4. Rev
REV
Ican still taste her.
Two days later, and I can still feel her mouth under mine. The little gasp she made when I pulled her close. The way her fingers twisted in my shirt, like she were holding on for dear life.
It was supposed to be for show. Niall was watching from his truck, and I needed him to see that she wasn’t alone anymore. That’s it. That’s all it was supposed to be.
Bullshit.
I kissed her because I’ve been wanting to kiss her for six years.
Because she was standing there in the parking lot with the sunset in her hair and fear in her eyes, and I couldn’t not touch her for one more second.
Because the act stopped being an act somewhere around day two, and I’ve just been pretending otherwise.
She drove away, shaking. I watched her taillights disappear, and then I stood there for another five minutes, trying to get my head on straight.
It didn’t work.
I’m at the clubhouse now, nursing a beer I don’t want, watching Rogue line up a shot at the pool table. It’s a slow night. Lock and Josie left an hour ago. King and Demi are in the back somewhere. Ghost is in the corner with his phone, probably texting India.
Everyone’s paired off. Everyone except me, like usual. It burns more than usual tonight.
“You’re brooding again,” Rogue says without looking up from the table.
“I don’t brood.”
“You absolutely brood. It’s your whole thing.” He sinks the shot, straightens up, grins at me. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird all week, going to tell me what’s going on yet?”
I take a drink. Consider lying. Decide against it.
“Wheels’ sister showed up at the garage last week. She’s got a problem.”
Rogue’s grin fades. He sets down his cue, giving me his full attention now.
“Angel? I didn’t know she was back around.”
“She wasn’t. She is now.” I stare at the label on my bottle. “Some guy’s been stalking her. Four months. Cops won’t do shit. She came to me for help.”
“What kind of help?”
“The visible kind. She wanted someone who looks like a threat. Figured if this asshole sees her with a patched biker, he’ll back off.”
Rogue’s quiet for a moment. I can feel him putting pieces together.
“So you’ve been—what? Playing boyfriend?”
“Something like that.”
“And how’s that going?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. Rogue reads faces better than anyone I know.
“Ah,” he says. “That well, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“No, no, this is good. This is—” He’s fighting a smile. “Rev, you’ve been a monk for years. Turning down every woman who looks your way. And now you’re telling me Wheels’ sister shows up and suddenly you’re playing house?”
“I said shut up.”
“You like her.”
“Rogue.”
“You actually like her. Holy shit.” He laughs, and I want to put my fist through his face. “This is amazing. The great stone wall finally cracks.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Brother, it’s exactly like that. I can see it all over you.” He picks up his cue again, still grinning. “So, what’s the problem? She’s not interested?”
“She’s Wheels’ sister.”
“So?”
“So she spent five years staying away from the club because every time she sees a cut, she thinks about her dead brother. And now I’m supposed to—what? Ask her out? Pretend that being with me wouldn’t remind her of the worst day of her life?”
Rogue’s smile fades. He’s quiet for a moment.
“That’s rough,” he finally says. “But brother—if she came to you, she’s already made that choice. She walked back into this world on her own two feet.”
“For help. Not for me.”
“You sure about that?”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure about anything anymore.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting spam or a parts order confirmation.
It’s Angel.
Someone smashed my window. The café. Can you come?
I’m off the stool and moving before I finish reading.
“Rev?” Rogue calls after me. “What’s—”
“Gotta go.”
I don’t explain. I just leave.
The café looks wrong in the dark.
I’ve gotten used to seeing it in daylight—warm and busy, full of people and noise and the smell of coffee. Now it’s quiet and empty, and there’s a gaping hole where the front window used to be. Glass everywhere. Shattered across the sidewalk, glittering under the streetlights like ice.
Angel is standing outside with a cop. Her arms are crossed over her chest, shoulders hunched. She looks small. She never looks small.
I park the bike and walk over. She sees me coming and something in her face shifts. Relief, maybe. Or just the comfort of not being alone.
“Rev.” Her voice is steady, but I can hear the cracks underneath. “Thanks for coming.”
“What happened?”
“Someone threw a rock through the window. Sometime after midnight, according to the neighbor who called it in.” She gestures at the damage. “I got here about an hour ago.”
The cop—young guy, bored expression—glances at me, clocks the cut, and decides I’m not worth the hassle.
“We’ll file a report,” he says to Angel. “But without witnesses or security footage, there’s not much we can do.”
