Page 2 of Rebels & Rejects
“Boss?” he questions. I don’t fucking blame him. For the first time in my life, I just showed someone mercy, and a witness, no less. One of our cardinal rules is that witnesses can’t be allowed to live. Witnesses who walk, talk. It’s as simple as that. Only the dead can keep secrets.
“Follow her,” I order. “Make sure she doesn’t talk to anyone.”
His gaze lingers on me for a second longer before he nods, following after the kid who has somehow managed to fuck with my head. I stand and watch the darkness swallow him up as he disappears down the alley, still trying to wrap my head around what just happened. I’ve never disobeyed an order. Never put our Family at risk by letting someone who I know needs to die, live. Whatever that girl did to me, it’s a weakness I can’t afford. A shortcoming I can’t let my father know about.
Pretending like my interaction with the street urchin never occurred, I turn on my heel and stride out of the alley toward my awaiting car and climb in. On the outside, I’m the epitome of calm and control. No one else would be aware of the inner turmoil currently whipping up a storm within me. Whatever that spark of warmth was that that girl ignited, as much as I want to pretend I never felt its electrifying heat, there’s a more prominent part of me that wants to feel its soft caress again. And I have no idea what the fuck that means.
Chapter 1
With a final shove and a grunt, the package rolls over the side of the dock, splashing into the black ocean below. It bobs on the surface for a moment before the water drags it under, welcoming the tarp-wrapped shitstain into her murky depths where he can forever rot amongst the fishes and algae.
So long, motherfucker. May you forever burn in hell.
Turning my back on the water, I pull the burner phone out of my pocket and fire off a quick text to confirm the job is done. While I wait for a response, I pull up my contacts, find the number I’m looking for, and call it.
Arnie answers on the first ring. “Yup?”
“Got a delivery for you down by the docks.”
“A good one?”
I smirk. “I think you’ll be pretty happy. Brand new Camaro.”
He lets out an appreciative whistle. “Alright, kid. I’ll get someone down to pick her up now. It’s late, get yourself home.”
As I’m hanging up the phone, I receive an alert that payment for tonight’s job has been received. Finished here, I pull out a Henley and black leather jacket out of my duffel bag, pulling the top on over my bralette and slipping into the jacket before slinging the bag over my back. I lift my helmet off the seat and push it on over my head as I lift a leg to straddle Raven, my black Ducati Streetfighter. She was payment for making sure Arnie’s daughter’s abusive boyfriend didn’t keep coming around to harass her... that, and thanks for the regular work I send his way. Arnie is a balding, brick wall of a man in his mid-fifties. Covered in tattoos and with a RAP sheet the length of his arm, he’s not someone you wanna mess with, although what he doesn’t let most people see is that he’s a fucking softie underneath his hard exterior. He runs the chop shop in Black Creek, so he’s someone most people want to keep on their good side, andman, does he get some of the sweetest rides. Sometimes, on nights like tonight, I get to send him an expensive car that he can make some decent money from, even though his warehouse is full of cars that are already worth a fucking fortune. I have no idea how he accrued so many, but hey, who was I to complain, especially when he told me to pick any ride I wanted. I’m telling you, it was a hard choice. Most of the cars he had were models I would never be able to afford, but when I saw this beauty hiding at the back of his shop, I knew I had to have her.
Starting the ignition, I rev the engine, loving the deep rumble and resounding roar as I peel out of the docks onto the street. People stop to stare as I pass by, but no one can see who I am with my full-face helmet and black-tinted visor on. I prefer it that way, to be a faceless person in the crowd. It’s the only way to survive in Black Creek. If anyone knows your name here, it’s because they have some sort of beef with you.
I ride through the derelict city, and even though it’s late, the streets here are never quiet. There are always homeless people trying to carve out a safe corner for themselves, gang members patrolling their territory, and hookers shaking their tits in the hopes of earning themselves enough to buy a solid meal the next day. It never used to be so bad. Black Creek has always been home to vagrants and outlaws, but there was some sort of order before—when The Feral Beasts ruled the town. Sure, they instilled fear in the hearts of residents, and the streets ran red with just as much blood as they do now, but there was order to the chaos. Now, it’s just complete and utter mayhem.
Broadly speaking, you could divide the city into three main territories based on who they belong to. The Antonellis own the docks, Grim Bastards have laid claim to most of the East District, and the Reaper Rejects are quickly accruing land in the Downtown area. The problem is, any part of the city that isn’t owned by one of these three has been snatched up by small, disorganized street gangs, evidently breaking the city up into a multitude of different pieces. It’s impossible to keep track of who owns what, and each gang is just as dimwitted as the last. Boys with guns and absolutely zero common sense. Idiots who will shoot first and ask questions later, and then think they’re big shit because they strut around with a gun that’s bigger than their dicks. It’s just asking for trouble, and with each passing day, tensions rise. Rival gangs are at each other's throats, and all of them are dissatisfied with the tiny bit of land they occupy.
