Page 10 of Rebels & Rejects

Playing my part, I bite down on my lower lip and give him a lascivious look.

“Come join me and my guys.”

Fuck, that is not what I want to happen.

I run my hand up the front of his leather jacket and press my body flat against his. This close, I can make out his pupils, dilated with a combination of lust and drugs as I grind my hips against his.

“Don’t you want to dance first?” I purr.

With an arrogant smirk, he spins me and grabs hold of my hips, yanking them back against his pelvis as he attempts to grind his dick between my asscheeks.

His hands are everywhere—clasping my thighs, brushing my stomach, squeezing my tits. Thank god my back is to him, ‘cause I don’t think I could hide the hatred flaring in my eyes.

Once a new song starts up, he leans in, his beard scratching the side of my face as he grunts in my ear, “Alright, you’ve had your song. Maybe you should show me your thanks by getting on your knees.”

It takes me a second to unclench my teeth and be sure I’m not going to chew him out for that sickening statement. As soon as I turn my head to look up at him, ready to take this somewhere more private so I can get on with what I came here to do, one of his fellow Satan’s steps up to us.

His eyes dart from mine to Python’s before he speaks up, “Python, gotta problem.”

Anger sparks in Python’s eyes, and he grits out, “fine” before spearing me with a look. “Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

Fuck.

I’d been planning on luring him up to the bedroom without any of his men getting a good look at me. Sure, they’re probably drunk and high, but I can’t take the risk that one of them will remember me in the morning. The last thing I need is these assholes searching all over town for me. I can’t risk making my move tonight... which means I’ll just have to come back.

With tonight’s plan officially ruined and with zero desire to hang around so I can suck that shitstain’s dick, I push my way through the crowd and out of the house, quickly ducking across the street and into the abandoned lot where I left my duffel bag earlier. Frustration courses through me as I hastily remove the wig and change back into my pants and leather jacket. Once I’m ready, I swing the bag onto my back and get the fuck out of there.

By the time I make it back to my apartment building, the sun is starting to rise, the faint gray light of dawn only drawing unwanted attention to the grubby state of my street and the run-down, filthy building I call home.

I’m exhausted, frustration giving way to tiredness, as I step into the dark entranceway, barely even noticing the flicker of the lightbulb or the smell of damp and mildew in the stairwell as I climb to the top floor. There are the typical, varying sounds of people getting up and starting their day as I pass by apartments, but I’m so used to the constant hum of life in the building that it’s nothing more than background noise.

Reaching my apartment, my eyes feel gritty as I unlock and open the door, dropping my bag and kicking off my boots before I pad into the kitchen.

“Morning.” I yawn as I greet Luc, who is sitting at the small two-person table, looking annoyingly fresh as he munches on his cereal.

“You look like shit.”

I toss a glower at my asshat of a brother as I grab my own bowl and sit down opposite him, but there’s zero heat behind it. “Yeah, well, so would you if you had the night I had,” I grumble, helping myself to the box of cereal and filling my bowl. I top it off with some milk before digging my spoon in and turning to lean against the counter. I watch him over the lip of my bowl. We both have our mother’s red hair—although his is slightly darker—and blue eyes—some sort of deep Irish heritage thing I think—but that’s where the similarities stop. His nose is broader, his skin darker and cheeks more defined, and even though he’s only fifteen, he’s already a good head taller than me. “How’s school?” I ask around a mouthful of food.

“It’s good.”

I roll my eyes. Getting information out of him recently is like drawing blood from a stone. I guess that’s just part of living with a teenager. I should probably just be grateful he doesn’t leave the toilet seat up and his dirty clothes scattered all over the living room, although I do make a point of not going into his bedroom, so god only knows what state that’s in.

“How's work?” he counters with a knowing look.

“It’s good,” I snark, throwing his own words back at him. It’s not like I’m about to tell him anything more than that, and he damn well knows it. I don’t talk about the club with him, and I sure as shit don’t include him in my extracurriculars.

He chuckles under his breath, but I notice his gaze lingers on me for a moment before he finishes off his bowl and gets to his feet. He sets it in the sink and then reaches down to grab his school bag. Slinging it onto his back, he pauses before leaving the kitchen, and turns to look at me.

“You know, if you need me to help out, I can.”

I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished speaking. “No,” I insist, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “I have it covered. Let me worry about money, and you just focus on school, okay?”

“I’m fifteen,” he says with a frown, as if being fifteen somehow means he should be pulling his weight. He might be taller than me now, but he’s still just a kid. Life has forced him to grow up faster than he should have; I’m not about to rob him of any more of his childhood.

“Yeah, and until you’re eighteen, your job is to go to school.” His school is a joke. I’m fairly certain even some of his teachers never graduated high school, never mind obtaining teaching qualifications, but it’s the principle of the matter.

I pin him with adon’t argue with melook, to which he rolls his eyes. It’s not the first time we’ve had this argument, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

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