3
REBEL
By morning, the fog has burned off again, leaving the compound slick and shining like someone polished the whole world in gasoline. The tattoo shop hums low, with machine needles buzzing and the scent of ink mixing with disinfectant and metal. Calypso’s in her zone, sleeves rolled up, tattoo gun in hand, a cigarette burning forgotten in the ashtray beside her. French sits on the counter, swinging her legs, scrolling through her phone, and heckling customers like it’s an Olympic sport.
“Rebel!” Calypso calls over the machine’s drone. “You handling the walk-ins today, or still flirting with spreadsheets?”
“Numbers never talk back,” I say, tugging my cut straight. “Unlike you.”
“Baby, I talk back because youneedit.”
French snickers. “That’s her love language.”
I grin and toss a crumpled napkin at her. It bounces off her knee and lands perfectly in the trash can. “Skill,” I say.
French raises her coffee. “And sin.”
The front door chimes. The smell of motor oil, whiskey, and bad decisions hits me like a sucker punch, and I freeze.
Calypso’s head lifts, eyes narrowing. “No.”
My pulse spikes before I even turn. I already know that scent, that silhouette filling the doorway.
Bones.
He looks the same and nothing like he did. He’s leaner, harder. His smile cut from knives. His cut hangs open, road dust still clinging to it. The tattoos on his forearms shift like secrets as he flexes his hands.
“Miss me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low drawl that slides under my skin and presses on old bruises I pretended were healed.
I plant my boots and cross my arms. “You lost, Bones? The Royal Bastards Clubhouse is a few exits north.”
Bones grins without warmth. “Heard you opened a fancy ink shop for felons and feminists. Thought I’d see how the other half lives.”
“Leave.” Calypso’s tone is ice. “Before I use your ribs to practice linework.”
I never told her about our history, but knowing Calypso, I suspect she has already guessed.
Bones barely glances her way. “Relax, Vega. I’m not here to bleed on your floors.”
His dark gaze slides to me, dragging heat and historywith it. “Just came to check if Rebel here’s still moving dirty money under her brother’s name.”
The air grows razor-thin. I feel Calypso’s stare drilling into the side of my head. French’s smirk vanishes. The tattoo gun stills.
My voice comes out low. “You want to run that back?”
He steps closer, slow and smug, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “You heard me. You were always good at math, Rebel. Too bad your moral compass had a decimal problem.”
“You don’t know shit about my morals.”
“I know you were knee-deep in numbers you couldn’t control when your brother died. Now I hear A. Slade Logistics is back from the grave. You wouldn’t happen to be cooking those books again, would you?”
My blood turns to ice. Not surprise. Not confusion. Ice. The kind that spreads slowly and deliberately, freezing everything it touches.
“I even saw a transfer from Silver Talon Janitorial float through your routes,” he continues. “Cute name. Cleaner than it should be.”
I shove him hard enough that his chest hits the edge of the counter before I think, because if I didn’t, I might put a bullet through him. “Watch your mouth.”
His smirk deepens. “Still got fire. Good. You’ll need it.”
