Chapter 32
Rebel
My husband’s voice is hoarse and strained. “What have you done, Rebel?”
I resist the urge to sigh. I messed up, I know, but I’ve also been in a fucking car accident, so some empathy would be nice.
“Hey, baby,” I tell him in a voice that makes it clear how much I need him.
He doesn’t move from his spot in the doorway.
“My whole body hurts,” I try again, but he looks annoyed.
I frown. This doesn’t feel right. Dylan has always been there for me. Always.
More than my own parents, more than my brother, more than any friend or boyfriend I’ve ever had.
On the worst day of my life, I could always close my eyes and console myself with the knowledge that Dylan Barnes loved me and that he thought I was the most amazing woman in the world. Even when he knocked that stupid bitch up, I was still number one in his heart.
When I left him, I had naively thought the world was full of men like Dylan.
In a life as unstable and messed up as mine, his unconditional love was my one safe harbor. My favorite drug.
But that’s not exactly true anymore, is it? A nasty little voice whispers, and I feel the familiar dread tense my stomach.
“Bell, I’m talking to you!” Dylan’s angry voice breaks through my mental fog. “Were you or were you not smoking meth with my son in the house?”
I close my eyes. The cops must have told him everything.
“He was downstairs, and I was in our bathroom,” I whisper, hoping to at least cushion the blow.
Dylan looks devastated, like he’d been holding on to hope until this very moment.
He likes living in his fantasy world, and I’ve never discouraged it because I liked being its queen.
“Are you… How long have you been using?”
“I’m not some addict!” I sit up, and the pain in my shoulder almost feels good. “I smoke occasionally, but I can stop any time I want.”
“Do you hear yourself right now? You sound just like every other junkie out there!”
I make a face but say nothing. Everything about this conversation is fucking annoying, and it’s hard to focus.
“Answer me. How long?”
I try to think about it. “I started using more often during my time with Carlos.”
“Was that why you stole from him?”
For some reason, I can’t be bothered to lie anymore. “I stole drugs here and there at first, and when I suspected he found out, I took the money and ran.”
“Did he even put his hands on you, or was that also a lie?”
I run my tongue over my teeth but don’t say anything.
Oops.
Dylan runs his hand over his face and sits down on the chair that’s against the wall. Why doesn’t he sit in the one next to my bed?
“What I don’t get is, what was Claw thinking, selling to you? Sly would have killed him if he found out,” he asks after a while. “Were you sleeping with him? Is that why?”
I laugh and laugh until Dylan angrily tells me to stop. He doesn’t understand how ridiculous he’s being.
“You’re more Claw’s type,” I say and patiently wait until it dawns on him.
Dylan was never good at noticing things that didn't affect him directly.
He widens his eyes, and I nod. “Yep. I covered for him; he covered for me. Besides, I made it well worth his while.”
“With my money, I assume?”
I look away.
“Fucking hell!” He yells as he kicks a waste basket or something.
What if Marissa was right? What if I have to detox in jail?
A familiar panic grips my airways. Shit. I squirm restlessly, trying to banish the thought from my mind.
I’ve just gotten back to a reliable, steady supply now that Claw’s out on bail.
I need to figure things out, get my hands on a phone, or get out of here.
“Is there a cop outside the door?” I ask, but it makes my husband even more furious for some reason.
“How much, Rebel?”
I shrug uncertainly. I really don’t know.
“You fucking bitch,” he spits, and I glare at him.
How dare he? Wasn’t he the one who wanted us to be partners in life and business, the one who made me feel like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him, like I was perfect?
One mistake and he changes his mind?
“Dylan, we can always make more money,” I try telling him, but he scoffs.
“I’m fucking ruined, Bell. The lawyer just called. Settling the lawsuit is gonna bankrupt me, even if you already haven’t. You don’t seem to understand what you’ve done. And you haven’t even asked about my son. You could have killed him!”
I do feel a little guilty about the kid. “Is Junior okay?”
