Rebel (Blackhawk Disciples MC #3)

Chapter One

Kinsley

I shouldn’t have come back. I should have stayed in LA, where my life has been for the last ten years. Sure, it had its problems, but it is home. Except the problems weren’t going away.

It reached a point where I could no longer face it alone. Everyone told me the right move was to get away, work on myself, then come back.

My head and my heart are at war. It feels like I failed and ran away.

That isn’t how Colton sees it. If he could, he would have been in LA to help protect and guide me. My cousin has always shown up for me. He couldn’t leave his job, so I’m here, back where I grew up. Colton is the only family I have.

I watch him moving around the kitchen. He isn’t wearing the black shirt and white collar of his job, or his calling, as I’ve heard him put it so many times.

He’s wearing black sweatpants and an old college football shirt and looks like the teenage boy I grew up with. It’s comforting, it’s chasing away the bad memories.

Then last night, while I was looking at the church where I was going to be living for the next few months, one of the bikers from the Motorcycle Club across the street scared the shit out of me, accusing me of creeping around their clubhouse and demanding to know what I wanted.

And he pulled a gun on me, the absolute asshole.

It was only when his sister, who I met at the bar earlier, came over and told him who I was, that he backed off. It took me a long time to calm down after that. If I ever see him again, it will be too soon.

The beep of the coffee machine brings me back to the present, and I focus on Colton. Why did I think he would always dress as a priest? I mean, he’s still a person underneath that outfit.

The smell of coffee and pancakes reminds me of being in my aunt and uncle’s kitchen. They did everything they could to make me feel welcome when they brought me into their home.

My parents messed up my childhood, they had no right being parents. Dad gave up on life and OD’d, then Mom ran from her problems.

For a long time, I was angry at the world. Fearful, abandoned, and scared to accept help because my whole life until that point, I did everything for myself.

The Eastwoods never gave up on me. And the one person who called me out on my shit, and dragged me out of my dark misery, is doing the same thing his parents did. He’s taking care of me.

“Do priests make their own breakfast?” I ask, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe.

Colton doesn’t pause in flipping the pancake, in fact, he does it with a flourish and a wink at me.

“I hope you don’t do that in front of your parishioners.”

“Make pancakes?”

“The saucy wink, it’s unbecoming of a man of the cloth.”

“Sit down,” he shakes his head with a laugh. “What time did you sneak in?”

“I don’t sneak,” I slide into a chair at the table, which is set for two.

“It was after one when I gave up and went to bed.”

“Oh shit, sorry, but you gave me the key to let myself in.”

He gives me a look over his shoulder.

“Colton, you know me better than anyone. I promise I won’t curse in the big house next door, or in front of your flock. Censoring myself in the place I’m living will only make me want to do it more.”

“So long as you can control yourself in front of others, I’d appreciate that.”

He makes me a mug of coffee, then comes over with a stack of pancakes. There is already syrup on the table, but he sets a jar of peanut butter down. It’s unsealed, he got it for me.

Colt doesn’t comment how gross it is, like he did when we were kids. He understands my attachment to peanut butter has more to do with it being what I always ate at my parents’ house, when there wasn’t much food around.

“What time did you come in?”

Should have known I wouldn’t get away with it.

“About two.”

Colton lifts a brow. He won’t question where I was before that because he doesn’t pry.

“Okay, maybe closer to three, I wanted to see what I’m going to be working with.”

“At three in the morning?” He pours a modest amount of syrup over his stack.

“The middle of the night is the best part of the day. It’s peaceful. Fewer distractions.”

“It’s a safe neighborhood, but you shouldn’t take chances.”

Safe. Is that what it is? With a motorcycle club across the street. Not to mention the asshole biker from that motorcycle club. Colton never mentioned there was an MC and rowdy bar across the street.

I was blindsided when Colt chose to become a priest. In high school he wasn’t one of the most popular kids, but he had friends, he dated. He listened to all my reasons why he shouldn’t do it with grace and understanding. And didn’t get mad when I reminded him of all the sex he would miss out on.

Colton is no virgin, but he has committed himself to a life of celibacy.

“As you can see,” I shove a bite of pancake into my mouth. “I’m good.”

Right about now his mom would chastise me for talking with my mouth full, and from the way Colton stills, we both feel the space she created when we lost her, far too soon.

“Are you sure the diocese is happy with what I’m doing?”

“Yes, for the millionth time,” he cuts his pancakes. “The diocese, the parishioners, the locals. Everyone is happy.”

“And how many did you have to talk into it?”

“None,” he tilts his head and studies me. “I showed them your work, Kinsley. It took one meeting for everyone to get on board with this.”

“What about your neighbors across the street?” I ask, picking up the coffee mug and taking a few sips, then hiding the lower half of my face behind it.

Colton can read me like a book. The last thing I need is to let him see I’m intrigued by the MC, or the surly jerk who held me at gunpoint.

“Which ones?”

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Kinsley,” he grins. “I can tell you all the neighbors, businesses and clubs within the area have been nothing but welcoming and tolerant. Some of them even attend mass.”

He lifts one brow, inviting me to question him further.

“Welcoming and tolerant. O-kay.”

“You’ll see for yourself during your stay. Any more questions?”

He knows I have a million questions, but the answers don’t need to come from him. I shake my head in response.

