“What are you doing? What did you do?” Maria Rosa screams.
I pull my hand out of Rico, choking on panic, readying myself for the sound of the gunshot that will end my life. Do bullets travel faster than the speed of sound? I think they do. At least I won’t have to hear the herald of my own demise. I guess that’s something.
My heart nearly explodes out of my chest when I do hear the gunshot, though. I feel instantly numb. My breath fires in and out of my lungs in impossibly short blasts, and I flinch, waiting for the pain to kick in.
It doesn’t happen.
Through the high-pitched buzzing in my ears, I can hear someone roaring in anger, and someone else screaming at the top of their lungs. That’s what I should sound like. I should sound like I’m in agony, like the person screaming, and yet I feel nothing.
Hands are on me next, pulling at me, patting me down.
Rebel. Rebel’s scooping me up in his arms, lifting me to my feet. Hold me to him, swearing over and over again in my ear.
“Fuck, Soph. Fuck. Fucking hell. Are you okay?”
I look down, and Maria Rosa is on her side, clawing at Rico’s very dead body. She’s bleeding from her shoulder, blood everywhere, all over my white tennis shoes. Her black mascara has bled all down her face too, now. She’s the one who’s screaming, the one who got shot. Not me. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.
“Soph! Tell me you’re not hurt!” Rebel shakes me, trying to get a response.
“Yes! Yeah, I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”
Rebel lets me go then. I think I might fall, but I somehow manage to keep myself upright. I watch him as he stalks around the compound, glaring into the faces of the Widow Makers who are still standing around us with their guns in their hands.
“I had to do that?” he hollers. “You’re all standing here with your dicks in your hands? I had to get here and do that, and none of you acted?” He stops in front of Cade, his face less than an inch away from his vice president’s, his chest rising and falling so fast. He looks crazy. He looks like he’s about to straight up murder Cade. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he grinds out.
“I was thinking that the crazy bitch had a gun pressed against the base of Sophia’s skull and I wouldn’t be able to take her out without something really terrible happening. What would you have done if I’d taken the shot and Soph had been killed, you fucking asshole?” Cade shoves him. I’ve never seen anyone do something so risky. If anyone’s going to get away with it, it’s Cade, but Rebel doesn’t look very happy right now. He looks like he’s about to go supernova. I hold my breath, waiting for him to do something crazy, for him to smash his fist into his best friends face or pull his gun on him, but he doesn’t. He glares at Cade for another few seconds, and then turns away from him, facing me again.
Maria Rosa writhes on the ground, swearing angrily in Spanish. She’s bleeding pretty heavily, her blood mixing into the dirt with Rico’s. Rebel ignores her, stepping over her body like she’s a mild inconvenience, unworthy of his attention. He stands in front of me, his shoulders hitching up and down, a frantic energy still pouring off him in waves. “Come with me,” he says.
He holds out his hand and I’m too stunned by the events of the past few minutes to object or refuse him. I take it, my legs feeling unstable as he guides me across the compound toward the clubhouse. As we pass Cade, Rebel growls under his breath. “Get a prospect to clear that shit up, man. And get her and Dela Vega out of sight, will you? Make sure they’re…comfortable.”
A shiver runs up my spine at the tone in his voice. When he says comfortable, I know he means something else entirely. He opens the door to the clubhouse, muttering under his breath when he surveys the place and finds it void of all life. We weave between tables and abandoned chairs, making our way toward the bar at the back of the room. Once there, Rebel opens another door into a back room. The small, dusty space is filled with torn-open boxes containing bottled beer, empty milk crates and cleaning equipment. The shelves on the right hand wall are a jumbled mess of spirits and…and guns. Guns, just sitting there like casual objects that don’t hurt, maim, kill. Rebel lets go of my hand and picks up a small, silver handgun, sliding it into the waistband of his jeans at the base of his spine. “Come here,” he tells me, gesturing me close. I move to his side, not sure what he could possibly want to show me in here aside from the weaponry and liquor. “Look,” he says. “Pay attention. There’s a small catch up here, right in the corner.” His hand moves to the very top corner of the wall by the shelves. Sure enough, I see what he’s referring to—a small, black switch in the shadows. I would never have noticed it if he hadn’t pointed it out.
“See if you can reach it,” he tells me.