“I know who did it.”
“Ma’am, unless you have proof—”
“I’ve been telling you for four months. I’ve filed reports. I’ve given you his name, his address, his vehicle description. And every time, you tell me there’s nothing you can do.”
The cop shifts uncomfortably. “I understand your frustration—”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re going to file another useless piece of paper and drive away, and tomorrow he’s going to do something else, and we’re going to have this exact same conversation.”
Her voice is rising. I step closer, not quite touching her, just letting her feel that I’m there.
“Angel.”
She looks at me. Takes a breath. The anger is still there, but she banks it.
“Fine,” she says to the cop. “File your report.”
He does. It takes ten minutes of paperwork and meaningless questions, and then he’s gone, and it’s just us standing in front of the shattered window.
“I’m going to board it up tonight,” she says. “I’ve got plywood in the back from when I redid the storage room. It’ll hold until I can get a glazier out.”
“I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Angel.” I catch her arm, gentle. She looks up at me. “I’m helping.”
She doesn’t argue.
We work in silence for the next hour. I hold the boards while she drills. She’s good with tools—steady hands, efficient movements. By the time we’re done, the window is covered and the glass is swept up and the café looks less like a crime scene.
But the damage is done. Not to the building. To her.
“I should go home,” she says quietly. “It’s late.”
“I’ll follow you.”
“Rev—”
“I’m following you home. Don’t argue.”
She doesn’t.
Her apartment is small. Clean. The kind of place that looks like she put thought into every piece of furniture, every picture on the wall. It’s hers, the same way the café is hers. Something she built with her own hands.
“You want coffee?” she asks, moving toward the kitchen. “I know it’s late, but I’m not sleeping tonight anyway.”
“Sure.”
I watch her make it. Her hands are shaking slightly, though she’s trying to hide it. Four months of this, and tonight it finally hit her—really hit her—that it’s not going to stop. That he’s escalating. That nobody’s going to save her.
Except me.
“Here.” She hands me a mug. Our fingers brush. She doesn’t pull away.
“Thanks.”
We sit on her couch. There’s space between us, but not much. The apartment is quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic.
“I keep thinking I should have done something different,” she says. “Said yes when he first asked, just to get him off my back. Or been meaner when I said no. Or—”
“Stop.”
She looks at me.
“This isn’t your fault. You said no. That should have been enough. The fact that it wasn’t—that’s on him. Not you.”
“I know that. Logically.” She stares into her coffee. “But I’ve spent four months second-guessing every decision I’ve ever made, wondering if I somehow brought this on myself. It’s exhausting.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I think about Wheels. About the nights I spent going over his bike, convinced I’d missed something. The guilt that ate at me even after I proved it wasn’t my fault.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then:
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why did you really say yes? When I showed up at your garage, why didn’t you tell me to figure it out myself? I don’t think my being Jonah’s sister is the only reason.”
“No. It’s not.”
She waits. I can feel her holding her breath.
“I noticed you,” I finally say. “Before. When Wheels was still around. I noticed you and I—” I stop.
Start again. “I was working up to something. And then he died, and you were grieving, and the last thing you needed was some biker making it about him. So I didn’t say anything.
And then you were gone, and I told myself to forget about it. ”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.”
The silence stretches between us. She sets down her coffee. Turns to face me fully.
“I can’t do this,” she says. “I can’t fall for someone who rides. I already lost one person to that life. I can’t—”
“I know.”
“Every time I look at your cut, I see Jonah’s funeral. I see the casket. I see—”
“I know.”
“So why does it feel like this?” Her voice breaks. “Why can’t I stop thinking about you? About that kiss? About—”
“Angel.”
“I’m scared, Rev. I’m scared of Niall, and I’m scared of how I feel about you, and I don’t know which one terrifies me more.”
I set down my coffee. Close the distance between us on the couch. She doesn’t pull back.
“I’m not going to make you promises I can’t keep,” I say. “I ride. That’s not going to change. I patch into a club that could get me killed any day of the week. I can’t tell you that’s not true, because it is.”
Her eyes are wet. She’s holding herself so tight, like she’ll fall apart if she lets go.
“But I’m here,” I say. “Right now, tonight, I’m here. And if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel this. I’m done pretending.”
“Rev—”
“Tell me to go. If that’s what you want, tell me to go.”
But she doesn’t tell me to go.
She kisses me.