Page 23 of Rebels & Rejects

“They’ve offered us protection in case there is any backlash from their takeover, and they’ve asked me to tell you that they are looking for waitresses to help out with regular cage fighting matches they’ll be hosting at Toxic starting next week. If anyone is interested in helping out, please put your name on the sign-up sheet in my office.”

I notice Viv and Jezebel exchanging a look, and I remember her words from earlier. More money would be nice, but I’m not about to walk myself into a room that’s guaranteed to be full of Rejects when they’re most likely still looking for me. In a few weeks, they’ll have forgotten all about the girl covered in blood from the Satans’ clubhouse and move on. Sure, like most people in Black Creek, they’re curious about who the Reaper is—such a fucking stupid name, by the way—and probably thought I’d seen him. Ultimately, I’m sure they have more important things to be focusing on than chasing after a ghost.

I’ve heard whispers that the gangs think the Reaper is some sort of vigilante, out to annihilate all of them. How self-centered is it to think it’s all about them? But it’s not like they pay any attention to the deaths of non-gang members. I also make a point of not carving my mark into jobs I get paid to do—jobs like the one I had last week, where the shithead was a lawyer, where someone will notice and report him missing. I need the world beyond Black Creek to assume he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he got caught up in something he shouldn’t have, or messed with the wrong person. If the authorities got wind that someone was going around murdering well-to-do people, they’d descend on the city. The sparse police force here doesn’t give a shit. They’re as corrupt as the rest of us. Every one of them is in someone’s pocket, but it wouldn’t take much to have the FBI sniffing around, asking unwanted questions.

The same discretion does not apply to jobs like Sheryl’s. Jobs that I take on because I refuse to let the abusive men of this town beat us down. Jobs where if I don’t intervene, there will inevitably be dire consequences. Like Sheryl, most of these women have no money, no security, no one they can rely on or turn to for help. Of course, killing their abusive partner doesn’t mean they won’t end up with someone similar, but the asshole gets what he deserves for putting his hands where they don’t belong. A lot of these men are, in some way, affiliated with one street gang or another—as are most of the men in Black Creek—so naturally, that led people to assume the Reaper was anti-gang. And don’t get me wrong, I am. I think it’s a toxic environment that breeds misogyny and violent behavior... it’s just not the reason why I’m killing these fuckers.

Chapter 9

It quickly becomes apparent that the Rejects are looking for me. Well, for a skinny blonde girl who was known to hang out with the Satan’s and may have been seen covered in blood the night they were slaughtered. It’s seriously annoying as it means I have to keep a low profile for the next few days, only leaving the house when I have to. I’m confident my red hair will throw off most of them, but if I accidentally end up face-to-face with Cain or Razor, I can’t be sure that they won’t recognize me.

I don’t even understand why they’re so hellbent on hunting me down. I’m just some witness. For all they know, I was too shocked to even remember anything—assuming, of course, that I saw anything at all.

It’s seriously messing with my routine. I had a new voicemail on the spare burner I keep stashed away, hidden from Luc, with a new job forthe Reaper, but I haven’t been able to risk doing any investigative work to see if it’s a job I can take on. And it’s a paid one too, so I really don’t like the possibility of losing out on money over this whole bullshit.

All of the women’s shelters in and around Black Creek have the contact details for my burner phone, and the women that run the shelters know what I do—hell, I’ve personally helped some of them out. Of course, only Beatrice knows the person behind the phone is me. Everyone else just offers the number out if they feel the woman could benefit from my services, or they place the call themselves if they are particularly concerned about someone.

If a potential client does contact me, I get them to leave their details, and do a little research into who they are before deciding whether or not I’ll take the job. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time or resources to help out every woman that contacts me, so it often depends on how many other jobs I’m working at the time and the severity of the case. Of course, if a woman or child appears to be in imminent danger, I’ll do everything I can to prevent something tragic from happening, and most of the time, I can get the job done before it’s too late.

There was only once when I didn’t act quick enough. Luc had been really sick with bronchitis one winter, and I was scared to leave him for too long. By the time I had hunted down the shitstain who was abusing his pregnant girlfriend, it was too late. She’d been missing for two days when I caught up to him, and while the girl’s friends were out looking for her, I immediately knew what had happened. In the voicemail I’d received from the shelter, the woman had sounded really concerned for this woman’s safety and hadn’t been able to persuade her not to go back to the asshole.

