Chapter 18
REBEL
Carter sleeps like he’s making up for a lifetime of missed hours.
One arm slung over my waist, breath steady, the faint hum of pain whispering through his body.
The shoulder wound’s clean, his skin warm beneath the gauze.
Dawn creeps through the blinds, a bruise of light.
I lie there and listen to the tick of the clock, the hum of the clubhouse starting to come to life, the rare silence between our heartbeats.
He shifts once, murmuring something half-dreamed, and my hand finds his chest automatically. His skin is warm, solid, proof that we lived through another night that should’ve killed us.
When Divine’s voice, low and ragged, mutters code and coffee orders, I slip free of the bed and pull on jeans, a tank, and my cut. The weight of leather steadies me.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, French is already leaning against the counter in one of her silk robes, coffee steaming in hand. She raises an eyebrow.
“Morning, sugar. You look like you fought a war and won the prize.”
“Don’t start,” I warn, pouring my own cup.
French grins, sharp as a blade. “Who said I was startin’? I’m just observin’. That man’s got more stamina than common sense.”
“Coffee,” I interrupt, holding up the pot. “Drink. Shut up.”
“Bossy.” She laughs, but it’s gentle. “He’s good for you, Vic. You’re almost smiling.”
“Almost,” I admit, and take the seat by the window. Outside, the compound hums. The prospects are cleaning bikes, Raven arguing with Iris about inventory, and Allura’s voice calling orders like a general.
French watches me for a long minute, then sighs. “Church in ten. Allura’s already in mission mode.”
“Of course she is.” I finish my coffee, rinse the cup, and head toward the meeting room.
The table gleams in the daylight. It’s polished, powerful, our names etched into the copper rim like vows.
The Harlots file in one by one. Allura at the head, Raven to her left, Sloane and Divine to her right.
French slides in beside me, Iris brings her tablet, and Calypso… Calypso moves slower than usual.
Farris walks her in, one hand at the small of her back, the other balancing their two-year-old, little Annabelle on his hip. Calypso’s wearing her hoodie and sunglasses despite the morning light. I know that look, she’s having a bad flare.
Three years ago, back before the Los Angeles Chapter of the Royal Harlots started, Calypso was diagnosed with Lupus.
She kept it from us for as long as she could, but the ride from New York City to L.A.
really did her in, and she had to confess the one thing she thought made her weak.
Only it didn’t. Learning of her medical condition gave each of us the motivation to keep moving, that no matter what life throws at you, you can and will overcome it.
“Don’t mind me,” Calypso whispers, taking her seat. “Lupus decided to join the party.”
Allura’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t pity. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things,” Calypso answers, voice thin but steady. “Still do ’em.”
Annabelle squirms free of Farris, toddles straight for me, and giggles, “Aunt Rebel!”
My heart unclenches in a way bullets never could. I scoop her up and kiss the top of her head. “Hey, little menace.”
“She learned that word from you,” Farris teases, earning a soft eye-roll from Calypso.
“Alright, ladies,” Allura announces, snapping a pen against the tabletop. “Let’s get to it. We’ve got fallout to clean and a fundraiser to plan.”
Divine flicks her tablet on. The screensaver vanishes into a spread of data, blue light washing across her face. “The gala’s being scrubbed as a ‘terrorist scare,’ but Gentry’s disappearance is still trending. Calloway Holdings froze three accounts overnight. Somebody’s running scared.”
“Good,” Raven remarks, folding her arms. “Let ’em choke on their own PR.”
“Problem is,” Divine explains, “the money didn’t stop moving. It rerouted through shell charities, veteran outreach, youth shelters, the works. Our own accounts are clean, but they’re watching everything connected to Emerge Auditing.”
“Which means us,” I say, leaning forward.
“Which means we play smarter,” Allura corrects. “No open retaliation. Not yet.”
Sloane leans back, boots on the chair rung. “So what? We just sit and wait for another bullet to drop?”
Allura’s eyes narrow. “No. We make noise on our own terms. Fundraiser noise.”
French arches a brow. “You mean the fight night idea?”
“Exactly,” Allura confirms. “Public, loud, untouchable. We raise cash for the shelter, we get the press sniffing in our direction for something other than blood. Gives Divine cover to move digital pieces without raising flags.”
Sloane grins. “Finally, a PR event I can punch someone at.”
French snickers. “You’ll sell tickets.”
Iris nods, scrolling through her notes. “Already got sponsors lined up, local bars, a tattoo parlor, and a gear shop willing to donate. Flyers go live tonight.”
Calypso’s lips twitch into a grin. “And my man Farris is building the ring.”
“Better be sturdy,” Raven drawls. “Last time French fought, she broke a guy’s collarbone and half the mat.”
