Page 8 of Rebel Revenge

Fang

I’m at the Psychos party. Nash said you were out sick.

There was a long pause, but I knew she’d read the message. Eventually, she messaged back.

Rebel

Yeah. Chest infection.

I frowned at the phone. Nash had said it was a stomach bug. But whatever, I wasn’t going to argue.

Fang

I’ll bring soup. And some of that chocolate you like. I can be there in ten.

Rebel

No. Don’t. I’m fine. I just need a favor. My mom is getting married on Saturday morning at the courthouse. Finishes at midday. Could a couple of the guys come pick us up and drive us to the reception? Doesn’t need to be you.

I made a face at the screen.

Fang

Why the fuck wouldn’t it be me? You think I’m gonna let you get on the back of Hawk’s bike?

I waited three whole songs for a reply.

It didn’t come. I waited two more, while staring real hard at that read symbol, willing her to type back.

She didn’t.

A hand wandered over my thigh, creeping closer to my fly.

I glanced over at the woman who owned it, and she gave me a drunken smile.

“Hey, handsome. Wanna have some fun?”

I said nothing.

She clearly took it as a yes. She shifted to kneel in front of my widespread legs and ran her tongue over her pink lips. With her gaze on me, she slipped her thumbs into the thin straps of her bra and tugged them down her shoulders.

Her tits spilled over the cups, large and full, nipples pink and erect, begging to be touched.

I was about as turned on as I’d been at my grandfather’s funeral.

“No thanks.” I stood and stepped away, brushing past the woman who called me a prick beneath her breath.

The insult bounced right off me.

I couldn’t have cared less.

I left the party behind. There was nothing of interest there for me. Not if Rebel wasn’t there.

Outside in the parking lot, people were still arriving, hiding their party outfits—or lack of—beneath coats. Someone yelled out to me, but I ignored them, only one thing on my mind.

On my bike, I gunned the engine and peeled out onto Saint View Strip, the main road that ran through the town. I knew it well. It had been home for the best part of a decade, and I knew which places to eat at and which would result in a weeklong case of food poisoning. I passed the strip club with its flickering neon sign and stopped my bike up two shops down, in front of the Chinese take-out store.

A little bell rang when I ducked my head to enter through the door, and the only person in the store glanced up from her phone. She darted a look over her shoulder toward the kitchen, then back at me, her bored gaze instantly switching to one of fear.

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