, like she’s weighing what’s unsaid. “Start at the beginning.”
I tell them. Not everything, but enough. The docks. The name, Carter Bishop. The gunfire. The burn of adrenaline still humming in my veins.
When I finish, the silence is tangible. Divine sets her tablet down and says softly, “You realize whoever took that shot wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“I noticed.”
“And this Bishop guy?” Calypso asks. “You trust him?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“Want to?”
“Also no.”
French grins. “Liar.”
I throw a coaster at her. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” French props her chin on her hand. “You’ve got that look, babe, like a cat that found something dangerous and can’t stop poking it.”
Divine scrolls through data on her tablet.
“I ran a quick trace after you texted me. Carter Bishop’s records are clean.
Too clean. Somebody scrubbed him years ago.
Ex-Marine, private contractor, off-grid since 2021.
And get this, his last known contact before going dark? ” She looks up. “Alex Slade.”
The sound of my brother’s name hits like a hammer.
Allura’s eyes narrow. “Your brother’s ghost keeps getting louder.”
I nod, throat tight. “That’s why I went to the docks. The name wasn’t a coincidence.”
“And now you’re bringing cartel crossfire back to our doorstep,” Sloane says, voice cold but not cruel. “You realize what that means for the club?”
“Yeah.” I stand straighter. “It means I fix it before it hits home.”
Allura slides off the table, her gaze heavy but not accusing. “Then you’d better move carefully. If Bishop’s involved, he stays out of Church. Sacred is sacred. And don’t let some man with a gun and a sad story throw you off balance.”
“Who says he threw me off balance?”
French snorts. “Your face, your tone, your sudden urge to deep-clean your spreadsheets. Pick one.”
Calypso leans against the wall, grin slow and knowing. “What’s he like?”
“Annoying.”
“Hot?”
I roll my eyes. “He’s… aggravatingly competent.”
“Translation,” French says, “you’d climb him like a tree.”
I choke on my coffee. “Jesus, French.”
Allura’s lips twitch. “Ladies.”
“Sorry, Prez,” French says with mock solemnity. “I’ll be good. Eventually.”
The laughter that follows is the kind that rebuilds, warm, irreverent, and necessary. For a second, the weight lifts, and I remember why this place matters.
When the meeting breaks, Divine catches my wrist. Her voice is low. “Whoever scrubbed Bishop’s past has deep access. If you’re going to keep digging, I want in.”
“Not yet,” I tell her. “If I’m wrong…”
“Then I’ll delete the evidence,” she interrupts. “If you’re right, you’ll need backup.”
I nod, because she’s right, and because saying thank you feels too small.
The others drift back to their routines. French to the bar, Sloane to the security board, Calypso to her next client. I step onto the clubhouse porch. The morning smells of rain and motor oil.
Down the road, a silver bike glints where it’s parked by the old gas station. Carter Bishop’s bike.
He’s leaning against it, jacket open, arms crossed, like a man who doesn’t flinch easily. When our eyes meet, something low in my chest ignites, equal parts fury and curiosity.
I walk toward him before I can stop myself.
“Couldn’t resist?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed before lunch.”
“How sweet. You stalking me now?”
“Call it professional concern.”
I cross my arms. “You don’t look concerned.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You shouldn’t have come to the docks alone.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Sure,” he says, “that’s why I had to drag you out of the line of fire.”
My temper sparks. “You could’ve let me take the bullet.”
“Don’t tempt me.” His smirk is infuriating.
The silence between us hums. It’s not empty but charged. The wind pulls at my hair. I take a step closer. “No bullshit, Bishop. Why did Alex call you?”
Carter’s jaw tightens. “Because he trusted me.”
“With what?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“You’re not helping your case.”
“I didn’t know I was on trial.”
“Oh, you are,” I tell him. “And so far, your testimony sucks.”
For the first time, his mouth almost softens. “You sound just like him.”
That hits deeper than I expected. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Compare me to a ghost.”
He studies me quietly. “Fair enough.” Then he steps back and climbs onto his bike. “Stay alert, Rebel. Whoever set that ambush isn’t finished.”
“And you know that because…?”
“Because I used to work for the same people.”
The engine growls to life, deep and rough.
He slips on his helmet and stares at me intently before the visor drops.
His jaw tightens, like he's holding back something he almost says. His eyes aren’t cold, they’re determined.
A warning. A promise. A man who knows more than he’s letting on, then pulls away.
I stand there long after the sound fades, the sun too bright, the world too sharp.
Behind me, French calls from the porch, “If you’re gonna stare at him like that, at least get his number!”
I flip her off without turning, but my pulse doesn’t slow for a long time.