Dylan huffs a disdainful little laugh and shakes his head. “You can’t even act as if you care.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I never pretended I was into the whole step-mother thing. I don’t understand why he’s acting like this is some big surprise and looking at me like I’m mud under his shoe.
His conviction that I will eventually develop maternal feelings is frankly insulting.
“I can’t believe I ruined my whole life because of you,” he says after a few minutes of silence.
“Blame me if it makes you feel better,” I tell him triumphantly, “but I think we both know the responsibility for that is all yours. You cheated on your ol’ lady, you gave the guy the tattoo and the infection, and you failed to properly take care of your kid.
But sure, blame the evil witch Rebel instead of looking in the damn mirror. ”
Lashing out like this feels good. I want to hurt him even more, but he strikes first.
“Don’t bother coming home if you make bail,” he grits out. “We’re done.”
I don’t bother opening my eyes to see him one last time. I don’t want a visual of this moment. I just want to get high and forget it. All of it.
*
Somewhere in the Arizona desert…
I wake up pretty disoriented. When I start stretching my upper body, a sudden sharp pain brings everything that happened back to me, all at once.
The accident.
The cops.
The hospital.
The contempt in Dylan’s face.
He left me. Shit.
But none of that really matters.
All that matters is getting rid of this churning feeling in my stomach. I can almost feel the chills coming on, and I know that the pain in my clavicle is nothing compared to what I’m about to start feeling if I don’t get my hands on some meth soon.
Only, I’m not in the hospital room anymore. This looks like a trailer, and a disgusting one at that.
“What the fuck?” I mutter as I sit up.
“Ah, you’re awake. How wonderful.”
I almost hope I’m so deep in withdrawal that I’m hallucinating. Dope sickness would be kinder than this man. Much kinder.
“Carlos?” I say uncertainly, blinking and trying to seem confused. “What is going on?”
Can I pull off amnesia? What’s the right play here?
Carlos continues twirling a vaguely familiar ring between his thumb and index finger. “Can’t you guess?”
My mind is racing. Could it be? Has that stupid bitch actually followed through on her threat?
Puppy-eyed Marissa? I almost scoff. No way.
“The last thing I remember is being in a car accident…” I trail off.
I pray that his machismo responds to my vulnerability, but his gaze is cold and cruel.
“The time has come to pay your debts, Rebel. You’ve been given more chances than most people in this life, and you’ve managed to squander them all.”
“My brother already paid you back,” I protest.
Fuck. I am itching all over, and wanting to claw my skin off is making it really hard to be appealing and demure.
There has to be some way out of this. There always is.
Carlos used to love me once upon a time. Not as much as Dylan, but enough to temporarily quell that insatiable hunger inside me. Not all of that can be gone just because I took some money. He’s fucking loaded.
“You think this is about some pocket change? I can’t believe I never noticed how stupid you were,” he says, looking like he’s disgusted by me.
Surprisingly, that hurts.
I suddenly remember Sly telling me that Carlos had called Marissa lovely and remarkable when they met. It ignites a flash of jealousy that I haven’t felt since the early days of my affair with Slim.
There’s no reason to be jealous of her. I took her man almost effortlessly, didn’t I?
“You’re just a thieving junkie, and I didn’t want to see it,” Carlos adds.
“Carlos, please,” I plead, but he lifts his palm to silence me.
There’s no getting through to him. Is it possible that he found out about Luis?
No, no way. He’d strangle me with his own two hands. There is no way.
Me and his brother swore we’d take our ill-advised one-time fling to the grave. And from the looks of it, I’m about to.
Shit.
“I’m done talking to you,” he says dismissively as he stands up, the impenetrable mask of his Preacher persona back on his face.
My heart starts racing. I know what’s coming. I’ve seen him do it to his enemies and rival cartel members before, but I never thought he’d do it to me.
“No, please, Carlos! I'll do anything, please!”
He opens the trailer door and nods to someone. “Wait until she starts shaking, then tie her to the jeep.”
“No!!!”
He locks the door behind him and condemns me to hell.