Chapter Nine
Kinsley
Colt is watching me. Even though I’m not facing him, I can feel the weight of his stare.
Last night, he knocked on my door a few minutes after Rebel left. At first, I thought it was him coming back and stood stock still not wanting to open the door after that encounter.
Then my cousin’s voice, asking if I was alright, broke me out of those spiraling thoughts of dragging Rebel back inside and I’d kicked my underwear under the chair, and dragged on my jeans.
He said nothing about seeing Rebel, but the timing of him leaving before Colt arrived was too close, they would have crossed paths.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“You don’t need to take my confession.” I’d snapped back.
Colt looked as if I’d pushed him, and I regretted it immediately. His eyes softened as he watched me gather myself, the shame sweeping over my whole body.
I didn’t know what to say, but he let me off the hook. He said goodnight, told me to lock up with a soft, understanding smile, then walked away.
Through all the events of the day, I’d forgotten that in the center of the whole storm taking over my head, Colt stood steadfast, holding it together.
Joe is his father, he is the one who has been forgotten by the man we both idolized growing up. Yet he looked at me with such understanding and compassion that it made me feel sick with guilt.
Our quick conversation in the garden after I ran away was about me dealing with the emotions of seeing my uncle, who wasn’t the same man I loved. And being made to remember my mother.
Selfish thoughts. It’s why I came over to find him this morning.
“Stop punishing yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s what you do,” he says softly.
My movements are slow as I turn and lean my hip against the counter.
To say I’m feeling the aftermath of that moment with Rebel is an understatement.
Not just the guilt and mild self-loathing, but the ache between my legs and the cut on my inner thigh that I had to clean up and bandage after both of them left.
I’m wearing sweatpants today because they’re loose and won’t rub against the dressing.
We were not gentle with one another, and Rebel is gifted in that department. It’s been a while and I didn’t mount cautiously. Thinking of that makes my chest tighten and heat flood my cheeks.
Oh, dear God, stop thinking about Rebel’s cock while I’m talking to my cousin. The priest.
“I know you’re a grown woman more than capable of making her own choices, just be careful.
They’re not good men, Kins,” he clasps his hands together on the table.
“They give a lot to the neighborhood, to the church, and they protect people, but I’m not stupid.
We wouldn’t need the level of protection they provide if their clubhouse wasn’t across the street. ”
“Are you in danger?” I ask.
“I don’t believe so. A lot of their members have faith, they attend church legitimately.”
“You’re rescuing their souls,” I grin.
“In the eyes of the church, the things they do could not be forgiven.”
“But you’re more progressive than most,” I tilt my head.
“I have an understanding with Nero,” he says. “It made sense when I first took over to reach out, to lay down some ground rules that we both would adhere to. We co-exist and help each other in times of need,” he lets out a deep sigh.
“They’re criminals,” I say.
“Neither one of us believe we are on the same side. The progressive part is my understanding that sometimes situations bring people to places in their lives they wouldn’t always have chosen. Mostly,” he adds with a wry smile.
“We have got to stop having these deep and meaningful conversations so early in the morning.”
Colt dips his head and his shoulders shake as he laughs. “Or ever,” he smirks.
“That too.”
“Just be careful,” he says, getting to his feet.
“You’ve said that already. I’m going to finish this coffee, then paint.”
“Good, I’m looking forward to seeing it take shape. Just don’t do it too fast,” he says, his meaning clear. He doesn’t want me to leave too soon.
I refuse to face my feelings about that. I take the coffee to my place, change into old paint-splattered clothes, comfy shoes, and wrap a bandana around my hair, tying it in a knot at the top of my head.
It’s a gorgeous day, I’m ready to lose myself in my work. The wall was cleaned, filled, and prepped yesterday, now it’s time to make it my canvas with a couple of layers of white paint and checking for any last unevenness or gaps in the masonry.
Some people might use a massive canvas and have it pinned to the wall, not me, I want this to be a part of the building and the area. The only way it can be removed is through erosion, or if some ass paints over it.
It’s time to switch off and go inwards to the parts that aren’t warring, to the part that loves the work I do.
I’m interrupted later in the day by Marisol, who has brought me food, drink, and sunscreen, which she waits for me to put on before she will leave. She is right, I tend to lose all track of time and my surroundings when I get like this.
The next interruption is surprising. At first, I barely notice him, but then a tingling awareness I’ve grown to listen to makes me turn.
Stryker stands facing the wall, staring at it until he realizes I’ve stopped and my attention is on him now. His head turns, and our eyes meet.
I’ve seen people with darkness in their eyes before now, but it’s nothing compared to this guy. His eyes are almost dead. Almost.
Something flickers in them when he glances to the left of where he’s standing. He frowns when he sees the women walking towards the doors, as if surprised to find them there. I glance over too and remember Laurel talking about how they hold children’s classes in the church sometimes.
This must be one of those days because the more I become aware of my surroundings, the more I notice cars pulling up and the sound of small children’s giggles.
Stryker could have been standing watching me for minutes or hours, he seems like that kind of guy, but his discomfort is clear now. Some kids stare at him as they pass, the moms holding their hands and encouraging them away with wary looks at the huge biker.
His fists clench but something tells me it’s not about the kids fearing him. I’m not sure what possesses me, but the way he is standing there tells me he has something on his mind.
“There is a small chapel.”
He doesn’t acknowledge that he heard me.
“Not many people know about it. It’s private.”
I found it when I was exploring one night after dinner. Marisol told me it’s where Colt takes visiting priests for privacy. It’s not exactly off limits but people don’t know about it.