When I found him, hanging around outside the Grim Bastard’s compound, he acted like nothing had happened. Like his pregnant girlfriend wasn’t missing. It sickened me. It made me so mad, I can only describe his death as a rage kill, funneled by pure emotion. It’s safe to say there was nothing left of him to be found by the time I was done, and his screams of agony still soothe my battered soul. But that woman died because I didn’t act quickly enough, and that knowledge will haunt me for the rest of my days.

So, yeah, the fact that I’m having to take precautions and sit back when some woman could be getting the shit beat out of her, pisses me the fuck off.

“Did you hear about that girl the Rejects are looking for?” Luc asks me. It’s been a week since the Rejects took over Satan territory, and other than them spreading word about the blonde woman they’re looking for, it’s been surprisingly quiet. A few skirmishes broke out initially, but they were quickly squashed. “What do you think that’s all about?”

“No idea,” I shrug, not wanting to engage in this conversation with my brother. I get he’s curious; it’s unusual that they’re searching this hard for a girl. Everyone is wondering who she is and what she means to the Rejects.

“It’s just weird that they’re looking for a girl, isn’t it?”

“She probably just stole from them or saw something they didn’t want her seeing.”

His gaze is fixed on the TV, and I can tell, even though he brought the conversation up, he’s not that interested in it. “Yeah, you’re probably right. At least it keeps them busy, right? Means they can’t stir up shit for any of us.”

“Exactly.” If only they weren’t busy pursuing me, then all would be great.

“Bet you’ve never been so glad to have hair that looks like it belongs on a Pokemon character.”

I’m sitting beside him on the couch, and I jab my foot into his thigh, glowering playfully at him while he chuckles.

“Don’t you have homework or something,” I gripe.

He quirks a brow, throwing me anare you seriouslook. “I know it’s been a while since you were in school, but you do remember what a farce the education system in Black Creek is, right?”

He’s right. I dropped out of school when our mother died. Murdered. When our mother was murdered. But I remember what a sham it was. School was nothing more than a daycare for parents to send their children off to so they could work or get stoned in peace for several hours each day. I learned a hell of a lot more living on the streets than I ever did inside a classroom. Still, I’ve insisted Luc attend until he’s eighteen. It might not exactly be educational, but it’s what kids do. Besides, it’s got to be better than working some shitty, dead-end job that you know you’ll be stuck doing for the next forty years of your life. I don’t want Luc to feel trapped like that at such a young age. Admittedly, I don’t ever want him to feel like that, but I’m not sure how I can prevent it, so for now, I’m settling for delaying the inevitable for a few more years.

Rolling my eyes, I snark, “Then sit there and watch your TV show in silence like a good little boy.”

His face scrunches before he barks out a laugh and returns his attention to the TV, enabling me to get back to mentally figuring out what I’m going to do about my Reaper Rejects dilemma. Except, there’s nothing I can do but lay low for a few more days and hope they get bored with chasing after someone they’ll never find.

***

After another couple of days of only leaving the house to go to the club and get groceries, I’ve had enough. I couldn’t continue to sit there twiddling my thumbs. The voicemail on my phone with some new asshole’s name was calling to me. Chad Greenway’s death at my hands is exactly what I need to help me let go of all this frustration.

Which is why I’m currently tailing him on my bike as he drives through Antonelli territory. From what I’ve gathered, Chad is a partner at a hedge fund firm, and when he’s not working, he likes to gamble away his obscene bonuses and frequent upscale sex clubs, like the ones the Antonellis run. Then, when he’s thrown away all his money, he likes to go home to his wife and take his shitty decisions out on her. Classy guy.

I slow down as his car comes to a stop outside Bella Antonella, the Antonellis’ casino. I continue past the entrance and pull the bike over to the side of the road several blocks down, watching as Chad—a balding man in his forties—gets out of the backseat and strides into the building. Unfortunately, I can’t just strut into the casino and cozy up to Chad until I can convince him to leave with me. Not only do the Antonellis have bouncers on the door and security cameras that would easily pick me up, but they would probably be able to smell the poverty on me from the sidewalk. Their establishments have a particular class about them. Their patrons wear expensive suits and fancy dresses. There is no chance I’ll get inside that casino dressed in what I’m wearing. Even as I watch, some asshole with his hair slicked back escorts a lady through the front doors with what looks like diamonds clasped around her neck and wearing a gorgeous evening gown. No, I won’t be able to get to Chad inside the casino.

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