“Well, I’m here any time if you do. Ask me before making judgment, okay?”

“You’re so bossy,” I grin.

“The bossiest. I have work to do. Marisol will be around if you need anything, I’ve asked her to introduce herself if she runs across you.

She gossips, so take it with a pinch of salt.

Patrick is away for the day, but he’ll be back later tonight.

He’ll be the one to help you with anything you need in relation to the building. ”

“Got it,” I set my mug down.

“If you need anything, call me, okay?”

“I’m fine, Colt.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to a priest?”

“You’d lie to your cousin,” he says, getting up and pushing his chair beneath the table.

He goes to pick up his plate, but I wave my hand, I’ll handle the cleanup.

“I’m excited to see your work. But most of all,” he kisses the top of my head. “I’m glad my favorite person is home.”

Any response is stuck behind the ball that’s grown in my throat. Colton doesn’t wait for me to acknowledge or reply to his comment, aware that shows of emotion make me uncomfortable.

Once I’m finished, I do the dishes, then head back to the small annex building attached to the church where I’m staying. The self-contained building is basic but fine for a few months.

There wasn’t any time to appreciate it last night because I just stripped off and got into bed, too caught up in memories of the jerk. The seriously sexy, angry, arrogant asshole of a man.

I was incredibly pissed he scared the shit out of me. Then came the satisfaction of getting the better of him. The only reason the fucker got out of my hold on him, and dodged a face full of mace, was the gun he pulled.

When I woke up this morning, the first thing I did was take down the giant crucifix in the bedroom. Then the one in the living room, and the tiny one in the bathroom, with a framed photograph of the Virgin Mary beneath it. I shut them all away in a drawer.

After showering and changing, I bring in the art supplies which I left in my car last night and set them up in the spare bedroom, it’s one of the brightest rooms with a small single bed and a wardrobe. Plenty of space for the two easels I brought with me.

I’m going to be here a while, I need to integrate, which means finding Marisol. Colt filled me in on how she helps keep the church clean, organizes parish events, and keeps him on the straight and narrow.

Given Colt said she is a bit of a gossip, she may be the best person to get information about the motorcycle club.

When I lived with the Eastwood's, it was across the city in one of the more affluent suburbs. A far cry from the cramped apartment with parents who cared more about their next fix than their kid.

They never abused or hurt me, if anything, I was only left alone. It took a long time for me to realize that physical abuse isn’t the only way parents can hurt you. The mental abuse, abandonment and inability to trust are just as damaging. It’s followed me through most of my life.

Instead of picking up a paintbrush, I head into the church. It’s a beautiful building with high vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows. The benches are solid wood, varnished, and the floors are beautifully tiled.

The whole place is spotless, with an imposing crucifix and statue of Jesus above the ornate altar. As someone who doesn’t believe in God, I won't go near that.

After exploring a little more, I come to the confessional boxes, one for parishioners, and one for Colt. It’s small inside with a cushioned pad on the bench, and a partially obscured window between the booths to provide some anonymity for people coming to confess.

How many things has Colt heard here? How bad, or mundane or downright evil. It intrigues me that people would come and sit in this tiny space and tell someone all the shit they’ve done, knowing there will be no consequences but a few prayers.

If someone confessed to murder, would Colt be obliged to report it?

“Hello.”

“Shit,” I shriek, clutching my chest and ducking out of the booth.

The woman lifts a brow at my cursing.

“Oh Jesus, sorry. Oh, crap...”

“You’re best to stop talking, it might help.”

“I’m so sorry.” I wait for the judgment, the stink eye or being chastised, but the woman chuckles.

“Father Eastwood warned me about you.” She has a twinkle in her eye when she says it and a kind smile. “Kinsley, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Marisol.”

We shake hands, and I step out and close the door to the confessional.

“Would you like a proper tour, or have you searched all the nooks and crannies?”

“I think I’ve done enough damage.” My eyes lift to the stained-glass with what I assume are Jesus and his friends, staring at me with accusing eyes. “If I stay any longer, lightning might strike me.”

“Oh no, God does nothing as gentle as hit you with a lightning bolt. He gets his generals, the archangels, to smite. You’d burst into red mist like that,” she snaps her fingers and laughs at my expression of mild horror.

“I promise not to curse in here again.”

“You shouldn’t lie in the presence of God, honey.”

Marisol smiles and pats my arm, she is playing with me. I guess it’s going to take some time to get used to this place. Maybe the rectory and the annex are the only places I should go.

“I’ve got an hour to spare, would you like to go out for a quick coffee? The place down the street makes a delicious macchiato.”

“Sounds perfect, Marisol.”

“Excellent, let me grab my coat. Everyone is very excited about you being here to paint the wall.”

She walks to another doorway that leads God knows where. Fuck, stop. Apparently, my vocabulary, spoken and in thought, is blasphemous.

As I head out through the double-height wooden doors and into the bright sunlight, I’m hit by the scent of engine oil and the sight of a dozen bikes parked by the MC building.

I can’t imagine it’s very peaceful for the people who go into the church hearing all these bikes coming and going.

It’s time I found out why Colt doesn’t think it’s a bad thing having them across the street. He can’t be that forgiving of criminals.

When Marisol finds me waiting, she smiles broadly. This won’t be so bad. It’s the calm I need, and I’m not about to fuck it up.

At least I hope I’m not.