There’s talk on the other end of the phone, but all I hear is my heart beating in my ears. The television’s quiet now, but they keep cycling through the same three or four images: a woman running out of the supermarket, dropping a plastic bag on the ground as she staggers away from the madness ensuing inside. A cashier holding up his hands, walking backward. Three men, pushing each other outside, arguing. And then a close-up of one of their leather jackets, complete with grinning skull and double drawn pistols, Widow Makers at the top, New Mexico underneath.
“She’ll be expecting that,” Rebel says, getting to his feet. “We can’t afford to retaliate right now. We need to account for every single member of the club for the past—no, I know none of us did this. Fuck’s sake, Cade. But the cops, they’re gonna be all over this. They’re gonna wanna know where everyone was.” He starts to pace, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. I was struck by a wave of horror when I first saw what he was watching as I came out of the shower, but now, watching him, I know his club is innocent. I just have no clue what the hell’s going on.
Rebel makes eye contact with me as he paces, and I don’t know what to do. I should maybe look away, give him a little privacy or something, but I’m too confused to do that. So I just look back at him, my heart in my throat, waiting for him to say something that I actually might understand. He stops in front of me, facing me, eyes still boring into my skin, and I feel a little lightheaded. “Burn everything we have on the Desolladors. Bury the guns. Burn the weed. Make our house safe,” he says into the phone. “The cops are on their way.”
The cops are on their way to the compound. I’m suddenly torn between laughing and crying. The cops, showing up at the compound? If I’d been a little more stubborn, they would have found me there, locked away in a room inside their clubhouse, still plotting a way to escape. I could have been home free.
Rebel slides his cell phone into his pocket and crouches down in front of me, the flashing images behind him on the television casting a blue light around his head, throwing his features into relief. He exhales and places his hands on my bare knees. “Soph?”
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.