“Other shit is goin’ down too. We’re gonna have to have a Club meeting.”

Rush nodded again.

“I’ll get on that,” Tack said.

“Right.”

Tack looked between Rush and Rebel and murmured, “Now we should all get on with our nights.”

“Yeah,” Rush said.

“See you again, Rebel. And look forward to it bein’ for a better reason next time,” Tack said to his girl.

“Me too,” she replied.

Tack turned his eyes to his son. “Later, Rush.”

“Later, Dad.”

His father gave him a chin dip and gave Rebel a soft look of the variety Rush knew he reserved for old ladies in good standing with the Club (these being Lanie, Carissa, Millie, Sheila, Rosalie and Keely, all there were left after a lot of drama, except Arlo’s old lady, who Tack liked but Arlo treated like shit, so she didn’t come around often to get Rush’s dad’s soft looks).

Then Tack moved away.

“Later, brother.”

“Later.”

“Yo, later.”

These words his brothers called out as they moved out.

Except Hound, who caught his eyes and declared, “Drive-bys at yours too. Can’t be too safe.”

Rush lifted his chin to Hound as Hound took off.

Tack had turned into the parlor.

Rush turned to Rebel.

“Best be packing a bigger bag,” he advised. “Then we’ll get home.”

She looked into his eyes, something working in hers.

She didn’t give him whatever was working in hers.

She started to pull away, saying, “I’ll get on that.”

He wrapped both arms around her and kept her where she was, regaining her attention.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“It’s getting late and—”

He gave her as squeeze and a warning, “Babe.”

She stared up at him, huffed out a breath, then admitted quietly, “I fucked this up.”

His arms tightened and repeated his father’s words, “Get that out of your head, Rebel.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

He let her go with his arms but caught her with both hands at her jaw then put his face in hers again.

“Baby, you did. You just did. There’s no goin’ back and undoing it. And I’ll add this, what you did was loyal and brave. It was beautiful, Rebel. It just didn’t work out. Not because you didn’t know what you were doin’ or the reasons behind what you were doin’ were stupid. Just because this is jacked-up shit that even Chaos, who’s been dealin’ with this kinda garbage for decades, can’t unravel. You are not responsible for the actions of assholes. You didn’t get Harrietta dead. You didn’t get her body dumped on the street in front of your house. Harrietta didn’t even buy that. The men on the other side of this war are pieces of trash. They do what they do and there’s no explaining it, no understanding it. The only job we got right now is to survive it.”

She gazed into his eyes and said nothing.

So he prompted, “You with me?”

“Are you sure you’re real?”

He smiled at her.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m definitely real.”

She tipped her chin, forcing her way to press her forehead into his collarbone.

He moved both his hands to curl around the back of her neck and tipped his chin to kiss the top of her head.

“Um, not to creep you out, but you look a lot like your dad, and if you grow older and still look like him, this would be far from a bad thing,” she said into his chest.

That was when he grinned into her hair.

“You have prettier eyes though,” she mumbled.

His grin in her hair got bigger.

Then he said there, “Let’s get you packed.”

She nodded, her forehead rolling against him, before she pulled away.

This time, it was Rebel who took his hand.

And Rush would find the journey to her pad was not a lot easier, meandering through Essence’s hippie-practically-hoarder house.

But once they’d bested the quagmire, the path at the back between homes was a lot easier to navigate.

The Real Deal

Rebel

Rush led me in through the door at the back of his house.

It had been clear when he gave me the tour that he’d done a lot of work on his place. And it looked really good.

But I kind of hoped he kept the kitchen like it was, with its brick-red walls and light wood cabinets.

Sure, the 80’s almond-colored appliances could go. And some kickass lighting wouldn’t hurt.

But his kitchen was homey and cozy, and with those red walls and the BMG poster and the unbelievably cool David Mann print of the biker on the chopper with the clouds behind him forming a woman’s face, blowing wind at his back, it was edgy cool too.

All of that a lot like Rush.

He closed the door behind us, locked it, and I watched him do something he didn’t do when we came in before.

Go to a pad I hadn’t noticed by the door and punch in a code.

Not taking any chances.

He then turned to me.

“Want a beer?” he asked.

I wanted tequila.

Without me saying a word, but watching me closely, he amended, “Want a beer with a tequila chaser?”

Okay, his apparent ability to read my mind was just freaking me out.

“Door number two,” I told him, moving to his freestanding counter before asking, “I know we left her twenty minutes ago, but do you mind if I call Essence? Check in. Make sure she’s groovy? I haven’t had the chance to fully explain things and it’s kinda time I did that.”

And seeing as a dead woman was shoved out of a car in front of her house, that was the understatement of the year.

“Not at all, baby,” he muttered, having dumped my (latest) bag at the door, his head was in the fridge.

I pulled my phone out of my purse, tossed the purse on his countertop, then slid my ass on one of his stools as I watched him twist the top off brews while heading my way.

He put one in front of me and I murmured, “Thanks, Rush,” got a gentle look from those amazing crystal-blue eyes and then he moved to a cupboard.

I gave my attention to my phone.

Rush had a bottle of Herradura on the counter with two shot glasses and was standing opposite me when Essence picked up.

“Hey, Rebel girl,” she greeted. “Good timing. Boz got back and me and him were just about to light up a spliff.”

My back went straight and my eyes shot to Rush’s face. “Essence. Do not let Boz smoke pot. He’s there to protect you, not get stoned.”

Rush caught my gaze, his amused, but I didn’t think anything was funny, so I narrowed my eyes at him.

He grew more amused and set about pouring shots of tequila.

“Calm down, darling. I have a feeling Boz could perform neurosurgery stoned,” Essence said in my ear.

I watched Rush’s attractive hand pour a healthy shot and suggested, “How about just this first night you encourage him to keep all his wits about him?”

“You’re freaked,” Essence correctly guessed.

After a woman had been shoved out of a car outside my home, my home, Rebel Stapleton’s home, indicating someone out there knew who I was and what I was doing?

“Uh, yeah,” I confirmed.

“And you feel guilty.”

I shut my mouth.

Rush slid a shot glass toward me.

I lifted my gaze to his just as I picked up the glass.

Then I shot it.

I slid it back his way.

He looked amused again.

“Uh,” I began. “Yeah,” I repeated more quietly.

“Who was murdered, darling?” Essence whispered.

“Diane,” I whispered back.

Now Essence didn’t sound gentle.

She sounded pissed.

“Say what?”

“Essence—”

“I thought she ODed.”

“Well—”

“You let me think she’d ODed. I went to that girl’s funeral and no one talked about her being murdered.”

“That isn’t really, uh . . . funeral discussion.”