“Allegedly,” French retorts, eyes sparkling.
Annabelle giggles at the word, echoing it like a charm. “A-le-ged-ly!”
Even Sloane laughs, shaking her head. “Kid’s got our vocabulary already.”
The warmth in the room thickens until Allura clears her throat. “Fun aside, we also talk security. The Vultures won’t like us fundraising in their shadow. We keep eyes on the exits, cameras on the crowd, and weapons out of sight but ready.”
Raven adds, “I’ll post lookouts. Two on the roof, one by the bar, one near the back gate.”
“Good,” Allura approves. “And Rebel?”
“Yeah?”
“You and Bishop are still on comms for Divine’s trace. No heroics. No solo rides.”
I hesitate. “Understood.”
French mutters, “That’s her lying voice.”
I shoot her a look, and she smirks unapologetically.
Calypso’s fingers tremble slightly as she takes a sip of water. “I can help with the donations. Even if I can’t stand long.”
“You help by breathing,” Allura says, firm but kind. “We got the rest.”
Farris places a steadying hand on Calypso’s shoulder, pride written across his face. “She’ll still run circles around you.”
Calypso grins. “Damn right.”
Farris pulls his love-sick eyes away from Calypso for a moment and looks at Allura. “Capone told me if you need the Royal Bastards, we will be honored to help wherever you need it.”
Allura nods her head, “Appreciate it, Law Dog. I will take Capone up on the offer.” She looks at Sloane, “Set it up with Torch.”
Sloane nods. “On it.”
For a moment, the table hums with the rhythm we built this club on, sisterhood, loyalty, blood, and laughter all stitched into the same leather.
Allura leans forward, tone dropping low. “One more thing. Bones.”
The name still cuts, sharp and familiar.
“Divine pulled footage from the gala. He’s alive, but gone dark again,” Allura explains. “We don’t know where he’s operating from, or if he’s working angles for or against us. But if he’s keeping the Vultures off our backs, we let him. For now.”
“Until he isn’t,” Sloane finishes, voice like flint.
“Exactly.”
I inhale slowly, the weight of that unspoken he saved us coiling under my ribs. Carter hasn’t said it out loud, but we both know Bones covered our exit.
Allura rises, palms flat on the table. “Meeting adjourned. Get some food in you before you fall over, Rebel. You look like hell warmed up.”
“Appreciate the honesty,” I reply dryly.
French claps me on the back. “Come on, sugar. Let’s see if Iris cooked or if we’re all dying by microwave.”
Annabelle grabs my hand and tugs. “Come play, Aunt Rebel!”
I can’t say no to that voice. “Alright, Menace. Five minutes.”
She beams. “Ten!”
“Five,” I counter. “And no motorcycles.” Her giggle rings down the hall as Farris scoops her up again. The sound fills the spaces that grief used to live in.
For two weeks, Fight Night posters hang on every light pole from Venice Beach to East L.A. The warehouse lot transforms into our own coliseum. Neon floods the air, the scent of smoke and whiskey tangled with grilled meat and oil. Music pounds. Banners flap in the coastal wind.
The shelter kids work the snack tables, and volunteers in patched vests hand out shirts that read Fists for Futures. The whole place feels alive, dangerous, and holy, exactly how we like it.
Carter’s shoulder has healed into a rough pink scar, the kind that doesn’t fade, just learns to stay quiet. Mine still burns invisible, anger, fear, wanting. None of those ever leaves clean.
The lot glows under floodlights and red-striped canopies. The Harlots run the show, but the real show of force rides in just after dusk.
The Royal Bastards MC.
Capone’s crew arrives like thunder. His bike leads, pipes rumbling low. Behind him are Torch and Daisy, Derange and Jezebelle, Aftermath and Kensi, Jax and Rose, Seth and Daisy’s twin Knight. Their cuts catch every camera flash.
Capone climbs off his Harley, grin wicked. “Figured you could use backup that doesn’t wear lipstick.”
“Don’t knock the lipstick,” I fire back. “It hides the blood.”
He laughs, clapping my shoulder. “Security’s tight. My brothers are covering the perimeter and roof. Anyone who tries to crash your fundraiser will leave in pieces.”
“Appreciate it, Prez.”
“Family’s family.”
French yells through her megaphone, “Big thanks to the Royal Bastards MC for standing with the Harlots tonight!” The crowd explodes. Engines roar in salute.
Carter leans on his bike at the edge of the lot, denim jacket loose over a black tee, scar glowing pale under the floodlights. He catches me watching and smiles, the kind of smile that remembers every sin.
Capone follows my gaze, then snorts. “That your Marine?”
“Mine enough.”
“He looks like he could chew rebar.”
“Only if you start it,” I say, and Capone grins, satisfied.