It’s hitting two a.m. when I slow down, pulling into a small garage hidden behind an abandoned building. I’m a block away from my apartment, but I don’t dare park Raven on the street—she’d be stripped and sold for parts before sunrise. I also don’t need people questioning how I came about owning her. She’s all pretty and new looking, with her shiny black fairing—not something that just anyone in Black Creek can afford. Don’t get me wrong, there’s the odd, brand spanking new Benz or SUV that’s obviously stolen, but for the most part, gangsters drive around in souped-up Buicks or Lincolns, with their arms hanging out the window, thinking they look like hot shit. The point is, everyone knows it’s only gang members who can get their hands on that sort of thing. And anyone who knows me knows I have absolutely zero fucking affiliations with any gangs. They bring nothing but trouble and heartache to the everyday residents of Black Creek, those who are just trying to carve out some sort of existence for themselves.
Anyone who had the means or opportunity to leave Black Creek left years ago, back when I was barely more than a baby. It was apparent back then—as soon as The Feral Beasts started making a name for themselves—that things were only going to go from bad to worse. Whoever is left has stayed because they crave the life of being an outlaw, with all its bloodshed and violence, or because they couldn’t leave. They didn’t have the money, they couldn’t risk the livelihood they had here, or some other reason kept them trapped. I, unfortunately, fall into category B—I can’t leave. I grew up here. I work my fucking ass off to make a living here for myself. I don’t even know what the fuck I’d do if I moved to another town. My skill set is not exactly transferable nor is it one that can be applied to most legal occupations. So, I guess, for now, I’m stuck here. And on days like today, when I rid the city of one more piece of trash, I’m okay with that. Ask me again tomorrow, though. I’ll most likely have a different answer.
Turning off the engine, I remove my helmet and shake out my waist-length, copper-colored hair, and climb off the bike. Patting the seat in farewell, my chunky-heeled boots tap against the concrete floor as I walk out of the garage, closing and securing the door behind me.
Once I’m sure that she’s safely tucked away for the night, I make the short walk to my apartment at a brisk pace, keeping my senses on high alert. You can never let your guard down in Black Creek, especially not at this time of night. No matter who you are, no one is safe in this town.
I’ve just rounded the corner onto my street when I hear a gunshot go off, but it sounds like it’s several blocks away, so it’s nothing to worry about. I pick up my pace nonetheless and quickly reach my dilapidated apartment building that is covered in graffiti and looks like it’s one minor earth-rumbling tremor away from collapsing. Heading inside, I stride past the elevator that has been out of service since I moved in here five years ago, and hike up the dimly lit stairwell to the top floor, hurrying past bland, paint-peeling doorways until I reach number twenty-three. My apartment.
Sticking my key in the lock, I have to jiggle it before the mechanism gives and the door opens into a gloomy interior. The only light is the faint glow of the TV, bathing the small apartment in an array of colors as images flicker across the screen, which has been left on. I scowl.Seriously? Every night. How difficult is it to turn the TV off after yourself?
My apartment is tiny—barely enough space for two people to co-exist. A narrow kitchen with chipped cabinet doors and a linoleum floor that, no matter what I do, always bubbles up, has a view into the living room through a window cut in the separating wall. The living room isn't much bigger. It just about fits a television set, a side table, and a small sofa wedged under a grimy window that constantly lets cold air in during the winter. Off the living room are two bedrooms and a small bathroom, containing the main reason why I chosethisapartment over the other shitholes I looked at... the tub. It’s nothing special or fancy, but it’s a tub all the same, and I am all for soaking in a hot bubble bath after a long day like today.
I drop the duffle bag on the floor and kick my boots off by the door, hanging my leather jacket on the wall hook before I cross the shaggy, discolored carpet. I flick on the kitchen light as I pass by, snatching the remote off the sofa to turn off the TV, bathing the room in silence. Pausing, I take a second to listen for any movement coming from the bedroom. When all I hear is the noise of the always-bustling city coming up from the street, the sound of our neighbors arguing through the thin walls, and the always present hum of our old refrigerator, I move to the bathroom.
Turning the rusty taps, I run the water for the bath and light a few candles. Adding a lavender-scented bath bomb—one of the few extravagances I allow myself—I let it disperse while I head back into the kitchen. I open the fridge and grab a bottle of white wine from the door, fetch a glass from the cupboard, and pour myself a large serving. Alcohol and Black Creek go hand in hand. We’re all borderline alcoholics at best. I’m not sure if it’s a poverty thing, a despair thing, or a need-to-forget thing for most people. For me, it’s ayou successfully dealt with shitheads all day and didn’t drag their brains out through their nostrils, so you deserve a glass of winething.
I sip on the drink, the tension slowly dropping from my shoulders as the cold, dry, fruity flavor slides down my throat, taking with it the last of today’s problems as I let out a long, low, “ahhh,” before carrying the glass with me back to the bathroom. I ignore the blackened grout lines that never seem to stay clean for long and the chipped tiles along the wall as I set it on the cheap, plastic bath caddy before stripping out of my leather pants, black Henley, and bralette.
When the water is piping hot, and bubbles are threatening to overflow the side of the tub, I step into it and lower myself into the warmth with a sigh. Tilting my head back, I close my eyes, inhaling the soft lavender scent and allowing it to calm me.
My thoughts drift to the asshole back on the dock. He’d been way too fucking easy to lure there, but then again I’d been watching him for a while, and I knew precisely what to say and do to get him all alone.
The fucker had been beating on his wife for the last ten years of their marriage. I guess the wife finally had enough. A quick phone call and explanation of my price, and that shithead was all mine to do with as I pleased.