Page 5 of Heart of a Rebel

Maybe they’re right. Or maybe, I’m a failure of a soldier. Not strong enough in the midst of war, and still weak long after.

Climbing out of the shower, I dry off and slip into jeans and a T-shirt. I look in the mirror and notice the hair on the top of my head is growing out. My hands are itching to pull out the clippers and buzz it off. Habits they bred into me over the last eight years.

Three months as a civilian and I still can’t seem to figure out what’s routine and what’s comfort. What’s my motivation and what’s theirs.

Raking my fingernails on the stubble dusting my jaw, I reach for my razor, but a knock at the door makes me pause.

The band isn’t supposed to be here until later in the afternoon, and knowing Sebastian, I figured they would be late. After all, they’re a blast to be around when your main goal is to forget the shit in your head, but I can’t help thinking that’s the same quality that will get them in trouble when they’re famous.

I’m not sure why I offered to let the band record at my house. I like my space. I like the quiet. Sebastian caught me at a weak moment, unloading his stress when I was straight out of a therapy session. And as much as I want to disappear in my own loneliness, all I could hear when Sebastian said he and his band were looking for a place to work on their music, was my shrink’s voice in my head.

Your determination to stay alone is killing you.

So I offered up my den, handing myself over to the chaos that follows Sebastian and his band.

What does it matter anyway? It’s not like this is my home. It’s my dad’s. He might have passed away at the end of my final tour and left it to me, but these walls are his. His hard work, his memories, his love. While I was absent and not appreciating a man I’ll never have the chance to prove myself to. Everything about this place is simply another reminder of the life I stepped out of and can’t seem to fit back into.

Another knock echoes through the house, and I make my way to the door. I glance at my phone and it’s only ten in the morning. There’s no way it’s Sebastian.

Reaching the handle, I swing the door open, and burnt umber eyes stare back at me. So dark with her thick eyelashes that they feel like midnight. Flecked with a hint of gold that sparkles like stars a younger version of myself would be naïve enough to wish on.

Eloise Kane, Sebastian’s twin sister.

I didn’t know who she was when I first saw her sitting at the bar earlier this week. It took a minute of looking at her ID before I realized she shared a birthday and last name with her brother to put it together. And fuck if I wasn’t a little disappointed at the thought that she’s probably off-limits.

There she was at the dingy bar I work at. Her sandy brown hair was pulled into a slick ponytail and she was writing in her notebook instead of drinking. She looked like she belonged at a catholic school in her tiny white T-shirt and plaid pleated skirt. She shone brightness into the dark space around her.

I might not know much about Eloise, but it’s clear she belongs in places better than I deserve.

But there she was, with the kind of pain in her eyes I couldn’t quite place—even if I recognized it.

“Eloise.” I nod.

Her gaze works me over. Ticking from the top of my head, downward, assessing. I might have only met her once, but it’s clear she’s the type who can read people. Her stare strips to the soul so she can peek in and roam around. Only, I’m not most people, so good luck with reading me.

Eloise’s midnight eyes dart back to mine. “Sebastian said he texted, letting you know I’d be here early.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and swipe through my messages. There’s nothing from him, so I shake my head.

“Wonderful.” She rolls her eyes. “The one thing he needed to remember…”

Her jaw tightens, and I get that same impression that I did when I met her the other night—she might be Sebastian’s twin, but she’s nothing like her brother. While he’s reckless and impulsive, Eloise is calm, collected, and in control. Even now, when I can tell she’s irritated, she rolls her shoulders back and squares her posture.

“It’s fine.” I prop my forearm against the doorframe. “What can I help you with?”

“Please tell me he at least mentioned the acoustic foam.”

I nod. “For soundproofing.”

“At least he did that.” She grumbles, looking down and shaking her head.

Today, her hair is down. It’s long and stick straight, spilling like silk over her shoulders and resting midway down her chest.

“Did you bring the foam?” I ask, looking over her shoulder at the van parked against the curb.

She’s on a delivery mission, alone. Guess the guys in the band have no fucking manners.

Eloise’s gaze follows mine. “Yeah, it’s all in there. Noah was supposed to meet me here to help, but his car crapped out on him so he’s running late.”

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