There is a side entrance that opens into the corridor which leads down to the chapel, it’s near my annex.
Patrick locks all the doors before he heads home at night, but throughout the day, everywhere is open.
“Colton won’t mind, Father Eastwood,” I correct myself. “If you want to use it.”
His shoulders shift.
“It’s up to you,” I shrug. “There is a door just around the corner, follow the hall to the left and the chapel is there.”
“Thank you.”
I’m startled by his voice, but do my best not to show it. Stryker seems conflicted, but as the noise increases and he spots a particular woman approaching, he nods my way, then leaves.
Watching over my shoulder, I keep my eyes on him until he gets on his bike and rides away.
“Was Stryker just talking to you?” Dana asks.
“If you consider two words him talking to me.”
I set down the roller on the sheet I’m using to keep paint splashes off the sidewalk. It’s getting busier now and I feel a little like doing what Stryker just did.
Dana looks uncomfortable and a touch forlorn after Stryker saw her and left.
“Are you here for this?” I nod towards the church, hoping to take her mind off him.
“Not really,” she ducks her head. “I’m meeting the girls for coffee. You should come,” she adds.
Over her shoulder, I see Katrina walking toward us. The woman has done nothing to make me uneasy, but knowing she slept with Rebel doesn’t sit right with me for… reasons.
“I’m a mess, I need to tidy things up, shower, and eat, and I’m so tired I’d be terrible company.”
“If you change your mind.”
“Change your mind about what?”
Katrina stops beside her friend and gives her an air kiss, then smiles at me. It’s a nice, friendly smile, but there is an edge to it. I make her uneasy.
She has nothing to worry about. I’ve no intention of seeing Rebel again, or doing any of the things we did again. Not at all.
“Anyway, we’ll let you get back to work,” Dana gives me a bright smile. “I have to be at the clinic by three to meet Taylor after her shift. Nero keeps taking her to this fortress in the sky, as she calls it,” she rolls her eyes. “She says he is doing it to protect her.”
“I wish one of them would protect me,” Katrina sighs.
Dana looks just as wistful. But all I’m wondering about is, protect her from what?
These women think about the men of this MC with stars in their eyes and flutters in their panties. I’m a realist. If Nero is taking his woman away from her day to day, he has a reason for it.
We say our goodbyes, and the two women leave. After a few minutes, the rush of people dropping off kids ends, and I’m left leaning against a section of the wall that hasn’t been painted yet, watching the men coming and going across the street.
Rebel carries a gun. I’m pretty sure Stryker had something, though if what I’ve heard about him is true, his fists are lethal weapons. I hope Colton is right, that whatever is going on over on that side of the street never affects this side.
Over the next couple of days, I finish the wall prep. When the rain starts on the third day, the wall is dry, so I don’t worry about water damage.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen rain like this and forgot how bad it got here. I’ve spent too long in LA where rain is scarce, so the deluge has me sitting inside for most of the day.
I haven’t seen Rebel since he walked out the other night. Then again, I’ve avoided the clubhouse and bar as much as I can.
I haven’t stopped watching the club. There are men patrolling outside at night, not so many of the brothers have gone into Raven’s bar as there had been when I first got here.
Something is going on. The only thing that makes any of it my business is making sure my cousin isn’t dragged in.
The room I’ve turned into an art studio smells like paint cleaner and charcoal. It’s a smell I’ve gotten used to over the years.
The tips of my fingers and beneath my nails still have black stains even after washing them. That’s the annoying thing about working with charcoal, but I let it slide because the effects I can create with the medium are some of the best work I produce.
Like the portrait of a man with no face, which is sitting on my biggest easel. I’ve been holding off on adding his facial features to convince myself this isn’t Rebel. At least he’s clothed. I’ve yet to have the pleasure of seeing him in his naked glory.
“Not happening,” I scold myself.
I turn away, as if the act of picking up the charcoal and carrying on somehow makes me closer to him. Wanting him will not go away.
I’ve played that night on a loop. How it could have been different if I wasn’t in the manic state, or didn’t tell him it meant nothing and I don’t like him.
I’m not sure he would have been any softer with me. I’m not sure I would want him to be. There are layers to Rebel he doesn’t want anyone to see.
And if anyone heard me thinking like this, they’d tell me I’m an idiot. How can I know anything about that man?
It was all in his eyes, in his actions and reactions. He ran from me just as fast as I pushed him away. We’re wrong for each other, and I’m done with people who are wrong for me.
I’ve been cooped up all day because of the rain and am feeling claustrophobic. A little rain never hurt anyone, so I get wet-weather ready, tugging up the hood on a waterproof jacket and jamming my feet into heavy boots.
Dusk is just beginning to fall, and the rain has turned the sky steel gray with a slight yellow tinge that warns of a storm.
Pocketing my phone and keys, I step outside and tip my head back, defeating the purpose of the hood as the rain soaks my face and the front of my hairline.
I lift my hands and put them palm up to catch some of it, maybe the fresh water will shift the charcoal stains.
It’s quiet because of the rain, but there is a man sitting on a wall by the church. It’s hard to see him in the shadows of the building.
I can tell he is watching the clubhouse. I’ve seen the men out patrolling, but not trying to hide themselves like this guy is.
Rebel’s words never left my brain, and a ripple of unease skitters down my spine. He thought I was someone else when he jumped me that first night.
Something about this man sitting here, out of sight of the clubhouse, is off.
He shifts when he sees me coming, but after staring and assessing I’m not a threat, he drops the cigarette and gets up. When he turns and walks away, I note his cut. And the insignia on the back.
It’s not the Blackhawk Disciples patch.