This feels like the first time, the first time I’ve ever been looked at properly in my entire life. Those pale, icy eyes of his almost burn my skin as he studies me.

“Yeah?”

“I need a stiff drink,” he says. “I can only have one if you swear you’re not gonna try and do something fucking stupid.”

He’s asking for my word that I won’t try to escape if he has a drink? He doesn’t need to do that. He could handcuff me to the bed or something and get as drunk as he liked without having to worry about me, but…he’s asking me if he can trust me instead. Absolutely crazy. I nod, trying to keep myself from appearing a little too over-enthusiastic. If he doubts me, he will cuff me. And after being restrained so frequently of late, I really don’t feel like trying to sleep with my wrists pinned up over my head. “It’s fine. I’ll behave,” I tell him.

“Thank you.” He stands, heading for the discolored, yellowing Bakelite phone that sits on the bedside table in between our two beds. He picks it up and stabs one button—must be 0 for reception. “Hey, Alex. Need some whiskey. What you got?” He frowns, but then says, “That’ll do. Bring it over?”

He puts the phone down. He doesn’t move for a moment, his back to me, his shoulders barely hitching up and down with his breath. Then he tips forward, taking hold of the phone cable, and rips it out of the wall.

Turns out he doesn’t trust me enough to leave it plugged in. Definitely smart on his part, but crappy luck for me. He picks up the entire phone and carries it to the door just as someone starts to knock on it. I don’t even see who it is. No words are spoken. Rebel shoves the phone through the gap in the door and then takes hold of a bottle of liquor, pulling his arm back through the gap, and then the door is closed again. Whoever was on the other side must be used to this kind of behavior; he leaves without a single comment.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.

Rebel’s head snaps up, like he’d forgotten I was even here. “Was that part of our deal? Am I supposed to apprise you of everything that happens in my club now?”

“From the look on your face, this didn’t happen inside your club, asshole. Why do you have to be so fucking rude, anyway? I’m scared. You want to keep me calm. The smartest thing you can do is explain what I just saw on the TV, why you’re tearing into that bottle like it’s your last goddamn lifeline.” He really is tearing at it. He can’t seem to keep still long enough to focus and open the plastic seal properly. I can tell he’s growing more and more tense by the second just from looking at him. I hold out my hand, taking the bottle from him as he passes me. He doesn’t stop me. He’s too busy staring at the floor as he paces back and forth, opening and closing his hands into fists.

I catch my nail under the plastic seal on the bottle, opening it easily, and I twist the screw cap, wincing at the burning smell that immediately hits my nose. Rebel picks up the television remote and throws it as hard as he can against the wall.

“Fuuuck!”

My heart starts slamming underneath my ribcage. I thought it earlier, that despite how he looks, I didn’t think Rebel was really a violent man. Now I can see it, though. I can see how he would be absolutely crazy if the situation required it of him. He blows hard, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs so forcefully I can hear him panting. He storms toward the door and then changes his mind, heading back toward the bathroom. Flexing his hands again, it’s as though he’s itching for something else to throw.

“Rebel?” He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Rebel.”

He stops pacing. Stares at me. “What?” he growls.

“You’re starting to scare me.” I don’t know what I hope to accomplish by telling him that, but it’s as though I’ve just struck him across the face. The man who was throwing things and ripping phones out of walls , on the brink of a nuclear explosion, is suddenly gone. He lets out one final, rage-filled exhalation, and by the time he’s run out of breath, he’s calm. He leans back against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck. Sorry, Soph.” He takes a moment, fingers digging into his hair, and then he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor. “There’s a woman. A crazy fucking head case of a woman, who is sorely pissed at me, and this is her way of getting back at me.” He jerks his thumb at the TV, shaking his head. “She wanted me to kill this DEA guy. I told her I didn’t want the club involved in anything remotely to do with the DEA, so she’s gone and killed the fucker and made it look like it was us anyway. To teach me a lesson.”

I bridge my knees, still clutching hold of the bottle of…of Lagavulin? It stinks like nothing else. Rebel watches me tuck the towel up underneath me so that I’m not flashing him, a wan smile lifting up one corner of his mouth. He looks like he’s at a loss. “What does it mean, then? Will the cops come arrest you for this?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“And you’ll go to jail?” I thought I’d rejoice a little more at that prospect, but the past few hours…I don’t know. Maybe I’m changing my mind about him. God, I’m not turning into one of those Stockholm bitches. I refuse. Seriously unhealthy stuff right there. But, from what he’s told me, I can see that Rebel’s reasoning behind trying to get me to help him is honorable. He’s just really not gone about it the right way.